#that may be impossible to avoid in the end

[starboye]

no nut november

trying to get someone like simon riley, a military lieutenant, a tough man who doesn't break under pressure to fail no nut november is a challenge in itself but that doesn't mean it's impossible

the boys had made simon tey and do the while stupid thing, you cant cum for the entirety of november and if you did that you win, so simon decided "what the hell" and went with it, he was two days in and going strong

little did he know the boys paid you to get him to fail, do whatever just get simon to cum, so the first days may have seemed easy to him but after a couple more days he was struggling to not poo a boner every hour

every time you cane around you were bending over in front of him, lingering touches, and hard flirting, and with him having a crush on you and all it just made it all the worst "so hows your day ghost" you look up at him all innocent looking as if you weren't cooking up a plan in your devious brain "it was good just trained so recruits and-" he was cut off by the sight of you blatantly staring at his crotch

"oh sorry you can keep going" you look back up at him, his face plastered with a shocked expression but nonetheless continuing his story before again getting stopped by the sight of you looking him up and down while biting your lip "you okay ghost you look a little red, ever under the mask" you tease and he's quick to run away

your plan was working wonderful and all, and after a couple more days of just teasing and taunting the poor man he had about five days left before he would win but that became so much harder when he saw you in the gym showers after working out, ass all perky, body all glistening and sweaty he just needed that

but no he tried to shake the thoughts away but it was impossible when you just looked so fucking sexy, you caught him staring at you just from the coner of your eyes while you were showering "well are you gonna keep staring or are you gonna come fuck me big boy" you said and in no time he was naked an rushing to get behind you

fucking you like a mad man under the water while hoping no one was in the locker room to hear him groaning and panting while emptying load after load in your once tight hole, just felt so good finally cumming after weeks of no action, not even jerking off

by the end of it you could barely feel your legs and you were so dazed you just feel to the ground so simon scooped you up and took you to the medic "and what happened here" the medic asks "i think he just went to hard in the gym" he awkwardly tries to avoid eye contact "worth it" you chuckle

xoxo, starboye💋

taglist: @mailmango @boypied @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac @r0mcom-8ngel @bbibbiiu @tqrgaryenfilms

[thelunarfairy]

The Mermaid's Memories

Have you ever stopped to think that Amane may ALREADY have a serious relationship with Nene in another timeline, and the current Amane KNOWS this and that's why he finds it so easy to touch her?

He always seems to remember her, doesn't he?

Just a thought that I think would be funny if it happened

Although Amane was very incredulous that Nene would start to like him at first.

He resisted kissing her several times, even though he had so many opportunities.

I always imagined it was so that she wouldn't get involved in the story of his past (and of course, because he's a ghost and all the impossibilities that result from that), but she had eaten the scale, they were already connected to each other, so maybe there was some other reason.

But, have you ever imagined that, while Hanako made several attempts to save Tsukasa, in all of them he meets Nene from the past/future, and falls in love with her, and in all of the possibilities Nene ended up dying?

Hanako explains that only those who are close to death can summon him, yes, but, if the reason for Nene's premature death are the yorishiro seals, then the reason for her death is directly linked to Hanako?

Imagine that Hanako lost her and Tsukasa several and several times, so in the new attempt (the old reality where he is Hanako-kun), he knew that she would die if they two got together, because it may have happened other times in other realities, so he avoids it?

He actually tried The boy couldn't resist and kissed her XD

It seems that he remembers many things, others not so much, I always thought that this was because of Kako, who must be responsible for the loss of these specific memories of Amane. If not him, then the entity.

Amane's memories seem to be jumbled, but he remembers some things.

Nene not knowing Hanako = doesn't remove the seals = Nene doesn't die.

But the question is, why does removing the seals lead her to an early death?

My first theory was that she would be a sacrifice, after all she is a Kannagi. So, Hanako would use her to remove the seals, get the wish from the "God" and sacrifice her to get that wish, saving Tsukasa, but he fell in love with her, and now he would have to choose between her and Tsukasa.

So, he may have tried to convince himself not to fall in love with her in other realities, so that it would be possible and he could save Tsukasa.

But he always fails and falls in love with her.

If he falls in love, he can no longer use her as a sacrifice.

He's at an impasse again.

Hm….

Possibilities to think about.

*Just random thoughts, don't take it seriously XD

[deathbxnny]

Arcane characters when someone flirts with you. | Viktor, Jayce, Vi, Caitlyn, Jinx, Sevika x Gn!Reader

I am the brain rot. The brain rot is me.✨️

Content: pre season 2 Viktor/Jayce!, Jealousy, pitfighter Vi, established romantic relationships, angst, threats of violence/death threats, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VIKTOR

He always struggled with self-esteem issues, mainly due to his sickness and disability that made it difficult for him to do much. A part of him forever will believe that you could easily do better than him, yet that doesn't stop him from getting terribly jealous anytime someone gets too friendly with you. Especially when they can see him standing next to you clearly being your partner as well.

But despite his insecurities, he doesn't allow anyone to harass you either on his watch. He lets you defend yourself for the most part until he has enough and lets his more sassy side handle the flirtatious person for you. He may not be able to do anything in a physical way, something he very much would rather avoid. But his tongue is sharp, and it takes little to make them quickly scurry away with a nervous apology for the disturbance.

He'll never admit to being jealous, however, and denies any teasing accusations you send his way. But he'll secretly ask for reassurance as he starts feeling embarrassed over his insecurities rather quickly after. A couple of hugs and kisses from your side will fix that right up, though.

》JAYCE

He has a reputation to keep up. And so, technically, he should always handle things professionally no matter what. People are watching him after all, and his public image can not be tarnished under any circumstance... or so he says. Things change in his mind when they are about you. In general, people know who you are and who you belong to since he rarely shuts up about it.

But every now and then, someone who is somehow unfamiliar with this concept will come up to you and attempt to woo you right in front of his very eyes. Now, Jayce tries to let you handle yourself, but doesn't hesitate to step in either if the person doesn't get the hint. His rather intimidating frame and position as a councilor help him out Immensely with this. He chases them away with a tight smile and a kiss to your head, as he casually asks how he can oh so graciously help them.

Once they leave, he'll pretend not to hear you, of you teasingly asking him if he was jealous. Him? Jealous? Hah! Impossible... okay, maybe a little. But don't tell anyone that.

》VI

As a pitfighter, Vi doesn't hesitate to get violent with anyone who comes close to the only good thing she has left in her life, which happens to be you. She's extremely protective and makes sure everyone gets the hint regarding who you belong to. But alas, there are always the couple strays that refuse to comprehend that fact and therefore attempt to "steal" you away from her. Something that never ends well for anyone.

Her temper is shorter than it used to be, and that becomes quite clear when she's quick to loom over the person that was pestering you. She knows that you can handle yourself just fine, too. But that doesn't stop her from grabbing their shoulder and asking them if she can help them out instead. Or maybe they want to talk it out in the pit? All the same to her, but the message is clear. She'll win if it comes to you every time, and that's enough to make the person scurry away in terror.

You'll definitely have to calm her down and reassure that you had everything handled. She's just looking out for you, though, and doesn't want you to get hurt, too, like everyone else in her life. The last thing she wants is to mess up again, so her overprotective tendencies will probably never lessen. Not that you kind anyways.

》CAITLYN

Your role as her partner is crystal clear to absolutely everyone in Piltover, especially after she takes over the troops as their new ruler. She's much more cutthroat and cold than she used to be before her mothers death, which made her extremely overprotective of you and your safety. She may even be suffocating at times with her security measures, but she finds it absolutely necessary. This also means, however, that those who try becoming a bit too friendly with you are always at risk of facing her wrath.

She doesn't hold back with her dismay and is quick to stand before you with a dark, stern glare directed at whoever was flirting with you beforehand. Caitlyn doesn't care if you can take care of yourself or not either. She'll take full advantage of her new position and power too, not hesitating to give the person that was pestering you a professionally worded threat that leaves them as pale as a ghost.

Admittedly, it's hard to tell if she's jealous or just worried in her own way. Before her mother's death, it may very well just be her being a bit jealous... but with her current position, she may also just be afraid to lose you too deep down. And she couldn't handle that.

》JINX

After Silco's death, Jinx's temper is milder than before due to her deteriorating mental health (if there was anything left of it to begin with). She's a lot calmer when handling situations and seeming more calculated than before, but that certainly doesn't quell the extreme abandonment issues in her at any rate. If anything, they've become much worse than before. This means that she'll cling to you and snap at anyone who nears you. No one is allowed to steal your attention away from her. No one can take you away from her. She just won't allow it when you're all she has left.

And so, she won't hesitate to use her gun on anyone who is pestering you. A death threat or two usually gets the point across anyway. Jinx will also let you handle yourself first, however though, knowing you can easily do that. But if things do get out of hand, she will step right to scare them away at best. She'd never kill anyone infront of you after all. She doesn't want to scare you away.

You'll have to reassure her of your loyalty a lot afterward, however, as her insecurities and issues can make her spiral fairly easily. Giving her a lot of attention and love makes everything go away, though, luckily.

》SEVIKA

She's very secure in your relationship and trusts you perfectly fine, which is why she rarely ever gets jealous. Why should she, anyway, when you'll always come back to her at the end of the day? Besides, people in the lanes know who you are and who you belong to, and most importantly, what will happen to their faces once she bashes them in if they ever harass you too much.

With that said, though, she typically lets you do your own thing and chase the person away yourself first before bothering to step in. If things get out of hand, then she'll suddenly be right behind you and tower over whoever it is that's not getting the hint. Blowing smoke right into their faces, she'll ask them if they have a problem, and if yes, then they should take it up with her outside. Although everyone knows she's the only one back afterwards. This usually does the trick.

Don't expect her to ever say that she is jealous, though, and hopes you know better, too. She knows you're loyal, as she certainly is for life and therefore doesn't worry about a thing regarding the strength of your relationship.

No one is better than her anyway.

[ihangelic]

PAS DE PUNK ╱ h.taesan

you and taesan go together like classical music and rock: not at all. but similar to the way taesan keeps getting piercings, there’s something about the way he gets under your skin that you kind of like— and you’re too proud to admit why you keep coming back for more.

pair ; punk!taesan x ballerina!reader

genre ; smut (with plot), fluff?, rock band au, enemies to lovers

warnings ; fem!reader, taesan has piercings (including tongue), arguing (flirting), some jealousy, ‘make me shut up’ kiss, confessing of feelings, petnames (mostly princess), lots of mentions of taesan’s hands & rings, dom!taesan, bratty/sub!reader, thigh riding, praise, degr*dation, bre*st play, begging, a little sp*nking, no prep, piv

wc ; 8k

playlist ; smells like teen spirit by nirvana / sugar we’re goin down by fall out boy / a little death by the neighbourhood / punk rock princess by something corporate / she’s kinda hot by 5sos / good girl by thomas larosa / s*xtape by deftones / closer by nine inch nails / all i really want is you by the marías

✉️ 𓂃 ₊˚⊹ note ; happy new year!! idk if it’s unhinged to make a playlist for a smut fic but i couldn’t help myself ><. i avoided using lesser-known ballet terms for non-dancers to understand (aka me), but also tried to make it enjoyable for dancers to read. hopefully i was successful lol.

! . . . COPYRIGHT OF IHANGELIC

dancing along with the music of l’oiseau bleu is practically impossible when it sounds like a rock concert is taking place in the room just across from you.

lowering to stand flat footed in your pointe shoes, you raise your hands to your face, pinching your nose bridge in frustration as you try and resist the growing urge to pull your hair out.

the obnoxious sound of drums, a bass’s low rumble, and an electric guitar’s higher tune rings in your ears— drowning out any of your more rational thoughts until you’re left with only rage.

you try your best to block it out, to take a moment to breathe and try to get a controlled hold over your emotions— and you think it may work after you cover your ears with your own hands, the sound of the instruments still audible but sounding more distant. then the teeth gritting noise of a cymbal pierces through the barrier of your hands and it’s almost like it’s a sound effect for the way your train of thought shatters, letting out a sigh that sounds much more like an animalistic scream before stomping over to your phone and turning off the music.

power walking out of the dance studio and to the very unfortunately placed neighboring rental space, you don’t even have to turn the knob as you look through the glass door. the raging bitch face you wear is absolutely effortless as you mean-mug all three ‘problems’ in the room; ‘problems’ that drip in leather, distressed or patched fabric, spikes, and way too oversized jeans. you’re about to feel acquainted with the three men as this situation seems to occur more and more often.

foam panels are stuck to the walls; black cords are neatly coiled or in squiggly lines across the floor; and of course there’s guitars, a drum set, and microphones everywhere.

finally you catch the eyes of the long, blond haired drummer— and that gives you enough incentive to open the door and barge in like you own the place.

“could you be any louder?” you rhetorically ask, but it goes unheard as two of the men sing passionately into their microphones, eyes closed and hands working the strings of their guitars while the drummer keeps playing his drums— all while staring at you with a relaxed, barely inquisitive face.

“could you be any louder!” you shout, the end of the sentence awkwardly fading in volume when there's a screech from one of the guitars and everything goes quiet.

the two seeming vocalists turn their heads to look at you, all three men now staring while you stand, clearly bothered as your hands are on both sides of your hips and your chest heaves with deep breaths of frustration.

“well…” the dark haired, taller one begins— and your expression only sours more as you’re already familiar with how snarky and full of himself he can be. “you’re the one yelling.”

you let out an appalled scoff, unable to help the way your eyes roll as you’re angered even more by how that only seems to make the man smirk.

“if someone has to yell just for you to hear them that means you’re the loud one.”

“you sure about that, princess?” he asks, quirking a pierced brow. your impending explosive response must be visible as the shorter statured one interrupts for damage control.

“w— we’re sorry!” he starts, speaking on his friends behalves. the blond’s expression never changes as he stares at your fuming face, while the darker haired looks like he’s about to protest— but the other continues before he has the chance. “look..we got off on the wrong foot and…”

the way his hands float in front of him, bass hanging against his chest by the strap— it only adds to how lost he looks on what to do, and it makes you feel kind of bad. (for him at least.)

you’re about to start apologizing when he’s suddenly reaching his hand out towards you.

“i’m riwoo.” he introduces, then gestures over to the other two men. “this is taesan and leehan.”

“…y/n” you say somewhat sheepishly, a bit of your shame coming back at the politeness of the bassist you now know as riwoo.

previously you’d only knock aggressively at their door to ask them to shut up, a few times popping your head in when that didn’t work to snappily ask them to please try and keep it down at least a little. you’ve never actually had a full conversation with them before— or an argument...whatever this exchange of words could be classified as.

“unfortunately we can’t really be any quieter. we have to practice for a gig we got coming up—“

“isn’t your little dance school supposed to be closed now anyway?” taesan abruptly interrupts, yet again grinding your gears with the snarky way he says the words ‘dance school’.

“it’s closed for classes, but the rooms can be used for practice up until eleven pm.” you provide smartly, catching yourself before you scrunch your nose in disgust at him.

“we try to keep the noise at a minimum if we’re here at prime hours,” riwoo cuts in again, attempting to explain gently. “but past that…” he trails off, shoulders shrugging as he gives you a sympathetic look.

you process his words, how he really is seemingly trying to help you out here, before sighing softly as your hand raises to press into your increasingly aching temple.

“do you have to use your amps?” you ask, raising a hand to point at one.

“did you not hear him? we have a show to do, we need to practice as best as we can. so yes, we have to use our amps.” taesan firmly states, over enunciating like you can’t hear. his brows are slightly furrowed as his previous amusement is completely gone, a flame of annoyance now in his eyes.

you let your hand defeatedly fall and slap against your bare thigh, taesan’s eyes glancing down at your leg for the smallest of moments before looking back up to glare at you.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” you bite at him, sick of his selfish attitude as you turn your body fully in his direction, crossing your arms.

“wxnder.” he dryly states, making your head tilt in confusion and absolute impatience.

“huh?”

“wonder— but like, with an ‘x’. that’s our band name.” leehan provides, throwing you off as you’re momentarily sidetracked by how deep and smooth his voice is. (are all these men vocalists? also, with an ‘x’— how cheesy can they be?)

“you should come watch us perform.” he smiles widely, eyes creasing and everything. you’re yet again thrown off as he speaks to you with such casual friendliness as though you haven’t practically yelled at all of them and continue to seethe at his guitarist like you want to rip his throat out.

“uh, i…”

“i’m sure miss priss has other things she’d rather do, like dance to swan lake in a feather tutu or something.” taesan finishes your sentence for you, conjuring a string of curses to lace your tongue.

“shut the f—“

“bye, twinkle toes.” he waves you off dismissively, grabbing the neck of his guitar by his multiple ringed fingers as he directs his attention back to his instrument and mic.

“it was nice meeting you, y/n.” riwoo adds somewhat shyly, adjusting the strap of his instrument as well— though much more apologetically.

“see ya’, y/n!” leehan calls before picking up his drumsticks and twirling them in his hands, looking up to taesan for his cue. you watch him cock his chin, the sudden rhythmic pounding of leehan’s drums making you flinch before taesan and riwoo start playing their strings again.

riwoo’s voice starts out soft before slowly raising in volume and you’re shocked by his melodic vocals that contrast so satisfyingly well with the rock instrumentals.

still disgruntled but more off put than anything, you don’t know what more to do than shuffle out of the room, shutting the door behind you as you stare at the air in front of you.

well, guess it’s time to find some earbuds that are sound and pirouette proof.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

you got it. you got the lead role.

all the extra (maybe slightly excessive) practicing, late nights and frustration (which would be a lot less if there wasn’t a band next door) paid off.

you’re playing as princess aurora for your dance studio’s performance of ‘the sleeping beauty’, which will be showing at a local theatre next month.

jaehyun, your good friend and fellow dancer who’s always making you smile and lightening sullen moments during classes— is your dance partner, playing as prince désiré.

the second the both of you found out you got lead roles, jaehyun was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, insisting that you go out tonight to celebrate.

which is why you find yourself by jaehyun’s side at ‘sundown lounge’, your favorite bar and hang out spot.

“you look good, by the way!” jaehyun attempts to speak over the loud karaoke, leaning a little closer to your ear as you weave through the crowd.

“thanks!” you turn your head to smile at him over your shoulder, hoping your iridescent eyeshadow twinkles under the lights how you wanted it to.

“you do too.” you compliment before someone’s elbow is jabbed into your stomach, squishing yourself against the wall as you and jaehyun try to make it to the bar to order some drinks. “why is it so busy tonight?”

“i don’t know, maybe it’s happy hour!” jaehyun suggests hopefully, but when you finally reach the counter his theory is proven wrong when you’re told everything’s its original price. regardless, you sip on a strawberry margarita while jaehyun holds a glass of something that looks like muddy water before deciding where to sit.

“wanna go there, near the stage?” he asks, pointing over to a table that’s very near the performance area. you’d rather not have to hear a drunk girl sloppily sing a britney spears song right in your ears but jaehyun finds it hilarious, often unable to resist curling in on himself while giggling uncontrollably— and that always makes you laugh. so you nod your head, jaehyun grabbing your hand to make sure he doesn’t lose you in the crowd before leading you to the table.

there’s only two more songs played before the dj hops on the stage, speaking into the mic. “karaoke will be ending as it’s time for the band of tonight to take the stage. give us a few minutes while the performers are setting up!”

some people in the crowd hoot and holler excitedly as jaehyun turns his head to you. “i wonder what type of band will be playing tonight, last weeks was pretty good.”

“it’s punk rock!” a girl excitedly butts in from the table right next to yours, having accidentally overheard your conversation.

“a rock band?” you ask, somewhat groaned in annoyance as you now have a personal vendetta against the genre. but your tone goes completely unnoticed by the girl as her eyes continue to sparkle with enthusiasm.

“yeah! their music’s really good and they’re all super hot, my favorite one plays the electric guitar.”

“what’s their name?” jaehyun asks, curiosity evidently sparked.

“wxnder!” she answers, and your brows furrow with the familiarity of it. where have you heard that name before?

the girl’s head turns at a sound and her mouth drops open, a small uproar caused as some people in the crowd shriek and cheer. the unexpected noise has you flinching before looking towards the stage— and your jaw drops too, but not in a good way.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me...” you say to yourself in shock, watching as riwoo sits down his amp and plugs it into the wall.

“what?…what!” jaehyun whisper-yells, grabbing onto your arm to try and get your attention.

leehan appears next, sitting down behind the drum set that’s already on stage and wagging his head to adjust his hair, causing another small wave of squeals.

then a broad back covered by a black leather jacket abstracts your view, and he doesn’t even need to turn around for you to know who he is— but he does anyway. the way taesan almost immediately catches your gaze amongst the crowd is infuriating, smirking while glancing down at how close your table is to the stage before looking teasingly into your eyes again.

and it makes you pissed, unbelievably so— yet you feel your cheeks burn as you can’t help but think about how hot he looks, the stage lights glinting off his lip ring and drawing your eyes towards them.

have his lips always been so…plump?

taesan winks at you before looking down to tune his guitar, hands gripping the neck of it. veins pop out from the contours of his knuckles; long, thick fingers adorned with silver rings picking at the strings.

fuck…

“y/n?” jaehyun tries again, and you finally respond with the shake of your head, downing the remainder of your drink like it’s a shot.

“it’s nothing.” you insist.

after a few minutes of setting up, tuning, and making sure everything’s in order; taesan introduces the group (not that he exactly needs to, since it seems the bar is full of their fans), saying that their opening song will be ‘take my tears’, a song he wrote himself.

usually you and jaehyun talk throughout a band's live performance, as they’ll be playing all night— but you can’t seem to look away as you listen to the lyrics and how they perform.

it’s entrancing— much different than when you’re trying to ignore them through the studio walls. the song is somewhat emotional, beautiful; yet it also has such a fun and freeing feel. or maybe it’s just the way they sing it— how taesan sings it, his body grooving and head nodding to the beat of their sound. the lyrics aren’t what you’d expect from him— the guy you thought he was, and it leaves you wondering what more there is to him that you wouldn’t expect.

your heart skips a beat, and you’re not sure if it’s just the thrill of the rock music or if it’s because of him; the annoying, pompous punk who suddenly looks so sexy when he’s performing. (and never any other time. definitely not.)

you’ve just finished your second margarita and are a little buzzed by the time their set is finished, the night passing faster than you realized.

jaehyun is eating on a basket of fries, yapping away so fervently that he doesn’t even notice how you’ve gotten up from the table and are approaching taesan— who again locks eyes with you as he walks down the steps of the stage to meet you halfway.

“so, what did you think?” he asks, a little out of breath from the long performance, having had no breaks in between songs.

he stands closely so you can hear him— and it’s enough for you to smell his cologne; to see the way sweat clings to the skin of his neck; deep breaths coming out in puffs as his chest expands. something about it all has an effect on you— or maybe it’s something in the air, because taesan doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes rake over your body, admiring your legs in your denim mini skirt.

“you..you guys were amazing.” you compliment, sounding a little out of breath yourself.

taesan makes a ‘hm’ sound, faintly smiling at you while biting his lip— and you swear you see the glint of metal on his tongue.

your body heats up as you wonder if his tongue is pierced too, what kind of things he could do to you with it, what it would feel like against your skin— before you frantically try and dismiss the increasingly dirty thoughts, reminding yourself that the man you’re fantasizing about is right in front of you.

“i didn’t think you’d actually come.” taesan says, speaking in a teasing tone that you swear seems flirty paired with the slight quirk of his brow.

“how’d you even know we’d be here? did you stalk us, princess?”

okay, surely that was flirting, right?

you’re about to playfully roll your eyes, paired with a smart little comment and deny that’d you’d ever be interested enough to ‘stalk’ them— until the girl that spoke to you about wxnder earlier suddenly appears, putting herself between you and taesan.

“you were absolutely amazing, taesan.” the girl croons, confidently placing her hand on his forearm as she leans all up in his personal space.

and you expect him to shrug her off, either politely or not-so politely establish some distance between them. but again, he surprises you— in a way you absolutely hate.

he smirks at her, in just the same way he did to you just moments ago— and leans even closer to her face, unneededly close.

“aren’t you sweet. thank you so much.”

“no problem.” the girl smiles cattily, clearly enjoying the attention.

something in your heart burns, and that familiar feeling of uncontrollable annoyance comes back even worse than before.

“do you think i could get your autograph?”

“sure, princess.” taesan answers lowly— and that does it.

without even feeling the urge to look back and see that girl all over him, you’re gone, picking up a drunk jaehyun by his arm.

“wh— where are we going?” jaehyun drunkenly slurs, eyes glossed over as they look at you.

“to get an uber home.” you answer firmly, eyes hard as you once again weave through the crowd.

you feel eyes on your back, but you ignore it until you get to the door, turning your head as jaehyun leans half of his body weight against you. even amongst all the faces, you and taesan’s eyes meet easily, his arm now slung around the girl’s waist as she whispers something in his ear.

his lips are in that same smirk— like he’s taunting you, and you scoff, dragging jaehyun and yourself out of the bar.

you can’t believe you were actually feeling into him— but you surely don’t have to worry about that now.

he’s just confirmed that he is in fact what you thought he was: an absolute ass and a cocky player who sings on stage to get girls in his bed.

well, fuck him. he can get his dick wet with anyone he wants but it sure as hell won’t be you.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

the very next day you’re back at the dance studio, rehearsing for the upcoming performance.

jaehyun whines the whole day, saying that it’s somehow your fault that he got drunk off his ass— but despite that, he does incredibly well during class. you do also, but unbeknownst to you, your friend wonders why you seem so tense— like something has been bothering you all day.

“shouldn’t you go home and rest, y/n?” jaehyun asks you at the end of class hours. everyone else is packing up their totes and leaving, yet you’re stood at the ballet barre doing leg exercises.

“i’ll be fine. practice makes perfect.” you insist, keeping your eyes on your form in the mirrored wall.

“well..just don’t overwork yourself, okay?” jaehyun sweetly tells you, and you flash him a thankful smile through the mirror.

“don’t worry, yunie, i wont. see you tomorrow.”

if it weren’t for the absolute beast you’re known to be in the studio, jaehyun would force you out of your pointe shoes and drag you home himself— but you don’t seem even a little bit tired, and it appears as though you have some steam to blow off.

so jaehyun and you exchange goodbyes before he leaves you in the empty classroom. (yes, completely empty— aside from the lady at the front desk. no one is as obsessive as you to want to stay even another second practicing when you already have for the whole day— on a saturday night, no less.)

you spend the next thirty minutes going over the steps you learned today that you don’t have down perfectly yet, having small cool downs in the form of stretching in between.

‘entrée d’aurore’ is still playing on your phone when you hear the distant voices of what must be the front desk lady and someone else speaking. you wonder if somebody has returned to get some extra practice in as well, and as you hear footsteps approaching, you remain sitting on the floor doing toe touches.

the door to the classroom opens, echoing slightly in the big, empty space— you lift your head to see someone who definitely is not a part of the sleeping beauty cast.

“y/n?” taesan says somewhat quietly, eyes looking around the big room that only holds one ballerina, who looks small in comparison to the high ceilings and vacant space.

your eyebrows furrow, somewhat irritated to see him while also being surprised— not only by his presence but by the unfamiliar way he almost looks sheepish: barely taking a few steps inside the classroom, looking around like he expects someone or yourself to scold him and kick him out.

“…don’t tell me you auditioned.” you joke, although it’s said casually. your eyes only scrutinize him for a second before you look back down to your own hands as you stretch them across your straightened legs and to your toes.

taesan has seen you a handful of times when you’re in your casual practice wear, but what you’re clad in for an official performance class is a little different. you’re wearing a black leotard with a little mesh skirt, a cropped shirt overtop, tights, and black leg warmers.

you look..really cute. even when you’re pretending to ignore him.

“no. the lady at the front desk said you were in here.” he explains lamely, all his usual snarky remarks not coming to his thoughts as he watches you in your element.

“good. i don’t want to see you in tights anyway. not your aesthetic.”

“sure you don’t.”

your head snaps to look at him before you can think not to react, cheeks heating up as you see the twinkle in his eyes and the small smile he tries to conceal by pressing down his lips.

you sigh as though you’re bothered— because you are— obviously…and get up from your floor stretches to walk over to the ballet barre again. taesan follows you.

“i don’t know why you’re here but i’m practicing. you should leave.”

“who was that with you at the bar last night?”

your cold indifference is broken at the unexpected question, your expression clearly confused as you look at the man standing beside you in the mirrored wall.

“what, jaehyun? he’s my friend. he wanted to go out to celebrate our castings. y’know, for the performance i’m trying to practice for right now?”

“so it was a date.” taesan remarks, eyes hardening right in front of you— and there’s that angered burn in your chest again, your hands squeaking from how tightly they hold onto the barre as your expression turns sour.

“who i date isn’t any of your business to speculate. i haven’t asked you what you and that fangirl got up to last night, have i?” you snap, raising a challenging brow at him— but it only makes him shake his head in unbelief, staring at you like you’re an absolute idiot.

“what? y/n, i don’t even know her name.”

“yes, well, i’m not surprised over that. i’m guessing it��s not very important for you to learn a girl’s name— as long as you’re in between her legs by the end of the night.”

his hand is on your shoulder, turning you around to face him abruptly as he stands closely, right in front of you.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean? you think i fucked her?”

“i don’t want to know what you di—“

“shut the fuck up.” taesan orders, his fingers curling over your wrists making you wonder when they got there in the first place.

“make me.” someone (you?) says, and then you feel the cold press of taesan’s lip ring against your mouth.

it’s firm at first: the way his lips slam into yours, how both of your expressions still look pissed off at each other, even with both of your eyes closed. but eventually you seem to realize that taesan is actually kissing you— and then you’re melting into him, sighing as you feel his touch soften in response.

his kiss quickly turns demanding, lips moving against yours in pursuit of your taste. you squeak when his teeth bite at your bottom lip, not knowing you’ve fallen right into his trap until his tongue has already seized the opportunity and invaded your mouth. turns out you weren’t wrong when you thought you spotted a ball stud piercing on taesan’s tongue, you can most definitely feel it when he brushes it against your own appendage.

your head is pushed against the mirror from his vigor and you whimper, never having felt so dominated simply by a man’s kiss; taesan explores your mouth like he owns it, like it’s his, and it makes your core pulse, a flicker of neediness growing.

the rough groan he lets out as his hands move to roam and grasp at your waist hints at his possessiveness, fingers pressing into your skin through the thin material of your leotard.

“didn’t fuck her. didn’t want to.” he murmurs between the eager movements of his lips. “just wanted to make you jealous.”

“wh— why?” you manage breathily, taesan pressing his body against yours as your hands move to brace yourself on the barre.

“because i like you, y/n.” he smiles and huffs in disbelief at your denseness.

“i want to take you on a date— whether you let me between your legs or not.” he smirks, referring to your earlier harsh remark and making you cringe at the reference.

“i…i’d like that.” you say shyly, looking at him through your lashes. “the date— and..and the other thing too.”

“the other thing?” taesan repeats, confused as you only avoid his gaze, not further explaining— but funnily enough, your sudden bashful attitude is what makes it click in his mind.

“princess?” he experimentally calls, pleased when you automatically lift your head to look at him. his tongue unconsciously peaks out to play with his lip ring as he cockily grins, hand creeping up from your waist to pinch your chin between his fingers.

“why don’t you be a big girl and tell me what you mean?”

your nose crinkles, a pathetic attempt at defiance amidst your embarrassment. taesan’s other hand pinches the tender skin of your thigh, causing you to flinch and whimper at the slight pain as he makes a disapproving sound under his breath.

“come on, y/n. be good or i won’t give you what you want.”

“i— i want you...i meant—”

taesan does anything but go easy on you, eyes dark with mischief as he lowers his head to nibble at your neck. you squeeze your thighs together, looking for relief from the way your pussy now pulses prominently.

his hands move in tandem, one cradling along your jawline while the other brushes up and down your thigh, making you annoyed at your tights with how they keep you from feeling the cold brush of his rings against your skin.

you want them off. you want taesan to take them off. so you admit it.

“want you to fuck me. please, taesan.”

“awe,” he coos. “aren’t you a sweet one.”

you swear the tone in which he says those words turn you into goo, your hands releasing the barre to desperately hold onto his shirt.

“please.” you beg, finding yourself only wanting more praise— more of him— just anything he’s willing to give you.

taesan is able to identify the look in your eyes, staring at your lips and leaning down so slowly, making you whine at his teasing until he finally grants you mercy and kisses you again.

it’s dirtier than before: a lot more spit, moans, and movement from both of your tongues. taesan’s leg leans against the wall between your thighs, and whether it was his purpose to give you relief or not, you take the opportunity and hesitantly grind your core against his ripped jeans.

the pleasure is immediate, sending a tingle up your spine that has you arching against his chest, forgetting any shame as you begin to earnestly grind your hips against him. the thin layers covering your core paired with the roughness of taesan’s denim creates a wonderful friction, feeling how wet you’ve become in your panties.

“shit, you’re such a slut for it.” taesan remarks in genuine awe after breaking the kiss to watch the little show you’re putting on. his eyes take in every movement, from the way you rock against him to how your eyes squeeze shut and you tilt your head back.

the previous song playing on your phone has long since finished as some other tune now plays from your playlist— taesan suddenly becoming aware of it and that he has a girl whimpering and riding his thigh in the middle of a dance classroom.

he abruptly pulls away, the presence between your legs disappearing as you conjure a bratty sound from your throat.

“y/n,” taesan scolds in a harsh whisper. “did you forget where we are?”

“thought you said you’d fuck me if i was good?” you argue, flashing him a defiant expression.

“you think using my thigh to get yourself off without my permission is being good?”

your eyes widen, not expecting him to call you out on it.

looking to the floor and hearing taesan’s responding laugh at your childishness, it only makes the desire to act out against him stronger— you’re just not sure how you can do it in this moment.

“get your things. we can go to my place.” taesan offers, your stomach fluttering at the idea as you do what he says— moving to grab your phone, bag, and change out of your ballet wear.

your heart is pounding out of your chest and what’s between your legs hasn’t calmed down at all either by the time you walk out of the dance studio and sit in the passenger seat of taesan’s car.

and the drive is just as excruciating.

the man seems hellbent on teasing you by not giving you a drop of attention, keeping his eyes on the road while some rock song plays through the speakers. and you know he knows what he’s doing, how you can’t keep his eyes off of him, because the corner of his mouth is subtly turned.

you see no reason to hide it since he’s already aware, so you stare at him— once again admiring how hot his hands look wrapped around the steering wheel, the contours of his jawline and perfect side profile illuminated by the low hanging sun.

your eyes keep wandering— down, down, down until you get to his lap, where you see the large bulge tenting his pants.

your mouth waters and your hands twitch, wondering if he’s really as big as he looks and hoping you’ll get to find out by the end of tonight.

then you’re struck with an idea, recognizing the perfect opportunity you have right now— and you reach your hand out confidently to grope him over his pants.

you’re so proud at the way it makes taesan softly gasp under his breath, back stiffening at the unexpected touch. you mold your hand over his clothed dick, rubbing and gently squeezing— in all the right ways apparently, as you feel him twitch in your hands— even through the thick denim fabric.

“y/n, stop it.” taesan grits, and you hear the squeak of what you guess is his hands gripping tightly around the steering wheel. you don’t look at him until after you’ve located the head of his cock, rubbing over it with your thumb and meeting his fiery glare with a teasing bite to your lip— clearly pleased with yourself.

taesan is visibly pissed at your blatant act of defiance, but he gives you one more chance in the form of a threat.

“you’re not very patient, are you, princess? keep touching my dick like that and you won’t even get to see it out of my pants.”

your hand immediately stills— the man releasing a huff of disbelief when you pull your hand away completely to lay both of your hands on your lap, avoiding his gaze as you stare ahead.

not another word is shared, taesan enjoying the way you nervously squirm in your seat as he finally pulls into his apartment’s parking lot.

“stay.” he simply orders once he’s parked, and you’re left confused as he exits the car, only to watch him come around and open your door for you— even going as far to unbuckle your seatbelt and keep a firm hold around your wrist as he leads you up the stairs of his building. it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach yet your insides twist with nervous anticipation— because he does it all with the same stern eyes he spoke to you with as he threatened not to fuck you.

when the key is twisted and his front door lightly squeaks open— his residence somehow looks exactly how you thought; dark, moody, vintage rock posters and memorabilia hanging on the walls.

you expect him to be cheesy and press you against his door the moment it’s closed, but he doesn’t— instead walking over leisurely to his couch and sitting down, legs widely spread in an oddly commanding and powerful way.

your eyes widen at the arousing image, feeling yourself become sheepish as taesan lets his eyes roam over your form without shame.

“why do you look so shy now? you were such a disobedient little slut in the car.”

you swallow, hardly able but trying to hold eye contact with him as your face heats up in a delicious sort of shame.

taesan sighs as though he’s annoyed with your silence, patting one thigh with his hand.

“come here.”

“…h— huh?”

“don’t make me say it again, y/n.” he orders— and next thing you know, your body is moving to straddle the leg he’s directed you to sit on.

“there we go. guess princesses can take orders sometimes, hm?” he rhetorically asks, but you’re nodding your head anyway.

taesan just stares at you for a bit, admiring how pretty you look sitting and waiting for what he’ll do next, so different from the bratty attitude you had during the car ride.

then his hands rest on your bare waist, giving him easy access as you had disregarded your leotard before leaving the studio, now only wearing your cropped shirt and athletic shorts.

you’re unable to conceal the shuddered inhale you take as taesan’s hands creep upward, seeing him smirk at the sound before his hands slip under your shirt and reach your tits.

“no bra?” he teases, biting his lip as his fingers pinch at your hard nipples.

“n— no,” you struggle out, flinching lightly as taesan plays with your tits without any restraint, like your body is his toy. the contrast of his cool rings against your heated skin causes goosebumps to rise on the surface of your arms, chest pushing further into his hands. “didn’t think there was any p—..point.”

you watch as taesan shakes his head like he’s disappointed, yet he’s smiling darkly.

“dirty girl.” he remarks, giving a firmer pinched tug to your hard bud and forcing a whimper to escape from between your lips. “just take everything off then.”

you’re quicker to do what he says this time, only letting your sudden shy attitude make you hesitate for a moment before getting up from his lap to discard your clothing to his floor, keeping eye contact with taesan as best as you can manage— as he seems pleased when you do. he lets out a hungry exhale when you take off your shirt and your tits are revealed to his eyes, hand leisurely jerking himself off over his pants by the time your shorts are removed— leaving you only in your underwear.

“is that a thong, princess?” taesan asks breathily, eyes slightly widening in what you think might be surprise.

“yeah? it’s…it’s what i always wear underneath my leotard.” you confirm, somewhat confused— until taesan speaks again, hand moving up and down his dick faster.

“fuck, just— just didn’t expect such a prissy girl like you to— shit, i don’t know. you’re so hot.”

you smile— and it’s equally sexy and cute in a way that makes taesan feel like he’s going to go insane if you don’t get back on his lap right away. your fingers slip beneath the band of your panties to tug them off, but he stops you before you can.

“don’t. keep them on, wanna see you make a mess in them for me.”

a part of you— the bratty side— wants to say you already have, the dark spot from your leaking arousal evidence of it. but you don’t, the desire to listen actually winning over as you remove your hands from your hips and straddle his thigh again. you hover this time, not fully sitting down as you’re embarrassed for him to feel your wetness directly against his bare skin, which are revealed through the large holes in his jeans.

but taesan catches on immediately, tutting fondly as his hands squeeze at your hips.

“all the way.” he drawls, like he’s giving a ditzy dog a command they’re struggling to understand— and it makes your stomach flip, hurrying to do as he says.

you know he feels it, how your panties clinging to your wet pussy lips press against his thigh— and as he bites at his lip, drawing your eyes to his twinkling piercing yet again— your face burns as you’re sure he’s probably looking at the glistening residue you’ve surely left on his skin.

“good girl.” he mutters roughly, you whining in response as your hands fist into the material of his shirt.

you feel like such a slut, sitting on a man’s lap almost completely bare while he’s fully clothed, your needy pussy slowly drenching his thigh in your juices; and you sound like one too as taesan leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth.

you gasp and stutter— unsure of what you’re even trying to say as taesan chuckles around your bud, continuing to flick and roll his pierced tongue over you. the contrast of his warm appendage and the occasional brush of round metal against your skin makes you sensitive, hole clenching around nothing with every other swipe of his tongue.

“like that?” he whispers before switching to give your other breast attention.

“yes,” you quietly moan, wrapping your arms around to grip and play with the hair at the nape of his neck, subsequently pushing his face deeper into your tits.

he likes that— if his responding groan is anything to judge by, his hands pulling your hips forward and drawing a more unabashed sound from your lips at the movement.

“use me. get your little pussy off on my thigh.”

“fuck— yes,” you obey, rocking your hips and finding a rhythm.

“shit. that’s it, baby.” he coos, his hand suddenly reigning down against your ass a contrast to his soft tone as it leaves your skin tingling with heat. “just a few little touches is all it takes to get the brat out of you, huh?”

you scoff at that— though it’s interrupted by a moan when taesan flexes his thigh. shame burns your skin and his little remark makes you want to act out again, but all you can do is grind your pussy against him, gasping and going faster whenever your covered clit gets brushed over just right.

your hands that are still tangled in his hair pull to disconnect his mouth from your tits, leaning down to kiss him instead. taesan doesn’t scold you for the demanding gesture— but he does lift a hand to grasp it over your throat. he doesn’t squeeze, but the simple act makes you feel so good and dominated— and his other hand which gropes at your ass and snaps the string waistband of your thong has you falling further into delirium.

“please— please, tae. wanna cum.”

“then cum.” he says simply, and when you finally open your squeezed shut eyes, he’s staring at your desperate face with amusement— and just like that, you’re pissed.

“taesan! i can’t! not— not enough!” you whine, not even able to think about how pathetic you sound.

“you’re cumming by my thigh or not at all. this is what you get for acting like a fucking whore while i was driving.”

you whisper out a sigh, and it’s so broken and helpless as you rock your hips earnestly against him that he almost feels bad— but the bigger part of him is proud; proud in a dark and twisted way at how he’s dwindled the ballerina down to nothing but a mindless slut that’s practically crying with the need to cum.

another spank is delivered to your ass and you flinch, taesan’s hand around your neck getting a little firmer as he forces your teary eyes to look up at him— and you feel like a dog in heat as your hips never stop their efforts to bring you to release.

“please.” you beg, and taesan’s eyes turn hazey at the beautiful sound.

“come on, princess. i know you can do it for me.” he encourages— and turns out that’s all you needed.

taesan gets an up close view as your eyes roll to the back of your head, mouth dropping open in a silent cry as he feels you ruin your panties even further.

his thigh is dripping as you keep rutting your hips against him, letting out small whimpers as you work yourself through your high. taesan grants you mercy at the very end, helping you grind your hips before eventually slowing you to a stop.

then he’s picking you up and carrying you into what you can only assume is his bedroom— because in the next moment he’s laying you down on a black comforter-covered mattress and stripping off his clothes.

you’re panting, still catching your breath— but you still manage to make a somewhat teasing comment as the man’s bare chest is revealed to you.

“no tattoos?”

taesan looks up at you right after pulling his shirt over his head, black hair disheveled and brushing over his eyes as he smirks silently at you and combs it out of his face.

“i thought all emo’s had tattoos.” you tack on— and that gets him to respond.

“emo?! i’m not emo, i’m fucking punk!” he argues, somewhat offended but mostly amused as he works on removing his jeans.

“emo, punk, metalhead. it’s all the same thing.” you offhandedly say.

“…i’m about to go soft.” taesan threatens.

“kidding!” you laugh, sitting up on your elbows— and the smile is completely wiped off your face when taesan removes his boxers and his dick is finally freed, slapping against his abs.

“shit..” you whisper to yourself, watching as taesan rolls a condom on before climbing on the bed and caging you underneath him with his body.

“need me to stretch you first, princess?” taesan sweetly asks after peeling off your drenched panties, hand brushing up and down your hip soothingly.

as much as you want his sexy fingers in your cunt— you can’t wait any longer, spreading your legs for him as you flash him your best puppy-dog eyes.

“no. please just fuck me, taesanie. need you.”

“god…” taesan sighs, not making you wait anymore as he lines his head to your entrance before pushing in slowly. “oh, fuck. you’re so tight, princess.”

your chest heaves as he pushes into the hilt, your hands gripping against the sheets.

“move. fuck me hard, please. want it rough.”

you think you hear taesan mutter something about you being a dream before his pulling out till just the tip is stretching your hole— and slamming back inside.

you both turn a little animalistic and desperate, learning how the other feels and bodies being taken over by the pleasure of it. taesan’s cock stretches you out so good— he fucks you so good. the rocking of his bed frame hits against his wall, and you have a fleeting thought about if the walls are thin and if he’ll get a noise complaint— before all that is forgotten as taesan takes hold of one of your thighs and bends it against your chest.

“feel it, baby? feel how fucking bad i want you?” taesan groans between his teeth, hand squeezing tightly around your leg unconsciously— and you secretly hope it leaves mark indentations from his rings; tiny bruises from his fingers you can admire the next day.

you only can respond so his deeply uttered words with a broken moan, and taesan only fucks you harder.

“that’s it, princess got what she wanted.” he coos, eyes surprising you by how they turn a little soft— though the movement of his hips certainly never do. “always give my princess what she wants.”

you whine at that, grabbing him by the shoulders to ask for a kiss.

“fuck, you drive me crazy, y/n.” he breathes before leaning down to yet again give you what you ask for.

“but i like that about you.” he finishes between kisses.

your thighs are trembling in pleasure, sweat is lining your hairline and glistening from taesan’s chest— and you can’t take it anymore, wrapping your legs around taesan’s waist as your nails dig into his back.

“can i come, please? oh, fff— please?”

“such a good fucking slut when you got a cock in you, huh? can’t believe my princess likes it rough.”

his hand manages to squeeze between your bodies despite how tightly you cling to him, his fingers finding your clit and tracing shapes over it.

“cum, baby. get it all over my sheets.”

your body going stiff before trembling uncontrollably against him, all while your pussy clenched around his throbbing cock— it brings taesan to release as well, pressing his mouth to yours to swallow each other's cries of pleasure.

the come down is slow, taesan rolling over and pulling your body on top of his so he doesn’t accidentally fall against you in exhaustion.

your deep breaths puff warmly against his neck as he cradles you on his chest, hands swirling patterns over your back absentmindedly.

“that was…amazing.” you say around a sigh, enjoying the comforting aroma of taesan’s cologne imbedded into his sheets.

“yeah…are you done?” taesan asks, still breathy yet curious— and you raise your head to look at his face.

“you want to go again?”

“well,” taesan starts, somewhat sheepishly— yet his eyes hold that constant playful sparkle. “just thought you might be curious what it feels like to get eaten out with a piercing.”

your eyes widen, clearly shocked by not only the question but at how correct he is.

“come on, princess. you’re not slick. don’t think i didn’t notice you staring at it when we were at the bar. plus, you did say you wanted me between your legs—“

“can you stop bringing that up!?”

note ; and for anyone wondering, yes, taesan went to reader’s ballet performance. (and yes, he got jealous watching her and jaehyun dancing on stage together…part two material?🤭)

all taglists (perm/fluff/smut) are open if anyone would like to be added! age must be in bio/somewhere on pinned post if you want to be tagged in perm/smut taglist.

[vunblr]

Wounds and Walls

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Millennial!Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex. A little angst.

Summary: Bucky starts to walk into his new civilian life but struggles with his painful past, while slowly building a connection with someone who sees through his walls. As the relationship deepens, he must decide if he’s ready for something more, or if he’ll hide and push it all away.

Word Count: About 12k.

note: Revised version. It is the first fic I wrote after many years away from writing and I wasn't entirely happy with the result, so here we are.

Before the government officially recognized Bucky as a victim of Hydra’s manipulation and mandated his participation in Dr. Raynor’s therapy program to avoid prison or other legal consequences, S.H.I.E.L.D. had already stepped in. They proposed a more unconventional approach, enlisting Y/n, a mutant with the extraordinary ability to heal not just physical wounds, but mental and emotional scars. Her mission was clear: stabilize Bucky to reintegrate into civilian life, ensuring he posed no harm to others or himself.

At first, he resisted any form of help from her. His reluctance wasn’t just about pride; it was rooted in years of distrust and the unshakable belief that he had to face his past alone. The idea of a “quick fix” only made him more skeptical, feeding the suspicion that she might be just another tool for the government to keep him under control, another reminder of how he had been manipulated and weaponized as the Winter Soldier.

The Blip had taken an even greater toll on him. The sudden shift in society forced him to adapt to yet another unfamiliar world, one where even the tiny constants he relied on were gone. Steve’s departure cut deeper than he wanted to admit; Bucky had thought they’d face this new world together, brothers in arms like always. Instead, Steve had abandoned him, leaving him to shoulder the weight of his demons alone. It was a wound Bucky hadn’t even begun to process, and one that made accepting help from anyone feel impossible.

Despite his initial resistance, her patient and steady approach began to wear down his defenses. Bucky clung to his reserved, cynical attitude, but he grudgingly allowed himself to cooperate. Slowly, the barriers between them started to lower. Eventually, once it was determined on paper that Bucky was stable and no longer posed a threat, the government had the justification it needed to loosen its grip and adopt a more lenient approach to monitoring his progress. His sessions with her came to an official end, and he was granted a conditional release, with the requirement that he continue regular therapy sessions with Dr. Raynor.

As part of his reintegration, Bucky was “strongly encouraged” to take up temporary residence in a carefully selected apartment building. It wasn’t long before he made a startling discovery: Y/n “coincidentally” lived in the same building, and even more “coincidentally,” in the apartment next door. Bucky couldn’t shake the suspicion that someone had orchestrated this arrangement, placing her nearby as a subtle, silent support system.

She hadn’t expected to see Bucky in the hallway of her apartment building. It had been a perfectly ordinary afternoon until she spotted him, effortlessly carrying what looked like bags of clothes in one hand while balancing a microwave over his opposite shoulder like it weighed nothing. When their eyes met, she caught the fleeting shock on his face before he quickly masked it, his expression slipping into something more neutral.

Curious and more than a little suspicious, she approached him with raised eyebrows. They exchanged awkward pleasantries—Bucky, ever the man of few words, offered a brief explanation: the government had rented the apartment for him as part of his continued reintegration.

It felt almost too convenient. Her thoughts immediately flickered to S.H.I.E.L.D., and she couldn’t help but suspect they’d had a hand in this arrangement. Maybe someone wants me to work for free, she mused with a wry smile

Their mismatched schedules during the week meant they rarely crossed paths, and for a while, their lives remained parallel but distant. Sundays, however, became the exception—though not intentionally at first. It started one rainy weekend when the power went out in the building, and she’d knocked on his door, flashlight in hand, to check if he needed anything. She’d half-expected him to brush her off, but to her surprise, he opened the door and invited her in, muttering something about “safety in numbers” as he gestured toward his couch.

They spent the evening with candles flickering between them, sharing the leftovers she’d brought over and exchanging stilted small talk that eventually gave way to a more comfortable quiet. He didn’t share much, but he didn’t seem to mind listening as she filled the gaps with anecdotes and idle chatter.

The next Sunday, she knocked on his door to ask for sugar for a cake she was baking, half-expecting him not to have any. To her surprise, he did. When she mentioned the cake, she noticed a flicker of interest in his usually blank expression. Feeling a little bold, she offered to bring him a slice as thanks. He doubted but eventually nodded, admitting that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had homemade food.

Later, when she knocked again to deliver the cake, he opened the door looking awkward, but unexpectedly offered her coffee in return. She hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. He was watching a documentary about the '90s, and as they sat with their mismatched mugs, the screen played a segment on music. The first notes of Step by Step by New Kids on the Block filled the room, and she couldn’t help but laugh, confessing that she used to love the song as a kid and would dance to it in her living room at five years old. He let out a barely-there smile, the kind that vanished almost as quickly as it came. It wasn’t much, but it felt significant, like the first stone in a bridge being laid.

Over time, Sundays became their unspoken ritual. Sometimes they’d watch movies or documentaries. Other times, they’d just sit together, her talking while he listened, occasionally nodding or grunting in response.

She never pressed him to talk, and he appreciated the lack of expectation. Her presence was steady, unobtrusive, and comforting, like the soft hum of a fan on a hot day, something he hadn’t realized he needed until it became a constant.

As time passed, something shifted between them, and Bucky began to open up, little by little. The cracks in his walls revealed glimpses of the man beneath the brooding exterior, and she couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes. His shoulders seemed less tense during their Sunday hangouts, and he started to relax more on the couch. Occasionally, there was a slight uptick in his voice when he shared a rare observation or commented on a movie. Though he wasn’t exactly chatty, she could tell he was trying. His words were sparse but deliberate, and as he grew more comfortable, he began to contribute to their conversations in his understated way. A dry comment here, a thoughtful observation there, his eyes met hers more often, and the silences between his responses felt less heavy, settling into something warm and companionable.

As the weeks turned into months, she realized her feelings for him were beginning to shift too. Thoughts of Bucky started to linger beyond their casual Sunday hangouts. It wasn’t just the time they spent together that stayed with her; it was the way she found herself worrying about him on the days they didn’t cross paths, or when he seemed more withdrawn during their conversations. Her mind wandered in unexpected ways, catching herself stealing glances at him that were far from innocent.

It was hard to ignore just how handsome he was, how effortlessly he made her heart skip a beat. The way his blue eyes glimmered on the rare occasions he smiled, or the way her breath hitched when he stretched on the couch, offering a fleeting glimpse of his lower abs, left her feeling like a schoolgirl with a serious crush.

-----

One Friday night, piercing screams shattered her sleep. The sounds were raw and anguished, cutting through the stillness of the apartment. They were coming from the other side of the thin wall—Bucky’s place. She froze, her heart pounding as she recognized the unmistakable signs of a nightmare. But this wasn’t like the restless murmurs or muffled groans she’d overheard in the past. These screams were different, drenched in pain and terror.

Her stomach knotted with worry as she quickly got out of bed, moving toward the balcony the two apartments shared. A low, weathered wooden fence separated their spaces, and she hesitated for only a moment before climbing onto a flowerpot, swung one leg over the fence, and then struggled to follow with the other, cursing her pathetic fitness level as she landed awkwardly on the other side, graceless and unstable.

Peering through the glass of the sliding door, she saw him on the floor, tangled in his sheets, tossing and turning violently. His movements were frantic, his face contorted in fear and anguish as he thrashed against whatever demons haunted him.

“HET!” he cried out desperately, the guttural sound ripping through the room. “Pozhaluysta, prekrati!”

Her heart clenched at the sight. This wasn’t just a bad dream, it was a vivid, visceral reliving of some past trauma. She had no doubt it was connected to his time under HYDRA’s control.

Without thinking, she opened the door and stepped inside. Moving carefully, she approached him, the floor creaking softly beneath her feet. His screams ebbed into harsh, labored breaths, but his body remained tense, caught in the grip of the nightmare. Slowly, she knelt beside him and, with a tentative hand, brushed his hair back from his damp forehead.

As she touched him, she sent a gentle wave of healing energy through him, hoping to ease his turmoil. Her powers couldn’t erase memories, but they could soften the edges of his distress and dull the sharpest parts of his anguish. His breathing began to slow, the lines of tension on his face gradually easing as the energy worked its way through him.

“It’s okay, Buck. You’re not there anymore. Wake up,” she murmured, despite the ache in her chest.

As her hand rested gently on his forehead, Bucky’s piercing screams subsided into soft, pained whimpers. “Bol'no...” he mumbled incoherently, his voice heavy with anguish. Despite her whispered reassurances, his body remained restless, his movements erratic and desperate as the nightmare held him captive.

“No... don’t...” he murmured weakly, his voice trembling with fear and conflict. His legs began to shake, the tension in his body coiling tighter with each passing second. She hesitated, her mind racing with the risks of waking him in this state, he could lash out instinctively, putting her in harm’s way.

Swallowing her fear, she made up her mind and knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “You’re safe,” she murmured again, as she transferred more healing energy into him by force.

The contact seemed to calm him. His movements grew less frantic, though his body still flinched now and then, as though reacting to something particularly disturbing in his dream. Still, the nightmare’s grip seemed to weaken, her presence slowly chipping away at the fear and pain that had consumed him.

Suddenly, his eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly as confusion clouded his features. He looked disoriented, his breathing uneven as his gaze swept the room until it landed on her. For a moment, he just stared, his expression shifting from alarm to recognition. His shoulders sagged slightly as relief washed over him.

“You…” His voice was hoarse as he ran a hand down his face, piecing it together. He looked at her sitting on the floor, with her hair tousled and an old nightie that kissed her knees. Her expression was a mixture of concern and awkwardness. “...woke me up.”

She nodded quickly, her hands fiddling with the hem of her clothes. “You sounded like you were… trapped in something bad,” she said softly. “And you were about to wake the entire neighborhood. I couldn’t just leave you like that.”

Bucky pushed himself upright, with slow movements, like his body weighed more than usual. The exhaustion clung to him in every line of his face, and his voice came out quiet and raw. “Thanks… and sorry.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for, big guy. You were suffering.” She shrugged, trying to downplay the moment, but her next words came tumbling out unbidden. “Um… do you want me to stay? You know, for the rest of the night? In case…” Her stomach tightened immediately. What made her think he’d want her to stay?

To her surprise, he paused, considering her offer. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Actually… yeah,” he admitted, still tinged with weariness. He shifted slightly. “If you don’t mind staying close. Just for a while.”

For a beat, she just stared, startled. Quickly regaining her composure, she nodded. “Not at all. I mean, look at your state. Where uh… do you want me?” Her cheeks flushed the second the words left her mouth, and she wanted to die of cringe. That could’ve been phrased better.

Bucky didn’t seem to pick up on the unintended innuendo, or maybe he just didn’t care. He tilted his head slightly, motioning toward the makeshift bed on the floor. “Close is good,” he said simply. “Just… lean against me or something,” he added, curling up into a somewhat protective position as he waited for her to settle in next to him..

Swallowing her nerves, she laid down beside him, her body angled carefully so as not to crowd him. Tentatively, she rested a hand on his side, her palm finding the steady rise and fall of his ribcage. “Like… this?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more unsure.

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let out a breath that sounded like a mixture of relief and resignation. “Yeah,” he murmured, his hand briefly brushing hers in an unconscious gesture. “This is good.”

As the silence settled between them, she stayed still, attuned to the warmth of his body and the slowing rhythm of his breathing. He didn’t say much after that, but the way his tense shoulders gradually relaxed spoke volumes. Whatever nightmares had plagued him earlier, they seemed a little further away now.

Exhausted from using her powers at such a high level for the first time in ages, she had finally allowed herself to relax, succumbing to the pull of sleep almost instantly.

-----

When she woke, sunlight was already streaming through the curtains, signaling it was late morning. Something big and warm was pressed against her, enveloping her in heat and security. Still caught in the haze of sleep, her eyes fluttered open slowly. She became aware of the steady rise and fall of breathing against her back, and then of the arm draped snugly around her waist.

Her heart skipped a beat as she registered the sensation of someone instinctively pulling her closer, his hold firm yet unconsciously gentle. He let out a low, sleepy grunt, his nose brushing against the sensitive crook of her neck as he nuzzled deeper, inhaling softly. His breath, warm and even, tickled her skin, and a quiet hum of contentment escaped him.

As the events of the previous night filtered back into her mind, realization struck her like a slap. She remembered where she was, and more importantly, with who.

Wide awake now, her senses sharpened, and noticed with increasing alarm that he was still nuzzling her neck, his face burrowed against her as if drawn to her scent. A traitorous warmth spread across her cheeks as his arm tightened slightly, and she could feel the firmness of his chest against her back.

Panicked but trying not to disturb him too abruptly, she whimpered pathetically under her breath and began tapping his bare shoulder with hesitant fingers. “Bucky,” she whispered urgently. “Bucky, wake up.”

Her soft taps and whispered plea had no effect. In fact, he murmured something incomprehensible and -oh no, oh no, oh no- his hand slid just slightly lower along her side, his fingers twitching as if seeking something in his sleep. Her heart thudded in her chest, her face a furnace of mortification.

Desperate, she abandoned subtlety and swatted the back of his head with just enough force to jolt him.

“Guh-!” he startled awake, blinking rapidly as if trying to dispel the remnants of a dream. His eyes, half-closed and unfocused, darted around. “Huh? What time is it?” he mumbled, his voice gravelly from sleep.

It took a second -or several- for the reality of the situation to register in his brain. As he shifted slightly, his gaze landed on her, and the proximity of their position. The arm draped around her, the way their bodies were pressed together. The faint warmth lingering where his face had been tucked into her neck.

“Oh. Oh,” he breathed, his entire body stiffening. A faint flush began creeping up his neck, spreading rapidly to his cheeks. He immediately withdrew his arm, sitting up fast. “Sorry.” he ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I was… dreaming. I didn’t even realize-” He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at her. “Are you… okay?”

She nodded quickly, trying to mask her flustered state. “Yeah, I’m fine.” To distract herself, she stretched her arms lazily above her head, the motion easing the lingering tension in her muscles.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Bucky glanced around the room as though looking for something else to look at. The awkwardness between them lingered until finally, he addressed her. “So, uh… Saturday. What plans do you have for today?” he asked casually, though the faint edge of self-consciousness was impossible to miss.

Grateful for a change of topic, she stood up, smoothing her old cotton nightgown and brushing at imaginary dust particles. “Actually, I’m heading out to buy some clothes with a coworker. She invited me to go out to a nightclub with the gang tonight. It’s been years since I’ve been to one.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his expression caught somewhere between intrigue and skepticism. “A nightclub? That sounds… interesting,” he commented dryly, the hint of sarcasm poorly masking his curiosity. “So I take it you’ll need some new threads first?”

“Yup,” she confirmed. “I mean, I’ve got a decent sense of fashion, but I have no clue what’s in style for places like that anymore. Honestly, I don’t pay attention to what people wear when I see them stumbling home after a night out. I’m usually just walking my dog in old sweatpants or something.” She smiled wryly. “So, she’s helping me look sexy for tonight.”

“Right,” He frowned inadvertently.

“Right,” she echoed, eyeing him for a moment before continuing. “Anyway, since you seem… more than fine now, I should head out. I’m sure you’ve got a packed day ahead, like watching paint dry or maybe finally returning some of those missed calls from Sam.”

She gave him a quick wave and turned toward the balcony, her steps light but deliberate.

Still sitting on the floor, Bucky tracked her movements, his gaze lingering longer than it should on the gentle sway of her hips. The sunlight streaming through the window caught the silhouette of her body through the thin cotton gown, and his jaw clenched before he managed to pull his eyes away. Then he noticed where she was heading.

“The door is that way, in case you didn’t notice,” he said with a faint smirk, gesturing toward the proper exit.

“Oh, I know,” she shot back. “But mine’s locked. I had to channel my inner Cirque du Soleil to get over the balcony and into your place last night.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You climbed the fence?”

“Yeah, and I’d really rather not do it again. Especially with an audience this time.” She paused, turned back to him, and gave him a pointed look. “So, how about you repay me by brushing up on your rusty espionage skills and opening my door without wrecking the lock?”

A lopsided grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, “You’re serious?”

“Oh yeah,” she replied, crossing her arms. “Come on, you’ve got the skills, big guy. Don’t tell me they’re all gone now.”

He let out a low chuckle, pushing himself off the floor. “Alright. Let’s see what I can do.”

------

Later that afternoon, she returned to her apartment with a couple of bags filled with casual clothes, as well as the evening’s potential attire tucked into the mix. She rummaged through them, pulling out the items she thought might work for the nightclub. Objectively, she wasn’t thrilled about the outing -it wasn’t exactly her scene- but she knew she needed to socialize more, to build connections, and maybe, just maybe, find someone to distract herself from the growing attraction she felt toward her grumpy neighbor and friend.

A neighbor who, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware of her feelings.

He didn't seem interested in her that way, and the prospect of him discovering her little crush was mortifying. Also, she knew he had been attempting to date lately, surely encouraged by Dr. Raynor.

Her mind wandered back to that evening when she’d seen him leaving his apartment with a fresh flower bouquet, heading off to meet the chirpy Asian bartender from down the street. Or the time she’d spotted him in the hallway with a single rose wrapped in flimsy paper, his sharp casual-formal attire making him look infuriatingly handsome. When she raised an eyebrow at him, his only response was a gruff, “Tinder,” before disappearing out the door.

He never shared much about that part of his life, and honestly, she didn’t want to know. The thought of sitting through a conversation about his undoubtedly gorgeous dates, smiling and pretending to be happy for him wasn’t her idea of fun.

Before her thoughts could spiral any further, she patted her cheeks with both hands, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. She had clothes to choose and a night to prepare for.

-------

After some deliberation, she narrowed her options down to two outfits but found herself hesitating. Against her better judgment, she decided to ask for his opinion. Complicated feelings aside, Bucky was still her friend. And once upon a time, he’d been quite the ladies’ man. Even if he wasn’t that guy anymore, his insights could still prove useful.

She marched to his door and knocked three times. “Bucky, are you home? I have a favor to ask.”

After a moment, the door swung open, and without missing a beat, she held up two hangers, shaking them slightly for emphasis almost against his face. “I can’t decide what to wear tonight. Can you help me figure it out? I’ll pay for Sunday’s pizza if you do.” She presented the options: a short black dress with a daring neckline and a red blouse paired with a matching miniskirt. “What do you think?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed briefly before he managed to mask his reaction with a neutral expression. The black dress was sleek, bold, and undeniably sexy -too sexy if he were being honest with himself-. The red blouse and miniskirt weren’t much better, the skirt’s length leaving little to the imagination.

He knew she was asking for his advice as a friend, but something twisted in his chest at the thought of her wearing either outfit. The idea of her going out in them, surrounded by strangers who didn’t know her like he did, made him uneasy.

His grip on the hangers tightened slightly as a faint, irrational pang of jealousy bloomed before he could push it away. Who else is going to see her like this? Who are these work colleagues, and how many of them are guys? But it wasn’t just jealousy, it was protectiveness, too.

Bucky had spent so much of his life guarding himself from the world that the idea of her stepping out there, dressed like this, left him feeling restless. It wasn’t about the clothes, not really. It was about her. The thought of anyone getting too close or treating her as anything less than she deserved made his stomach turn.

Clearing his throat, he gave her a measured look. “Depends on what kind of vibe you’re going for.”

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her expression. “Vibe?”

“Yeah.” He held up the black dress. “This says you want to stand out, make a statement. Maybe too much of a statement.” Then he switched to the red blouse and skirt. “This one’s… playful, but honestly, are you sure it’s comfortable?”

Her lips twitched as she fought back a grin. “Are you saying they’re too much?”

He shrugged, his gaze steady but warm. “I’m just saying you don’t need all that to look good.”

Her cheeks flushed at the unexpected compliment, and she crossed her arms. “You’re not exactly helping me choose here,” she noted with a playful huff, snapping him back to reality.

Bucky had to admit, the idea of her going out dating, dancing, or doing anything that a single woman her age might do besides spending Sundays on the couch with him, had never truly crossed his mind. Somehow, he’d stupidly taken for granted that she’d always be there, maintaining the easy status quo of their relationship. Ad infinitum.

But now, the possibility of her stepping out of that unspoken bubble between them hit him, and hard.

Was he ready for something else? Not likely, not when he still felt so damn broken. And the idea of ruining what they had for a failed attempt at something more profound, was unthinkable. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her because he couldn’t get his act together.

So, he forced himself to remain calm, even as his emotions clawed at him. The last thing she needed was his unresolved mess clouding her chance to have fun.

He took a breath, keeping his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “The black dress makes an impact,” he admitted truthfully. “It’s bold, sexy…” His gaze shifted to the red ensemble. “This one’s daring too, with the shorter skirt, but…” He paused, his jaw tightening briefly before he finished, “If you’re looking to turn heads, I’d say go for the black dress.”

He handed the clothes back to her, with a composed expression, though his thoughts were anything but. He plastered on a faint smile, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “You’ll look great, no matter what.”

She accepted the hangers with a small smile, clearly unaware of the turmoil behind his response. "Thanks, Buck. I owe you a pizza," she said with a soft smile, and before thinking twice, she leaned in and pecked him on the cheek.

The brief warmth of her lips caught him completely off guard. He stiffened, his body betraying him with an instinctive flinch, as though his mind couldn’t immediately reconcile the tenderness of the gesture. “No problem,” he murmured, his voice low and almost distant, eyes tracking her as she quickly retreated toward her apartment.

Once her door clicked shut, Bucky let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His fingers brushed against the spot where her lips had landed, lingering there like he could somehow preserve the fleeting warmth. For someone like him, feelings were a minefield, buried deep and marked off-limits, hidden alongside memories he refused to revisit. She wasn’t supposed to matter like this. At first, she had just been his neighbor, someone who stubbornly broke through the walls he tried to keep fortified.

But over time, things had shifted, quietly at first, like the subtle tug of an undertow, until suddenly it felt like he was drowning.

He sighed deeply, his gaze locked on her door as if it held all the answers. What the hell are you doing, Barnes?

------

On the other side of the wall, she closed her door with a thud, leaning back against it as her stomach twisted in knots. She replayed his flinch in her mind, dissecting it with a mix of confusion and frustration.

Last night, he had wanted her to stay in his makeshift bed after the nightmare, and, for fuck’s sake he even snuggled against her neck in the morning like it was the most natural thing in the world. Asleep, but he did. And yet now, a simple kiss on the cheek had him recoiling like she’d crossed some unspoken line.

Her heart clenched. This is why you need to stop. Whatever feelings she was developing for him, they had to go, and fast. He wasn’t interested in that way. She needed a distraction, something -anything- to pull her away from this spiral.

Fueled by a mix of determination and frustration, she shoved aside his suggestion of the black dress. When the time came, she defiantly slipped into the skimpy red miniskirt and blouse instead. The choice wasn’t just about looking good; it was about reclaiming control over herself, and her emotions. Bold cat-eye makeup followed, along with a slick of glossy red lipstick. Grabbing her purse, she stormed out of the apartment with purpose.

Bucky had just returned from the store, whiskey in hand, when he heard her apartment door open. He turned just in time to see her step into the hallway. His breath caught.

She walked toward him with an effortless sway, the red miniskirt hugging her curves, the glossy lipstick gleaming under the hallway’s dim lights. She looked every bit like a woman who was about to turn heads, and Bucky felt like a deer caught in headlights.

She smiled at him, breezing past with a casual wave. “Goodnight, Bucky,” she said brightly, not even sparing him a second glance.

“Have fun tonight,” he managed to say, his voice tight and strained, as though his throat had suddenly gone dry.

The elevator doors closed behind her, leaving him frozen in place, nearly dropped the bottle.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand down his face as though trying to rub away the image burned into his mind.

That moment, seeing her like that -knowing she was going out dressed like that-sent his thoughts into a tailspin. He had been trying, desperately, to keep things platonic, to see her as the friend and neighbor who had stumbled into his life at just the right moment. He had tried to distract himself by diving again into the waters of dating after… he can’t even remember how much time, to no avail. But the truth was impossible to ignore now: he wasn’t just fond of her. He wasn’t just grateful for her company.

He wanted her.

And it scared the hell out of him.

-------

Just as she was about to exit the building, the rusty main door lock jammed. Great.

After several increasingly aggressive attempts -rattling the knob, shaking the damn thing, and even delivering a few half-hearted kicks- she finally surrendered. She knew who could help her and grimaced. After managing that catwalk exit showing him indifference, now she needed to crawl back to him for assistance.

Taking a steadying breath, she turned around and knocked on his door. It creaked open on its own, poorly shut. Inside, Bucky was slouched on the couch, whiskey in hand, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of a soccer game.

“Hey,” she called softly, trying to sound casual, hoping to mask the awkwardness of her reappearance. “Are you in the mood to roleplay a locksmith?”

He didn’t startle, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he turned to face her. He took a deliberate swig straight from the bottle before responding, “Again? Don’t you have other neighbors to disturb at this ungodly hour?” he asked a dry tone.

His words were sharp, but she noticed his gaze briefly drop just for a second- skimming her legs before returning to the bottle. The tiniest flicker of frustration crossed his face, like he was annoyed with himself for looking at all.

Her stomach flipped, but she trampled the thought before it could take shape. She was not going to that place just minutes before going out “Come on, Buck. It’s getting late. I’ll make you those garlic snacks you like for tomorrow’s movie night, deal?”

She clasped her hands together, bowing slightly in mock pleading, only to instinctively adjust the hem of her skirt as she straightened. She saw his eyes flick down again, lingering just long enough on the exposed skin of her thighs to make her heart stutter.

Clearing his throat, he tried to sound unaffected. “And you’ll buy me a six-pack. The expensive kind.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Want me to clean your windows too? You know what, give me that.” She took three steps, grabbed the bottle from his hand, and took a generous swig of liquor. ‘Screw it. If he’s going to act all tough, so do I.’  She felt his eyes on her again as she tipped the bottle back, and the weight of his gaze, combined with the burn of the whiskey, made her feel bold, maybe a little too bold.

He clenched his jaw as the amber liquid caught the light, the movement drawing his eyes to the curves beneath her blouse. A heat surged through him. Frustration, arousal, and something raw he didn’t want to name.

“Sure,” he said gruffly. “Help yourself.”

She smirked, handing the bottle back. “What’s with that frown? I thought we had already cleared the phase of that staring thing of yours. Besides, sharing is caring.” She cleaned a stray drop on the corner of her mouth and winked. She fucking winked at him.

Bucky grunted, playing off the moment with a scowl. But his mind was racing by the way she waltzed back in, drinking his whiskey completely unfazed by his presence and ready to go out with some random people to do whatever in a club. He tried to reprimand himself. She was his friend, his neighbor. They had a dynamic: a light-hearted, sarcastic friendship that worked. And now, he couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to just reach out, close the space between them, and…

“It's nothing,” he lied. “Just thinking about stuff I have to do with Sam.” Suddenly conscious of how closely he was observing her, Bucky forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the bottle clutched loosely in his hand.

She noticed the stare this time but decided to let it pass. “If that’s the case, that door’s not going to open itself, so move your firm 106-year-old ass and open it, will you?” she quipped, her voice carrying a playful edge. It was the kind of comment that would normally pass between them without much weight, but this time... she felt it hang in the air a little longer than usual.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a second, something playful sparked in his blue eyes. “Firm, huh? Seems like someone’s been staring.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. She cursed herself for slipping, but quickly waved it off with a flick of her wrist. She wasn’t about to let this turn into any kind of flirting after all that self coaching about auto-preservation. “Tic-toc, Bucky,” she said, keeping her tone nonchalant as she raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the hallway. She added a little authority to her voice, more for her own sake than his. She had to steer the conversation back to normal.

The spark dimmed at her response. He nodded stiffly and brushed past her, tensing his shoulders as he headed toward the door. Guess I read that wrong. He told himself it was for the best. Safer.

As Bucky knelt to inspect the lock, she couldn't help but glance at his broad back. The way his muscles flexed under the thin fabric of his shirt was almost hypnotic, her gaze briefly drifting lower before she caught herself. Stop it, she mentally scolded, forcing her eyes to a safe, innocuous spot: a blank patch on the wall that suddenly seemed fascinating.

With a screech of protesting metal, Bucky shoved the old lock using his vibranium finger. The door creaked open, and he stepped back, making a dramatic flourish with his arm. “There you go,” he said, almost indifferent. “If you don’t need anything else, I’d like to get back to watching the soccer match.”

She smiled, hoping to keep things light, even when feeling a weird tightness in her chest. Without thinking, she quipped, “Well, go watch your soccer, then, and wish me luck. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone!”

Bucky’s hand, still resting on the doorframe clenched slightly, the wood almost creaking under the pressure. The pang of jealousy was immediate and sharp, a wave of possessiveness that he had no right to feel hit him hard. He swallowed, forcing himself to play it cool. “Good luck,” he responded tersely, managing a strained smile on his lips. It was a pathetic attempt to mask the truth. Luck had nothing to do with what he wanted for her that night. He wanted her to return home alone and unclaimed, just as she had left.

------

Alone in his apartment, with the TV long forgotten, Bucky paced restlessly on the old wooden floor. Each step echoed the growing anticipation and anxiety eating him from within. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more painful than the last. He could almost picture her with some faceless guy, laughing, dancing, maybe even kissing him. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, he knew that. But knowing didn’t make it easier.

Across town, she stepped into the club, momentarily overwhelmed by its sheer size. Neon lights pulsed in time with the heavy bass, bathing the room in a kaleidoscope of colors. The whiskey she’d downed at Bucky’s apartment warmed her blood, taking the edge off her nerves.

She grinned, letting the electric atmosphere seep into her. Liquid courage, she thought, ordering two tequila shots when she reached the bar.

The sharp burn of the tequila was quick and welcome, igniting a spark of confidence. She laughed with her coworkers, the energy of the room infectious, and allowed herself to be pulled onto the crowded dance floor.

The music thumped through her veins, the bass so loud it felt like a second heartbeat. For a while, she let herself go, the weight of her thoughts about Bucky -about them- fading into the kaleidoscope of lights and sound. Each rhythmic beat seemed to push her farther from the strange tension that had been lingering between them, leaving her free to revel in the moment.

Yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, his strained smile lingered like a ghost she couldn’t quite shake.

------

Bucky found himself awake, staring at the ceiling, restless as he checked the time on his phone more often than he’d like to admit. The thought of her out there -dancing, laughing, maybe already with someone else- had him teetering on the edge of something raw and unrelenting.

Finally, he sat up from his nest on the floor with a groan, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck it." Patience wasn’t his strong suit on the best of days, and tonight was no exception. He wasn’t about to sit there letting his mind spiral, conjuring images that made his chest tighten and his teeth grind.

He stood and grabbed his jacket, moving with a quiet, focused purpose. He wasn’t being possessive, he told himself; he was just concerned. Nothing more. He’d check on her, make sure she was okay, and leave. That was it. No ulterior motives.

The cool night air bit at his skin as he slipped out of the building, heading straight for the club he knew she had gone. The monstrous neon-lit structure came into view, its pounding bass audible even from the street. Bucky melted into the shadows as naturally as breathing, years of training guiding his steps.

This wasn’t a mission. He wasn’t stalking a target. He was just... checking in. ‘Just to see how she’s doing’, he repeated in his mind, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

Inside, the club was a sensory overload: pulsing lights, bodies moving in sync to the beat, and a sea of unfamiliar faces. Bucky’s sharp eyes scanned the crowd, his chest tightening as his search dragged on longer than he’d expected. Then, finally, he saw her.

Her flushed cheeks and disheveled hair told their own story, a story that stirred something primal within him. His chest tightened as he watched her throw herself into the rhythm of the music, her body swaying effortlessly to the heavy bass, her face lit up in carefree abandon. Bucky's gaze lingered, drawn to her in a way that he couldn't fight anymore. The pulsing lights of the club flashed around them, but his focus was solely on her, everything else fading into the background.

The pull was undeniable. His feet moved before he could think better of it, closing the distance between them until he was standing just inches behind her, his tall frame looming over her smaller form.

She sensed his body immediately, a presence that seemed to engulf her. Startled, she opened her eyes, prepared to spin around and tell some stranger to fuck off. But when she turned, her heart skipped a beat.

"…Bucky?"

Her voice was a mix of confusion and something else, relief, maybe? It broke through the haze clouding his thoughts.

His breath hitched as he took her in up close: the flush of her cheeks, the strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. And then there was the feel of her under his hand. His gaze dropped to where it had landed instinctively: on her hip.

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second, and then reality crashed over him all at once, releasing her as if burned.

“Fuck,” he muttered, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She blinked, her brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes darted away, scanning the crowded room as if it held an answer. “I just... needed to make sure you were okay,” he admitted. His voice was low, rougher than he intended. The excuse felt hollow even to him, but it was all he could offer.

Despite the awkwardness hanging in the air, her heart warmed. Bucky had actually left his apartment, and crossed the city, just to “check” on her. Maybe her situation wasn’t as hopeless as she sometimes thought. Either that, or they were due for a serious conversation about boundaries.

She smiled, trying to ease the tension. “That’s sweet of you, Buck, but completely unnecessary,” she said with a teasing lilt. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Sweet?” he echoed, a hint of disbelief coloring his tone. “That’s a new one for me.”

He exhaled heavily, his jaw tightening before he spoke again, slower this time, as though weighing every word. “Look, it’s... complicated. But the truth is, I couldn’t stand the idea of you being here, alone, in a crowd like this.”

His voice carried a rawness that caught her off guard, the admission revealing more than he likely intended.

Her teasing smile faltered for a moment as his words sank in. There was something unspoken lingering just beneath the surface, and it was enough to make her heart ache. "Well," she said softly, her tone shifting, “I’m not alone… but if it bothered you that much, why didn’t you just ask me to stay?”

Her question hung between them like a challenge, and for a moment, their eyes locked. His stormy blue gaze held hers, and she saw it, the conflict, the walls he’d built so carefully starting to crack. He wanted to say something, to let her in, but the fear of rejection or exposing too much kept him frozen.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped before he could muster a response, his defenses kicked in. His expression closed off, and he abruptly turned away, as if running from the crushing weight of his feelings.

Her heart leaped into her throat as she watched him pull back, the sudden distance between them far more than physical. ‘No. Don’t shut me out now.’  Before she could stop herself, she reached out, wrapping her hand around his gloved metal one, the cool leather stark against her warm palm.

“Wait.”

He froze, every muscle in his body going taut. For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t turn around, didn’t even breathe, it seemed. He stood there, caught between the magnetic pull of her touch and the ingrained instinct to retreat into the safety of solitude.

“You came all the way here just to startle me like some creep and then leave?” she joked, her voice light as she tried to break through his stoic exterior. Her hand tightened around his, grounding him, pulling him back into the moment. He didn’t move, but the tension in his body was undeniable, the silent battle raging inside him clear from the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

A long, awkward silence stretched between them before Bucky finally spoke. “Look, I don’t want to make things weird between us,” he said, his voice low and earnest, with just a hint of vulnerability seeping through his usually controlled stance. "But… promise me one thing.” He turned slightly toward her, leaning in closer, close enough that only she could hear what came next. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, thick with intensity. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid while I’m not around, okay?”

His closeness overwhelmed her senses. The scent of cedar, leather, and something undeniably him filled the space between them, making her pulse quicken. Heat flushed through her skin as she felt the full weight of his presence, intoxicating, magnetic. She cursed herself for how easily he affected her. Her resolve, the careful wall she’d built to keep things casual between them, was crumbling. At that moment, it was impossible to pretend she didn’t want something more. "Actually, Buck…” she started, “Since you’re here… I’m getting tired, and I want to go home. Will you take me?” Her words hung in the air, simple but heavy with unspoken meaning.

Bucky’s gaze widened her suggestion. The offer was unexpected, yet in the charged atmosphere between them, it felt inevitable, like the tension that had been simmering for too long was finally bubbling to the surface. "Alright then,” he murmured. “Let's get you out of here.” Without hesitation, he slid his arm around her waist, his touch was firm but cautious, as though he were testing the waters. The warmth of her body against his heightened his awareness of every subtle movement she made.

“Ready for the ride home?” he asked, his voice huskier than he intended as he raised his hand to hail a cab. His fingers brushed lightly against her side, an unconscious gesture that felt more like reassurance, though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was meant for her or himself.

She nodded, and without another word, Bucky guided her toward the waiting car, his hand still resting on her waist as if that physical connection between them had become essential, something he wasn’t willing to break. Once inside, he slid in beside her, their thighs pressing together in the tight confines of the backseat.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as he turned slightly toward her, “what exactly did you have planned for tonight before I crashed the party?”

She tilted her head back against the seat, eyes closing as though she were unwinding from the pulse of the club. A soft, wry smile played on her lips. “Dunno,” she began, her voice carrying a hint of vulnerability beneath the casual tone. “Getting loose, maybe meeting someone... and feeling wanted, for a change.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, her words hitting him in a place he didn’t want to acknowledge. Feeling wanted? The thought of her searching for that validation in someone else sent another surge of possessiveness through him.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly tone, “considering how much trouble I’ve caused tonight already...” His fingers, tentative but bold, trailed slowly along the curve of her thigh, the warmth of her skin radiating through the thin fabric of her skirt. His touch was deliberate, slow, igniting something raw and unspoken between them. “...you’d better believe you’re wanted right now.”

The weight of his words, paired with the slow, burning sensation of his fingers against her thigh, made her bit her lip. He wasn’t just saying it, he was showing her, in every deliberate move he made, exactly how wanted she was.

She gasped at the feel of his touch continuing upwards, her body reacting instinctively as her legs parted slightly. She turned her gaze to him “I didn’t think that you…” she whispered, her voice trembling with vulnerability.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice was rough and low, thick with barely contained desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying not to want you... and failing miserably.” Without another word, Bucky shifted closer, his hand slipping beneath the hem of her skirt, seeking and finding the warmth he had long denied himself.

Feeling the brush of his hand on her thigh, she suppressed a moan as heat started pooling between her legs. Then her eyes darted to the rearview mirror and realized the driver was stealing curious glances toward their activities. She felt a flush of embarrassment and hastily grabbed Bucky’s wrist. “Wait,” she whispered, nodding subtly toward the mirror. 

Bucky followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the driver’s prying eyes on them. A dark, irritated look crossed his face as he made eye contact with the cabby. His fingers hovered on her thigh for a second longer before he reluctantly withdrew.

She quickly crossed her legs, the movement causing her skirt to ride up, offering a tantalizing glimpse of soft skin. Swallowing hard, he turned his attention back to her face, his eyes dark with lust, but remained composed the rest of the trip. 

As the cab pulled up to their building, he took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside him. He opened the door and stepped out, offering his hand to help her exit the vehicle. The cool night air and the stillness of the street seemed to break the spell that had enveloped them, grounding them momentarily.

On the elevator, the silence between them was heavy. They exchanged fleeting glances through the mirror, but neither could hold the other’s gaze for long. Their minds swirled with thoughts, mostly Was this all a mistake? 

When finally, the doors slid open, he stepped out ahead of her, leading the way down the hallway to his apartment. His footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet space, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

Once inside, Bucky turned to face her, his expression a mix of uncertainty and raw, unbridled lust. "So..." he started, looking for the right words. "What happens now?"

She bit her lower lip, suddenly feeling exposed under his intense gaze. This is it, she thought, her heart pounding hard enough to echo in her ears. The heat between them was almost suffocating, her skin prickling under the weight of his stare. “I want you to… continue what you started in the car,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Relief and raw hunger washed over his features as his broad frame loomed closer. Without a word, his lips crashed against hers, the kiss rough, desperate, and possessive. She melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair, tugging gently as she deepened the embrace.

Time stilled, the world beyond his dimly lit apartment faded into irrelevance as his metal hand gripped her hips. He pulled her flush against him, and the unmistakable press of his hard cock against her belly sent a rush of slick arousal pooling between her thighs.

When their lips broke apart, gasping for air, Bucky’s mouth didn’t stop. He trailed along her jawline, his scruff scratching deliciously against her flushed skin, before lowering to the sensitive skin behind her ear. He nipped, earning a soft gasp, and then soothed the spot with his tongue, his lips leaving a hot, wet trail down her neck.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasped, his voice thick and hoarse with barely restrained need. The heat of his breath sent shivers racing down her spine. “And I’ll give it to you. Anything. Just say the words.”

Her head fell back instinctively, exposing more of her throat to his wandering mouth, every nerve ending sparking to life under his touch. Her body moved on its own, grinding against the firm ridge of his hardon, seeking friction. A breathless whimper escaped her lips, her hands roaming the expanse of his broad chest, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt as she pushed it upward, desperate to feel him.

“Bucky…” she whispered, her voice shaky, barely audible over her heart pounding. “I want you. All of you. Right now.”

His lips stilled against her skin for a split second before he pulled back, his eyes locking onto hers with such fierceness that made her knees weak. “You have me,” he growled. His hands moved to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing.

Pinned between him and the nearest wall, her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. His hips rolled against her, the hard length of him grinding against her soaked panties, the friction sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through her body as his hands roamed the curve of her waist.

“You had to wear the damn blouse, hm?” he murmured, his tone dark and reverent all at once. His lips captured hers again, his teeth grazing her lower lip before his tongue delved inside, deepening the kiss. Her back arched into him, her body desperate for more as the heat built between them, spiraling out of control.

Bucky’s hands moved with practiced ease, tugging the hem of her blouse upward. Instead of wasting time with buttons, he pulled it over her head in one deft motion, the fabric whispering against her skin as it slid away. Before she could catch her breath, his fingers found the clasp of her bra at the front, flicking it open with a sure twist.

The garment was discarded to the side, forgotten, as his intense gaze dropped to her newly exposed skin. The cool air brushed against her hardened nipples, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his hands as they slid up her sides to cup her breasts.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he muttered like the words were torn from him without permission. He leaned in, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat and lower, until his lips wrapped around one pert nipple and sucked.

The wet heat of his tongue sent a shockwave through her body, her hands clutching at his shoulders for support. A soft, breathless moan escaped her lips, her hips rocking instinctively against him. “Bucky…” she whimpered, her voice barely recognizable, thick with need.

A soft, breathless moan escaped her lips, her hips rocking instinctively against him, the hardness pressing between her thighs sending shockwaves of need coursing through her. Bucky growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her skin as his lips traced a fiery path down her neck.

“What about this, huh?” he murmured, his tone dark and reverent all at once as he roamed the fabric of her skirt on her hips. The accusation in his tone thrilled her, but she couldn’t resist firing back.

“You don’t like it?” she teased breathlessly.

“Didn’t like other men looking at you in it,” he growled, tightening his grip. His blue eyes were stormy, fixed on her face with a mix of frustration and want. “You put this on, asking for trouble, didn’t you?”

“Well…” She smirked, with a flicker of defiance in her gaze. “That was the idea, yes.” she shot back, her breath hitching as his lips claimed hers again in a rough and possessive kiss.

His brows furrowed, and without warning, he grasped the hem of her skirt. “So trouble, huh?” he rasped, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. With one sharp tug, the fabric gave way, the sound of the seam tearing echoing in the quiet apartment.

“Bucky!” she gasped, looking down at the ruined garment now discarded on the floor. “That was brand new!”

His smirk deepened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as his hands moved to her hips, his fingers hooking into the sides of her panties. “Well,” he murmured darkly, “you wanted trouble, sweetheart.” With one smooth motion, he tore the delicate lace, the ruined scraps joining her skirt on the floor. “Now, you’ve got it.”

Before she could respond, Bucky downed her to the floor and dropped to his knees before her, his broad shoulders aligning with her hips as his hands gripped her firmly. He pressed his lips to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, locking his gaze.

With a steady, almost reverent motion, he guided one of her legs up, draping it over his shoulder. His hands slid down to her other thigh, gripping and spreading her gently but firmly, holding her steady as he settled between her legs.

“Stay still,” he rasped, his voice low and commanding, the timbre sending a shiver through her body. His fingers dug into her thighs just enough to steady her, with a mix of strength and care that left her dizzy with anticipation.

“Look at you,” he muttered, as his gaze burned into hers. “Fucking gorgeous.”

The first brush of his lips against her was featherlight, a tease, but it sent a jolt of pleasure straight through her core.

“Bucky…” she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair as her knees threatened to give out beneath her.

He groaned at the sound of his name on her lips, his tongue darting out to taste her. The wet heat of his mouth made her cry out, her hips instinctively bucking against him. His grip on her tightened, holding her in place as he worked her with a mix of deliberate strokes and teasing flicks, the rhythm of his movements driving her higher. Then, he sucked hard at her clit.

Her head fell back, her nails scraping against his scalp as the coil of tension in her belly tightened. “Oh my God, Bucky…” she moaned, her voice breaking.

He growled against her, “You taste so fucking good,” he muttered, his words muffled against her, before diving back in with renewed fervor.

She was trembling, her body on fire, every nerve ending alight under his relentless attention. “Bucky… I-” she gasped, unable to finish the sentence as her world shattered around her, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her boneless.

He didn’t stop until her trembling eased, his hands steadying her as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh again, his scruff grazing her sensitive skin. Standing, he cupped her face in his hands, before his lips found hers again, this time with a slow, simmering heat that promised this was far from over.

With one last lingering kiss, Bucky pulled away and took her hand, his calloused fingers warm against her skin. Wordlessly, he led her down the hallway to his bedroom.

Inside, the soft light of the street spilling from the window cast long shadows across the room. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, his lips were on hers again. His hands eagerly roamed her body, while hers found the hem of his shirt, tugging at it insistently.

“Not fair,” she murmured against his mouth, a teasing lilt to her voice as she tugged the fabric higher. “I’m the only one without clothes.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to let her lift the shirt over his head. As the garment came off, he hesitated for a split second, his gaze dropping, the faintest flicker of self-consciousness crossing his features.

Her eyes softened as she took in the scars that marred his chest and shoulder, where flesh met metal. Without a word, she leaned in, her lips brushing gently over the jagged lines of his scars, trailing soft kisses along the seam of his prosthetic.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered against his skin.

The words made his throat tighten, and his cheeks flushed with warmth. “If you say so,” he muttered, with a rough voice and an emotion he didn’t quite know how to express.

She smiled, her fingers grazing his jaw as she kissed him again, slow and deep.

Gently, he guided her toward the bed, the back of her knees meeting the edge before she sank onto the mattress. He followed, climbing on top of her with a careful but commanding grace, his weight settling between her thighs as he braced himself on his forearms.

“You are the beautiful one,” he murmured, his lips brushing over hers as his hand slid up her side, exploring every curve with deliberate care.

Bucky’s lips trailed down her neck, his hot breath igniting her skin as he moved lower. His mouth found her breast, and his tongue teased a hard nipple before he drew it into his mouth. The way his teeth grazed just slightly the sensitive skin to suckle on it after, sent a jolt of pleasure that had her back arching off the bed. Her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him closer as he feasted on her, his free hand kneading the soft flesh of her other breast. He alternated between them with, relentless attention and when he finally pulled away, with his lips glistening, he shifted his weight back onto his knees, moving his hands to his belt. With a quick flick, he unbuckled it, the metallic clink cutting through the thick silence of the room. He made short work of his pants and boxers, discarding them onto the floor with the rest of his clothes.

Her eyes widened as he revealed himself, unable to hide the surprise from her face.

Bucky noticed her reaction, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. He quirked a brow, saying nothing, though the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.

Without breaking eye contact, he positioned himself between her legs, his broad hands sliding up her thighs to spread them wider. His gaze softened slightly, his confidence faltering just enough for a faint blush to creep up his neck. “I, uh… I should warn you,” he said, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. I don’t know how long I’m gonna last.”

Her chest swelled at the vulnerability in his voice, and she reached up to cradle his face, pressing a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. “That’s okay,” she murmured with a small smile, her voice warm and reassuring. “We’ve got all night to practice.”

The tension in his shoulders eased at her words, and he let out a soft laugh, the sound rough and filled with affection. “Well, that is certainly reassuring,” he muttered, leaning down to capture her lips again, aligning his body with hers as he began to guide himself into her, slow and steady.

The tight, wet heat enveloped him, and a deep and guttural groan escaped his lips. His body tensed, his breath hitching as pleasure slammed into him with an intensity he hadn’t anticipated.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, freezing in place. His jaw clenched as he willed himself to calm down, every muscle in his body taut with restraint.

She watched him, her hands resting lightly on his forearms. “What is wrong?” she asked with concern.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Give me a second,” he rasped, “I almost -fuck- almost lost it already.”

Her lips curved into a small, understanding smile. She reached up to stroke his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over his flushed skin. “Take your time,” she whispered, her voice soothing and full of warmth.

He opened his eyes, the stormy blue depths meeting hers, and he gave a small nod. He pulled back slightly, taking a deep breath before pushing in a little farther. The sensation overwhelmed him again, his hands gripped her hips like a lifeline as he cursed again under his breath. “Goddamn it,” he growled, stopping once more, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he fought for control.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as she whispered, “It’s okay. We’re not in a rush. Just... feel it, Bucky. I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a low, shaky laugh. “You’re too fucking good to me,” he muttered, lifting his head to look at her again. He took another breath and moved slowly, inching deeper this time, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. He paused twice more, cursing softly each time, but her patient touches and words made him feel like he could take all the time in the world.

Finally, with a low, satisfied groan, he bottomed out, his hips flush against hers. He stilled, his head dropping to rest against hers as he breathed heavily. “Jesus Christ,”

She was doing her best to be patient, to let him take his time, but the throbbing heat of his cock buried deep inside her was becoming impossible to ignore. Her body ached for more, for movement, for relief from the unbearable tension coiling tighter with every passing second.

Biting her lip, she gazed up at him, his eyes still closed, his jaw clenched as he worked to steady himself. The sight of him like this -raw, vulnerable, and completely consumed- only made her need intensify.

Tentatively, she shifted her hips upward, a subtle roll that sent a jolt of pleasure sparking through her body. The sensation drew a soft gasp from her lips, and she couldn’t suppress the small whimper that followed.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, the sharp inhale he took betraying just how much he felt her movement. His gaze locked on hers, dark and full of warning, but there was no mistaking the desire burning behind it.

“Careful,” he rasped, “You’re making it real fucking hard to keep control here.”

Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, her patience finally wearing thin. “Maybe I don’t want you to keep control,” she whispered, as she rocked her hips again, just enough to feel him twitch inside her.

Bucky groaned deeply, pressing his face into the crook of her neck as his composure continued to crack. His body trembled against hers, his restraint unraveling with each passing second. “Fuck,” he growled, his voice low and strained, teetering between a warning and surrender.

Her response was to arch her back, her body molding against his as her nails dragged lightly down the sculpted planes of his back. “Stop holding back,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. “It’s like you’re punishing yourself.”

Her hands moved to his nape, fingers brushing softly through the short hair at the base of his skull. “What’s wrong with cumming, Buck?” she whispered, with a tender voice.  “Let go. Next time-”

Her words were cut off by a sudden, hard thrust, his hips snapping forward and burying him so deeply inside her that the blunt head of his cock kissed her cervix. A sharp gasp tore from her throat, her head falling back against the mattress as pleasure and shock rippled through her.

When she met his gaze, his blue eyes burned with steely determination. His jaw was clenched, his face tight with a focus that seemed almost unshakable, as though he’d summoned every ounce of his training to suppress his body’s overwhelming need for release.

“Next time,” he murmured, his voice rough and deliberate, “I’ll make it last.” His hips snapped forward again, hard and precise, pulling a cry from her lips as her body arched beneath him. He grit his teeth, his breath ragged. “I’m not… a fucking teenager. I won’t just… soil myself. I won’t do that to you, doll.”

She blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for air, the meaning behind his words sinking in. His old-fashioned masculine pride wouldn’t let him lose control, wouldn’t let him spill before ensuring her satisfaction.

Her lips parted as a rush of understanding -and desire- flooded her. Sliding a hand down between them, she touched herself, her fingers finding her slick folds and swollen clit.

His thrusts faltered slightly as he realized what she was doing, his eyes widening briefly before darkening with renewed hunger. “Fuck, doll…” he rasped, his voice hoarse and laced with awe as he watched her.

Her fingers moved with purpose, working in rhythm with his powerful thrusts. The added sensation sent sparks of pleasure racing through her body, her moans growing louder as she climbed higher.

“Bucky,” she gasped, her free hand clutching at his back as the tension coiled tighter, every nerve ending alight. Her movements grew more frantic, and she cried out as the release she craved finally shattered through her, her walls clenching hard around him.

That was all it took. With a guttural groan, Bucky’s restraint broke, his hips slamming against hers as he buried himself deep, spilling into her with a force that left him trembling. He collapsed against her, his breath ragged and uneven, his body a heavy, satisfying weight on top of hers.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their labored breathing. Finally, Bucky lifted his head, his damp hair clinging to his forehead as he looked at her with a mixture of relief and adoration.

A soft smile curved her lips as her hand caressed his stubbled cheek, "You okay?" she asked softly.

Bucky nodded, his steel-blue eyes searching hers, with a certain vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. "Yeah," he murmured. "Are you?"

Her answering smile was all the reassurance he needed. "More than okay,".

He exhaled a shaky breath, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. Slowly, he rolled onto his side, pulling her against him, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.

She lay quietly in his arms, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest, as their breaths gradually evened out. But even in the calm, she could feel certain tension lingering in his body.

“What’s on your mind, Buck?” she asked softly

He hesitated, “I’m just… thinking.”

Her brows knitted together, “About what?”

Bucky sighed, his hand pausing its movements. “About how much of a goddamn mess I still am,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and most days, it feels like I’m one bad decision away from falling apart again.” He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “But then there’s you.”

She remained silent, letting him gather his thoughts.

“I can’t stand the idea of you with someone else,” he continued, almost bitter as if the confession cost him. “It’s selfish, I know. You deserve someone who’s got their shit together, not someone like me.”

Her heart ached at his words. She reached up, cupping his cheek and turning his face so he had no choice but to look at her. “Bucky,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the emotion swelling in her chest. “You’re not a mess. You’ve been through hell, and you’re still here, still trying, and that says more about who you are than anything else.”

He sighed, his hand moving to cover hers, holding it against his cheek. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m broken.”

“Maybe,” she conceded softly, leaning closer. “But it isn’t have to be forever. You just need time. And you’re not alone in this.

His stormy blue eyes searched hers, raw with emotion, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. But instead, he pulled her down, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was soft, reverent, and full of unspoken promises.

A faint breeze filtered through the open window, carrying the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the distant hum of the city settling into the night. Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling a deep breath that seemed to carry years of tension away with it.

“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, the words so low she almost missed them.

“You don’t have to,” she replied softly, her voice muffled against his pulse point. “Just let yourself have it.”

Headers by @/strangergraphics

[deposedefenddeny]

Clearly written by a mathematics prodigy. Reads like a series of lemmas on the question of 21st century quality of life. It's easy to quickly and thoughtless write this off as the manifesto of a lunatic, in order to avoid facing some of the uncomfortable problems it identifies. But it's simply impossible to ignore how prescient many of his predictions about modern society turned out. He was a violent individual - rightfully imprisoned - who maimed innocent people. While these actions tend to be characterized as those of a crazy luddite, however, they are more accurately seen as those of an extreme political revolutionary. A take I found online that I think is interesting: "Had the balls to recognize that peaceful protest has gotten us absolutely nowhere and at the end of the day, he's probably right. Oil barons haven't listened to any environmentalists, but they feared him. When all other forms of communication fail, violence is necessary to survive. You may not like his methods, but to see things from his perspective, it's not terrorism, it's war and revolution. Fossil fuel companies actively suppress anything that stands in their way and within a generation or two, it will begin costing human lives by greater and greater magnitudes until the earth is just a flaming ball orbiting third from the sun. Peaceful protest is outright ignored, economic protest isn't possible in the current system, so how long until we recognize that violence against those who lead us to such destruction is justified as self-defense. These companies don't care about you, or your kids, or your grandkids. They have zero qualms about burning down the planet for a buck, so why should we have any qualms about burning them down to survive? We're animals just like everything else on this planet, except we've forgotten the law of the jungle and bend over for our overlords when any other animal would recognize the threat and fight to the death for their survival. 'Violence never solved anything' is a statement uttered by cowards and predators."

A review from Luigi Mangione's Goodreads account, published Jan 31, 2024

[dominiqueramseyart]

Some positivity in these turbulent AI times

*This does not minimize the crisis at hand, but is aimed at easing any anxieties.

With every social media selling our data to AI companies now, there is very little way to avoid being scraped. The sad thing is many of us still NEED social media to advertise ourselves and get seen by clients. I can't help but feeling that we as artists are not at risk of losing our livelihoods, here is why:

Just because your data is available does not mean that AI companies will/want to use it. Your work may never end up being scraped at all.

The possibility of someone who uses AI art prompts can replace you (if your work is scraped) is very unlikely. Art Directors and clients HAVE to work with people, the person using AI art cannot back up what a machine made. Their final product for a client will never be substantial since AI prompts cannot be consistent with use and edits requested will be impossible.

AI creators will NEVER be able to make a move unless us artists make a move first. They will always be behind in the industry.

AI creators lack the fundamental skills of art and therefore cannot detect when something looks off in a composition. Many professional artists like me get hired repeatedly for a reason! WE as artists know what we're doing.

The art community is close-knit and can fund itself. Look at furry commissions, Patreon, art conventions, Hollywood. Real art will always be able to make money and find an audience because it's how we communicate as a species.

AI creators lack the passion and ambition to make a career out of AI prompts. Not that they couldn't start drawing at any time, but these tend to be the people who don't enjoy creating art to begin with.

There is no story or personal experience that can be shared about AI prompts so paying customers will lose interest quickly.

Art is needed to help advance society along, history says so. To do that, companies will need to hire artists (music, architecture, photography, design, etc). The best way for us artists to keep fighting for our voice to be heard right now is staying visible. Do not hide or give in! That is what they want. Continue posting online and/or in person and sharing your art with the world. It takes a community and we need you!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bridget Read’s ‘Little Bosses Everywhere’

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Pyramid schemes are as American as apple pie. If you doubt it, just read Little Bosses Everywhere, Bridget Read's deeply researched, horrifying, amazing investigative book on the subject, which is out today from Crown:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/715421/little-bosses-everywhere-by-bridget-read/

Read, an investigative journalist at Curbed, takes us through the history of the "industry," which evolved out of Depression-era snake oil salesmen, Tupperware parties, and magical thinking cults built around books like Think and Grow Rich. This fetid swamp gives rise to a group of self-mythologizing scam artists who found companies like Amway and Mary Kay, claiming outlandish – and easily debunked – origin stories that the credulous press repeats, alongside their equally nonsensical claims about the "opportunities" they are creating for their victims.

In Read's telling, there's only two kinds of MLM participants: suckers (who lose lots of and lots of money) and predators (who rake in that money). MLMs pretend that they're doing "direct sales," cutting out the middleman to peddle vitamins, household cleaners, cosmetics, tights or jewelry. But the actual sales volume of these products rounds to zero. The money in the system – tens of billions of dollars per year in the US alone – is almost entirely being spent by "salespeople" who are required to buy a certain amount of "product" every month, either as a condition of membership, or in order to attain some kind of bonus or status.

The "salespeople" in these systems are effectively in a cult, and the high-pressure techniques that Read describes will be instantly recognizable to anyone familiar with cultic dynamics, or even just a casual listener to the Conspirituality podcast:

https://www.conspirituality.net/episodes

And, as with other cults, MLM members are tormented endlessly by other cult members into trying to recruit their friends and family-members. Sometimes, they succeed, and the cult grows a little – but usually not for very long. Most people who get recruited into an MLM quickly figure out that it's impossible to make any money – indeed, it's impossible to avoid losing a lot of money – and bail.

The meat-and-potatoes of the MLM industry are the minority who don't see through the scam. They believe that they are deficient, because everyone else is reporting such incredible returns from "the program." They charge more product to their credit cards, insisting to their "uplines" that they are selling machines (and not that they are filling their garages and attics and living rooms and kitchen cupboards with unsold, unsellable junk). What they don't understand is that all the "successes" in the cult are either scammers who are getting rich off people like them, or they are people like them, going deep into debt and desperately trying to pretend that they're selling as well as those uplines.

The US government and various law enforcement agencies have taken various runs at these cults, but they cults have always won. That's down to enforcers buying into the cult leader/scammers' essential lie: that, at the end of the day, MLM is a system for selling things to people. That isn't true, has never been true, and never will be true. But by crafting rules and tests that attempt to sort the "legitimate" MLMs from the "scam" MLMs, enforcers fall into the scammers' trap. The scammers welcome rules that distinguish "good" MLMs from "bad" MLMs, because it's trivial to create the superficial appearance of adherence to these rules while flouting them. For example, if the rule says that "independent sales representatives" must sell to at least ten outside customers, they can simply make up the names of ten people and charge it to their card. This happens routinely, but there's no auditing, and besides, the MLM victims are all "independent business owners," so if there were any penalties for these violations, they would fall to the victims, not the cult.

Meanwhile, the scammers know it's a scam, and the failure of their victims to sell the useless "product" the cult is nominally organized around is a feature, not a bug. The hordes of indebted, cost-sunk, self-castigating failures are suckers for yet another scam: selling victims "training" to improve their sales technique. After all, if everyone around you is selling this crap without breaking a sweat, the failing must be your own. You need coaching, training, seminars, cassettes, books, retreats, all of it piling debt on debt.

The internal operations of these cults are shrouded in mystery, but Read lifts the veil and makes masterful sense of the horrors lurking beneath. In this, she is somewhat aided by MLM cult leaders' propensity for suing one another, as various sub-bosses build up massive followings of their own and seek to usurp the cult leader by founding their own parallel cults or sub-cults. These lawsuits sometimes drag the cults' dirty laundry out in public, and Read sorts through these court filings very carefully. Unfortunately, the cults' propensity for suing also helps suppress a lot of dirty laundry, because MLM leaders love to sue ex-cult members who participate in online forums where they document their expenses, and they use these cult victims' own money to pay for the court cases that silence them.

MLMs aren't just cults, they're religious cults. Since the very earliest days, pyramid scheme runners have declared themselves to be engaged in an extension of their Christian (mostly Calvinist) faith. The engine of a pyramid scheme needs social capital for fuel: to bring in new recruits, a cult member has to draw on the bonds of trust, fellowship and solidarity in order to convince their targets that this is a bona fide enterprise (and not a cult). Faith groups – especially fringe faith groups – have this kind of capital in spades. This goes double for faiths that demand large families (which is why we see such deep penetration of MLMs into Mormonism and orthodox Judiasm). If your faith demands that you produce a "quiverfull" of mouths to feed, then the chances are that you will not be able to survive without being enmeshed in a mutual support network with your co-religionists. MLMs convert this trust, generosity and mutual dependency into cash (at a ruinous exchange rate) and then funnel it "upline" the cult leaders, who reap billions.

Of course, those kinds of bonds are not solely forged on the basis of faith: racialized people, women, and other groups who face systemic discrimination depend on one another for mutual aid, which makes them vulnerable to another MLM pitch: "predatory inclusion":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/27/predatory-inclusion/#equal-opportunity-scammers

Predatory inclusion is when scam artists adopt the language of social justice to pitch their cons – think of all the crypto bros who sold their ripoff schemes as a way to "achieve independence for women" or "build Black wealth" (thanks, Spike Lee):

https://www.vice.com/en/article/spike-lee-made-an-ad-for-cryptocurrency-atms-and-its-bizarre/

Predatory inclusion is parasitic upon the bonds of solidarity forged in adversity, and this goes double for the MLM variety. As MLMs cut away the strands of the web of mutual support, the cult leaders replace them with rabid anti-Communism, the kind of far-right rhetoric that brought Christian conservatives into the Reagan coalition and ultimately led to Trump's fascist takeover.

Here's how that move works: "You are a small, independent businessperson, the backbone of America. You will realize the American dream through your own backbone and work ethic (and therefore your current failure is due to your own lack of both). People who want to shut down pyramid schemes say they want to protect you, but really they want the government to decide who can and can't own a business. They're Communists, and in coming for MLMs, they're coming for America itself."

Some of America's richest family dynasties owe their wealth to pyramid schemes. They are dynasties of fraud, and they funneled their criminal gains into far right political projects. The Heritage Foundation – the authors of Project 2025 and Trump's master strategists – got their start with money from Rich DeVos (father in law of Betsy DeVos, who served as Secretary of Education in the first Trump cabinet). The far-right dark money machine runs on MLM money.

In fact, there's a good case to be made that everything rotten in today's world is built on the tactics of MLMs. Take the "gig economy." Companies like Uber promise drivers a high hourly wage. A small number of drivers are randomly allocated extremely large payouts by the system, in order to convert them into Judas goats, who fill gig-work message boards with tales of their good fortune. As Veena Dubal documents in her seminal work on "algorithmic wage discrimination," this tactic is devastatingly effective, convincing other Uber drivers to put in extremely long hours for sub-starvation wages, and then blame themselves for "being bad at Uber" – just like the downlines at Mary Kay and Amway who think the problem is with them:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Trump, of course, is the ultimate expression of the MLM grift – and not only because he licensed his name to two different pyramid schemes. Trump embodies the MLM ethic of lying about how rich you are so that marks send you their money to get in on the "opportunity" and then blame themselves when the promised riches never materialize.

Erik Baker once described MLMs as a kind of bizarro-world version of unions. In the world of labor organizing, success lies in finding the people with the most social capital, the ones who are trusted by their coworkers, and teaching them to have a structured organizing conversation. This is exactly what MLMs do – but the difference lies in the goal of that structured organizing conversation. For union organizers, the goal is build solidarity as a means to improving the lives of everyone in the community. For MLM organizers, the goal is to destroy solidarity, atomizing the community, shattering its bonds, leaving its members defenseless as they are fleeced by the cult's leaders and their henchmen:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/05/power-of-positive-thinking/#the-socialism-of-fools

Neoliberalism's war-cry is Thatcher's "There is no such thing as society." The past 40 years have been a long process of tearing us away from one another, teaching us to see one another as marks, to mistrust systems of mutual aid as Communism. Read's Little Bosses Everywhere is a brilliantly told, deeply researched history of the past and present of the ultimate business model for late-stage capitalism: destroying the lives of everyone around you while pretending to be a small businessperson.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/05/free-enterprise-system/#amway-or-the-highway

[sha-brytols]

i can go on forever how nearly every "good" side character in dao does severely fucked up things all for the sake of a greater purpose. irving who literally traps apprentices into blood magic in order to flush them out so kinloch hold retains a good reputation to avoid annullment. the lady of the forest whos been guiding the werewolves to attack the dalish so it may force zathrians hand to end his curse. eamon who uses your companion as a political bargaining chip to gain more influence so he can launch an offensive against loghains tyranny. harrowmont who allows orzammar's economy and caste system to go into complete turmoil so a murderer wouldnt take the throne. it's literally so delicious and complements the game's morality of how it's impossible to be a "hero" without getting your hands dirty and making tough decisions that are bound to leave someone worse off. yum yum.

[waepenwifestre]

Let's Talk About Security Culture: Why Keeping Secrets is Cool and Sexy

It's a natural impulse -- if you love crime -- to want to talk about how great it is. And if you hate America, it's only natural to want to share your dreams for its future with the rest of tumblr dot com. It can feel brave and transgressive. And there is a drive to share your soul with the world at the heart of social media. Surely I should be posting the most concrete implications of my politics, right? This is the poster's curse.

Security Culture refers to a set of "best practices" developed over the past several decades, largely (in a US context) coming out of radical environmental groups as they faced intense state repression, infiltration and entrapment. If you're not familiar, there's some fascinating crimethinc write ups to give you a window into that world:

Much of it boils down to: don't talk about crimes, past or forthcoming with people who don't need to know about them, and be mindful of the possibility of surveillance and infiltration. And, we can support each other as a community in minimizing risks, with an eye towards enabling bold action rather than getting bogged down in fears and anxieties. The guidelines that make sense for AG-based trouble-makers are different from the guidelines that make sense for posters, but plenty of common principles apply. To speak briefly to our position here as posters:

First, it bears saying that long term anonymity is nearly impossible to maintain. Unless you've never accessed Tumblr without a vpn, and avoided connections with other ppl who can be associated with you/your location, and never shared pictures without scrubbing metadata, and a bunch of other 100% consistent steps, it's trivial for the state to know who you are.

Second, just because something isn't actively being prosecuted now doesn't mean it can't be prosecuted later. The priorities of the state change and a shift in power towards the right or a growth in radical action from the left can suddenly make it a priority to destroy anarchist networks or just find a few ppl to prosecute as examples (who probably weren't that plugged into larger networks before getting arrested). Advocating for specific anti-government crimes or declarations of intent to commit such crimes are likely prosecutable, and even if charges don't stick, they're an easy vector for legal harassment.

Third, it's worth thinking about heat as separate from prosecutability. There are modes of engagement that may not be directly criminalized but signal that you are someone worth watching. Some people choose to be public in ways that make heat unavoidable. But it's worth noting that heat isn't strictly individualized, that it persists over time but also is going to shrink over time.

It's easy on here, ime, to see yourself as a proud member of the crime fandom but not much of a content creator. And it's easy to feel like you've generated an amount of heat where you're locked into that role. But heat you generated 10 years ago is probably pretty well gone. Heat you generated 5 years ago has faded substantially. It's worth thinking about how the world might shift in the coming years and what doors you want to keep open.

The non-individualized nature of heat also means that leaning into the spiciest of anti-state positions will make it a bad idea for people who are acting out those positions end up tied to you. Loudly talking about how "more people should be doing [X/Y/Z]" unfortunately sets you up to remain distant from people who might be doing or thinking about doing such things.

Which brings me back to: keeping secrets is sexy. Not spelling everything out builds intrigue. You can lay out a theoretical position and leave working out the practical implications of that as an exercise for the reader. There's value in opacity. The poster's curse and the drive to confess are extremely convenient for the state, but we can resist them. We can hold dreams in our hearts that we refuse to offer up to the posting spectacle.

[solxamber]

Roommate Rumble || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil end up as roommates due to administrative error. Unstoppable force (Vil's perfectionism) meets immovable object (your chaos). It ends up working out perfectly.

and they were roommates!!!!

You’re sitting in the most soul-crushing waiting room imaginable—stale air, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and the smell of desperation. You’re waiting for the housing office to process your late application, which, in hindsight, you should’ve done weeks ago, but hey, it’s college. Time isn’t real here.

Between borderline disastrous drinking sessions, last-minute assignments, and your general vibe of chaos, the fact that you’ve even made it this far is kind of a miracle. But now, thanks to your masterclass in procrastination, you’re about to get assigned a random housemate for the year. At this point, you’re too mentally checked out to care who it is. As long as they don’t steal your ramen, it’ll be fine… probably.

The door swings open, and in walks the most absurdly pretty man you’ve ever seen. Like, this dude looks like he stepped straight off the cover of a magazine. And not just any magazine—like, one of those high-fashion ones where people look all ethereal and judgmental at the same time.

You try not to stare, but it’s impossible. He’s got this aura about him, as if he’s too good for this building, this situation, this plane of existence. He walks up to the front desk, where the housing clerk is, predictably, typing at the speed of a snail.

“I’m here to check the status of my application,” the guy says, his voice smooth but with a distinct undercurrent of annoyance.

The clerk squints at her computer, clicks around a bit, then frowns. “Uh… what was your name again?”

The guy rolls his eyes, but still answers with the grace of a runway model, “Vil Schoenheit.”

You nearly choke. Vil Schoenheit? Isn’t that, like, some kind of celebrity? You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him on billboards for fancy skincare products or something. Now you’re really trying not to stare.

“Uh… huh,” the clerk says, now looking vaguely uncomfortable. “It seems… we may have, um, misplaced your form.”

Vil stares at her, and you can practically feel the temperature in the room drop by several degrees. “Misplaced?” he repeats, his tone icy. “You lost my form?”

“W-Well, not lost,” she stammers, “more like, uh, temporarily… not found.”

Vil’s eyes narrow, and you have to hand it to him—he makes passive-aggressive sound like an art form. “And how, exactly, do you plan to rectify this?”

The clerk clicks around desperately on her computer again, clearly wishing she was anywhere else. “Well, um, we’re going to have to randomly assign you a housemate. Since we don’t have time to redo the whole process… y-you’ll just have to— Oh, wait!” She pauses, glancing between you and Vil. “You both applied at the same time, so you can just… be housemates! Problem solved!”

There’s a beat of absolute silence as you and Vil both process this. You glance at him, and he glances back, slowly looking you up and down with the precision of someone scanning for flaws in a diamond.

Finally, he sighs, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Acceptable.”

You blink, unsure whether you should feel insulted or… flattered? He says it with the same tone you’d use to describe a pair of shoes that don’t quite match your outfit, but are passable in a pinch.

You don’t even get the chance to respond because, let’s be real, your brain is still trying to catch up. Did Vil Schoenheit just say you were “acceptable” as a housemate?

Honestly, though, you shrug it off. If you’re being real, as long as he stays in his room and you stay in yours, who cares if you’re housemates with a guy who looks like he bathes in designer moisturizer?

“Great!” the clerk chirps, relieved to have avoided death by model glare. “You’re all set, then! Enjoy your semester!”

You glance at Vil one more time, who’s already looking like he regrets every life choice that led him here. Meanwhile, you’re just hoping he doesn’t judge you for eating pizza rolls at 3 AM.

It's three days into this whole housemate arrangement with Vil, and honestly, it’s not bad. You’ve barely even crossed each other’s paths, which works out perfectly. He does his thing, you do your thing—totally peaceful.

You stumble out of bed one morning, still half-asleep, grab the first set of clothes you can find on the floor (you’re 90% sure these jeans don’t belong to you), and zombie-walk your way to the kitchen. You’re already 15 minutes late to class, but who cares? Time isn’t real, and neither is your motivation.

As you shuffle in, you spot Vil at the counter. He’s sitting there, back straight, eating what looks like a perfect, Instagram-worthy breakfast. It’s all eggs and avocado toast and some kind of smoothie that’s probably made from fruits you’ve never even heard of. He’s impeccably dressed, even though it’s like 7 AM, and you can’t help but be mildly impressed. The guy is a full-time student, works as a model and actor, and still manages to look like he just walked off a red carpet.

Meanwhile, you’re over here in a mismatched hoodie and some band T-shirt from high school, hair resembling a rat’s nest, and the sheer determination of a person who’s willing to eat raw cereal to survive.

You try to be polite, offering Vil a smile. Or at least, what you think is a smile. It’s probably more of a grimace, to be honest. You’re running on fumes, and it shows.

Vil glances at you, eyes narrowing like he’s silently assessing every poor life choice you’ve made up to this point. Still, he says nothing, just gives a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

You head straight for the pantry, grab a box of cereal, and rip open a Red Bull. Breakfast of champions. You’re about to pour the cereal into your mouth raw, no milk, no dignity, when suddenly—

SMACK.

The Red Bull flies out of your hand, clattering to the counter, and you’re left holding an empty cereal box like some kind of fool. You stare at it in shock, then turn to Vil, who’s looking at you like you just summoned Satan.

“Dude??” You blink, genuinely confused.

Vil crosses his arms, expression disgusted as he points at the stove, where there are some leftovers of whatever perfect meal he made earlier. “That,” he says, enunciating like he’s explaining basic math to a child, “is food. What you were about to ingest is poison.”

You look between him and your spilled Red Bull. “Uh, that was breakfast?”

“No,” Vil snaps, “that was a caffeine overdose waiting to happen. And dry cereal? Have you lost the will to live entirely?”

You’re still processing the fact that he just slapped your breakfast out of your hands when you glance at the stove again. Your stomach growls, and, well, you guess your organs could use something that won’t actively try to kill you.

“Fine,” you mutter, shuffling over to grab a plate. “But if I’m late to class, I’m blaming you.”

Vil barely glances at you as you load up your plate with whatever masterpiece he’s made. “You’re already late,” he says flatly.

“...Okay, fair.”

You sit down at the table, expecting the silence to be awkward, but it’s surprisingly chill. You eat, Vil eats, and for a brief, strange moment, it’s kind of peaceful. You didn’t think breakfast could be… normal. Not with someone like him.

Just as you finish, Vil stands up, wipes his mouth, and gives you a small nod. “You’re welcome,” he says, like he’s just saved your life—which, in his eyes, he probably has. Then he grabs his bag and leaves the kitchen without another word.

You sit there for a moment, fork still in your hand, feeling oddly touched. Then you glance at the clock.

You’re now 30 minutes late to class.

Totally worth it.

You pass out at 4 a.m., your body finally giving in to the pure exhaustion that college life has inflicted on you. You're in that deep, blissful sleep when, at exactly 7 a.m., you're jolted awake by a scream so loud it feels like it rattled the entire room.

At first, you try to ignore it, desperately clinging to the last remnants of sleep. But after a moment, you groggily realize there’s no escaping it. You groan and roll out of bed, stumbling into the hallway with all the grace of a sleep-deprived zombie, not even bothering to change out of your mismatched pajamas.

Standing outside his room, on top of a chair(???), looking absolutely frazzled, is Vil Schoenheit. Hair still perfect, but his usual calm demeanor is gone, replaced by… well, panic?

“What the hell happened?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.

Vil’s face is pale, and he gestures to the door of his room with a shaky hand. “There’s—there’s something in there.”

Your brain immediately jumps to the worst. An intruder? A stalker? A wild animal? Something actually dangerous? Vil shifts behind you, as you carefully open the door just enough for you to peer inside. You brace yourself, expecting to see something terrifying.

Instead, Vil points dramatically toward the floor. “There.”

You blink. And then you see it—a cockroach. A big one, sure, but still. A cockroach.

You turn to Vil slowly, your face a mask of pure judgment. “You woke me up… for this?”

Vil, now perched on a chair, crosses his arms indignantly. “It’s not about fear. It’s about disgust. I am not touching that.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“...No. No, you don’t.”

Resigned, you grab a cup and a piece of paper from the kitchen. You approach the cockroach like some kind of extermination expert, scoop it up, and open the nearest window. With one swift motion, you throw the unfortunate bug into the outside world, praying it finds a better life somewhere far, far away.

“There,” you say, tossing the cup in the trash. “Crisis averted.”

Vil, still standing on his chair like the floor is lava, steps down carefully, brushing off his clothes with an air of dignity as if he hadn’t just been screaming at a cockroach. “I wasn’t scared,” he says, straightening his posture. “I was disgusted.”

You nod along, patting him on the shoulder with the patience of someone who knows it’s best not to argue. “Sure. No problem. Don’t worry about it.”

Vil purses his lips, his pride clearly a little bruised, but he still offers a tight smile. “Thank you.”

You wave him off as you shuffle back to your room, your bed calling you back like a siren. As you flop onto the mattress, you think to yourself, He might be a diva, but damn, he’s gorgeous.

With that, you pass out again, hoping to squeeze in a couple more hours of sleep before the universe inevitably conspires to ruin your day again.

You and Vil have settled into an odd but functional arrangement. If not quite friends, you’re definitely acquaintances with benefits — and by benefits, you mean Vil keeps you from dying a slow death via your terrible diet, and in return, you serve as his on-call exterminator for the various bugs your old house seems determined to spawn. It’s a mutual understanding, and lately, he’s stopped questioning your life decisions. Well, not as much.

One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the couch, half-asleep and doomscrolling on some social media app, when Vil clears his throat. You jolt upright, momentarily thinking you’re about to get a lecture about posture, only to find him standing there, looking at you in a way that’s… almost awkward?

“What’s up?” you ask, genuinely curious because Vil being awkward is as rare as you cooking anything edible.

Without a word, he hands you an invitation, embossed with gold lettering and all. It's for a performance competition on campus. The kicker? Vil’s participating.

“You want me to come?” you ask, surprised.

He waves a hand, trying to look nonchalant. “Only if you’re available,” he says, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice. He’s trying to play it cool, but the slightest hint of tension betrays him.

You have no plans (unless eating ramen at 2 a.m. counts), so you agree. “Sure, I’ll come.”

The day of the competition arrives, and you actually dress like a normal human being for once. Vil didn’t give you any kind of ultimatum about your outfit, but you figure you should at least try to look like you belong among the living.

You’re in the front row — of course, Vil had VIP tickets to a performance competition. The crowd is buzzing, but you’ve barely noticed because your attention is glued to the stage.

Vil appears, bathed in light, and you swear you’ve just glimpsed into heaven. His voice is smooth and captivating, his moves are graceful, and his gaze? One hundred percent lethal. It’s almost unfair. He’s the kind of performer that could turn someone to stone with a look.

You’re standing there, feeling the ridiculous urge to brag to the people around you that he’s your roommate. “Yeah, that’s right, I share a bathroom with that guy.”

Then, Neige LeBlanche takes the stage. Now, you’ve heard the hype. Neige is the campus sweetheart, the kind of guy who probably smiles at babies and rescues kittens from trees. If Vil is the untouchable beauty you admire from afar, Neige is the best friend you’d want by your side, also weirdly gorgeous.

You expect another powerhouse performance. You’re bracing yourself for it. And then… he starts singing.

Wait.

Is Neige… singing a nursery rhyme?

You blink. The crowd is eating it up, swaying along like they’ve been hypnotized. Meanwhile, you’re just standing there, dumbfounded, the only person in the front row not bopping along.

You glance around, jaw practically on the floor. Is everyone here insane? The man is singing something that you swear you heard at preschool.

And then it happens. Neige wins. The audience erupts into cheers, and you think the universe is playing a cosmic joke on you. What the actual—?

“What the fuck?” The words slip out before you can stop them, loud enough that the people around you turn to stare. Apparently, your disbelief is showing. You even catch Vil’s eye for a moment, and he smirks weakly at your outburst, but it’s clear the loss stung. A little part of you feels something unfamiliar—anger on someone else’s behalf.

You don’t even stay for the encore. It’s either leave or throw something at the stage, and you’d rather not get banned from campus events. You march out of the hall, still fuming.

Later, when Vil returns, you can see it in the slight slump of his shoulders. The air of perfection is still there, but it’s a little cracked around the edges. That anger bubbles up again.

But you have a plan. A master plan.

Vil’s been telling you for weeks that you’d look decent if you just took care of yourself, and you’ve been brushing him off like the human disaster you are. But tonight, for him? You’re willing to make a sacrifice.

So, when he looks at you, barely meeting your eyes, you blurt out, “You can do whatever you want to me.”

His eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“Whatever creams, lotions, skincare products—you want to use on me. Go wild. I’ll be your project for the night.”

Vil’s expression lights up like a kid who just found out Christmas came early. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to get this excited about transforming you from a crusty goblin into a passable human, but here we are. And honestly? You kinda owe him at least this much, considering he makes sure you don’t die from malnutrition.

The next hour is nothing short of war. Vil is aggressively applying products to your face like he’s trying to sandpaper your soul clean. His focus is deadly serious, his hands precise as he rubs some fancy serum onto your skin.

Between all the smearing of moisturizers and the occasional Ow!, the two of you start talking. Or rather, you start griping about Neige’s performance.

“I mean, seriously? A nursery rhyme?” you groan, rolling your eyes.

Vil huffs, his fingers moving swiftly over your cheeks. “Don’t remind me. The judges clearly have no taste. What kind of competition rewards… that?”

“Right? I was ready to riot. Your performance was like…” You search for the right words as he smears something cold on your forehead. “It was like watching art come to life, and then he goes and sings Twinkle Twinkle and everyone acts like he just reinvented music.”

Vil laughs—an actual laugh, something deep and genuine that makes the tension in his shoulders ease a little. “You sound like you wanted to run on stage and throw him off.”

“Maybe I did,” you mutter, wincing as he pats something into your skin a little too enthusiastically. “Honestly, the only reason I didn’t is because I didn’t want to get banned from campus events.”

By the time he’s finished, Vil steps back to admire his work like an artist assessing a freshly painted canvas. “There,” he says, his voice softer now. “You look… acceptable.”

“Wow, high praise,” you snort, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Vil.”

He smiles back, something quieter and more genuine. “Thank you.”

You wave him off, already heading to your phone. “So… delivery tonight? I’m thinking chicken?”

Vil wrinkles his nose. “Not fried. How about sushi?”

“Deal,” you grin.

As you place the order, you can’t help but think—yeah, maybe you and Vil are friends now. Weird, slightly dysfunctional friends. But friends, nonetheless.

You’ve been working on this project for months. Countless sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled coding sessions, and a pile of stress larger than your student loan debt have led to this moment. It’s crunch time. You’re this close to submitting your final assignment. You think you deserve a break, so you go to order a coffee—just 10 minutes, tops.

But when you come back? Your laptop, your precious laptop, is gone.

You look around in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Someone stole it. The weeks of coding, months of planning, your entire project, everything. Gone.

You do the only thing you can think of when life throws you a sucker punch like this: you go drink.

You’re a few shots deep when your phone buzzes. It’s Vil. He’s asking, “Are you going to be home for dinner?” His voice is sharp, but you can’t even string together a coherent answer. You let out some garbled mess of a response that’s more slurred syllables than actual words.

There’s a pause, then a very clear “Send me your location. Now.”

Vil shows up at the bar like he’s stepped out of a luxury fashion magazine, a vision of elegance in this grimy little dive. You’re nursing what can only be described as a sad excuse for a cocktail, and he just gives you this look—disapproving, concerned, and about two seconds away from reading you the riot act.

He doesn’t say a word as he helps you out of the bar and drives you home. You can barely sit upright in the passenger seat, mumbling something about losing your laptop. You’re not even sure if he hears you.

Back at home, Vil sits you down on the couch and hands you a glass of water. “Drink,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You sip the water, slowly sobering up, though your mind is still a mess. Meanwhile, Vil is pacing back and forth like an actor in a drama, preparing for his monologue. And then it comes. He’s yelling at you, frustration and worry bubbling up to the surface.

“What are you doing to yourself? Why are you so determined to self-destruct?!” he demands. “You eat like garbage, you barely sleep, you pass out at random hours of the morning, and now you’re drinking like you’re on some kind of mission to obliterate your liver!”

You can’t take it anymore. His words break something inside you, and you just… fall apart. Tears stream down your face, and you sob, unable to hold it together any longer.

Vil immediately stops pacing, his expression softening in an instant. He crouches down in front of you, gently resting his hands on your shoulders. “Why are you crying?” he asks, his voice now quiet, almost tender.

You try to explain between hiccupping sobs. “My laptop—it’s gone. I… I worked so hard, and now it’s all gone. Someone stole it.”

Without hesitation, Vil pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “We’ll figure it out.” He holds you like he can somehow undo the theft, like he can bring back what’s lost just by being there. And in that moment, you cling to him, sobbing into his shoulder as if the world could collapse around you and it wouldn’t matter because he’s holding you together.

You wake up hours later, still curled up on the couch, with a hangover so brutal it could bring empires to their knees. But something’s off. You realize you’re not just lying on the couch—no, you’re lying on someone’s lap.

You blink and look up. Vil’s sitting there, talking softly on the phone, one hand gently patting your head. You try to make sense of it, but the pounding in your skull makes that nearly impossible.

“No, Rook, I don’t care how you do it. Just find it.” Vil says into the phone, his hand still idly resting on your head. He doesn’t seem too concerned about you waking up—if anything, he seems almost like he’s daring you to go back to sleep.

And you do.

The next time you wake up, it’s to the world’s loudest human: Rook Hunt.

“Ah, mon ami, I come bearing treasures!” he announces as he swoops into the room, a grin plastered across his face. In his hands? Your laptop.

You sit up, blinking in disbelief. “What…? How did you get my laptop?”

Rook flashes you a sly smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, it was no small feat, but for Vil’s amour—”

“Rook!” Vil snaps, cutting him off with a glare that could freeze fire. “That’s enough.”

You look between them, still not fully understanding what just happened, but you’re too relieved to care. You practically leap off the couch and grab your laptop, hugging it to your chest like it’s your long-lost child.

Before you can stop yourself, you turn and hug Rook, then Vil, a huge grin spreading across your face. Then, in a moment of pure, unfiltered gratitude, you kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Vil blinks, momentarily stunned by the gesture, but before he can say anything, you’re already dashing back to your room to finish your assignment.

As you shut the door, you can hear Rook’s laughter from the other side.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters to himself, but there’s a warmth in his eyes. Maybe you are a walking disaster, a self-destructive potato. But you’re his favorite potato.

It’s finally the end of the semester, and a little notification pops up on your phone: Housing Applications Now Open.

If you apply now, you could get your old dorm back—no housemate, no interruptions, just you and your tragic life decisions. No one telling you to eat healthy or waking you up at ungodly hours over insect-related emergencies. Just you, alone, in your beautifully chaotic mess. And Vil? He’d probably go back to wherever he was before, maybe with someone like Rook who actually knows how to behave like a normal person.

You should be thrilled by this prospect. A whole apartment to yourself again. But instead, your stomach is doing weird somersaults, and not the normal “I forgot to eat breakfast” ones. This feels... different. Kind of like the time you ate that suspicious leftover curry, except this time it’s your heart that feels like it’s about to implode.

Oh. Oh no.

You sit there for a solid 10 minutes, staring at the housing application, feeling something suspiciously like heartbreak. And being the impulsive disaster that you are, you decide the best thing to do is to blurt out your feelings without any consideration for how unhinged it might sound.

So when Vil comes home, looking elegant and put-together as always, ready to greet you with his usual "Good evening..." you don’t even let him finish. You jump up, and before you can second-guess yourself, you blurt out, "I’m in love with you. Deeply. Hopelessly. In love."

Vil freezes mid-step, his eyebrows shooting up so fast they might actually fly off his face. There’s a solid beat of silence as he processes what you just said.

“…Excuse me?” He blinks, looking like you just told him you set the kitchen on fire again. “What did you just say?”

You gulp but there’s no backing out now. You’ve committed. “I said I’m in love with you. Like... seriously. I think you might’ve ruined me for life.”

Vil stares at you, and for a second, you’re terrified that you’ve broken him. But then—he laughs. He laughs so hard he doubles over, clutching his sides like you just told the world’s best joke.

You blink, baffled. “Uh... you good?”

Vil wipes at the corner of his eyes, still chuckling. “Oh, potato…” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “I love you too, you ridiculous creature.”

“Wait, what?” Now it’s your turn to stare in shock.

Vil sighs, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “I was going to ask if you wanted to room together again next semester. But, you know... in a better apartment. One without bugs or whatever demons this place keeps spawning.”

You blink once, twice, processing his words. He wanted to room with you again? In a better place? Your heart does a little flip in your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you’re grinning like an idiot. “Oh, hell yeah.”

Without thinking, you pull him close and kiss him. It’s quick and impulsive, but somehow it feels right. When you pull back, you find Vil smiling at you with something soft in his eyes, like he’s genuinely content.

“Maybe I don’t wanna die young after all,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Vil raises an eyebrow, his smile widening. “That’s a start. Now, go drink some water before you pass out from dehydration.”

You laugh, content for the first time in forever. Maybe this whole “life” thing wasn’t so bad after all. At least, not when you had Vil by your side.

Masterlist

guys I promise I don't hate neige I just hated the VDC ending I wanted to off myself fr

[thenationofzaun]

The Vander/Silco Shitshow - generic, juvenile, and gimmicky slop

So, I think that Vander/Silco flashback was terrible. Tropey, careless, juvenile, clichéd bullshit that stripped away everything that made their season 1 story nuanced and poignant, while simultaneously ripping open a fat plot hole because the team got careless and did not catch the discrepancy between the story they'd written in their heads and the visuals that ended up on screen in season 1. This is just going to be a long rant post detailing the reasons I absolutely despised this flashback. Obligatory disclaimer that this is just my (strongly held) opinion.

1) The timeline plot hole

No, I'm not misusing the term. So a plot hole is an inconsistency in a fictional narrative that cannot be explained away by any plausible in-universe justifications. There are many moments of weak writing in Arcane that may be contrived, rushed, weird, convenient, etc. but aren't plot holes.

This Vander/Silco situation however. Oh boy. If you all remember, Season 1 opened with the bridge massacre, also known as the Day of Ash. Vander is shown cracking enforcers' skulls. He looks like this.

The sisters, seemingly recognizing him, ask him where their parents are. He gestures to their corpses, the sisters cry, Vander has his "violence is not the answer" epiphany, drops the gauntlets very dramatically to underscore this massive turning point of character development for him, then picks the girls up and leaves the bridge.

In episode 3, we are shown a flashback. Vander is trying to kill Silco in the river. He looks like this.

Let's compare this to how he looked like on the Day of Ash.

Yeah. According to the visuals shown in Season 1, the falling out of Vander and Silco seems to have occured in the past before the Day of Ash, evidenced by how much younger Vander looks. Unless Silco is a time traveller who jumped forward to the future to throw a molotov at the riot because he just loves violent extremism that much, or Vander took the time to shave his beard and apply heavy duty anti-aging lotion on his face before hunting Silco down, there are no plausible in-universe explanations for this inconsistency. Not to mention, if Silco and Vander were really as close as brothers and the sisters knew Vander, then it's impossible they wouldn't have known who Silco was.

Yet, in Season 1, that's exactly what we see - not a single sliver of recognition between Silco and the girls, nothing to imply they knew of his existence before episode 3. Not a single conversation between Jinx and Silco implied that he knew, let alone was close to, her mother. Nothing from Vi throughout the entire first season indicated that she knew of his past friendships with her mother and Vander. They acted like total strangers to each other.

Many fans already caught this inconsistency during the three-year gap after writers' comments online implied Silco was involved in the Day of Ash. We had hoped the writers would catch on to this discrepancy too and either iron out the timeline if they want to do serious flashbacks, or just avoid calling attention to it completely by not doing flashbacks of their falling out. Alas.

2) Leonardo Dicaprio pointing meme

Death to the everybody-knows-everyone trope and lines that only exist to invoke the "Leonardo Dicaprio pointing" meme. Throw them into a fucking fire. Boring, mind-numbing, clichéd, overdone garbage. Not every character needs to have some kind of half-baked relation with each other. Not every major incident needs to be tied back to the main characters. Not every single detail needs to be overexplained and justified and again, somehow tied to a main character. They are unnecessary, and make the world feel so much more claustrophobic and smaller than it should be.

"The enforcers actually commited the Day of Ash massacre because SILCO threw a molotov. Vander actually tried to kill Silco because of VI AND JINX'S mother. She knew both Silco and Vander personally and TOLD THEM to help her raise her kids. VANDER named Vi."

Bullshit like this really fucks with immersion, because it becomes clear very quickly that the world is only occupied by a small handful of real characters while the thousands of other people in it are nothing more than inconsequential set dressing and wallpaper. The story and world no longer feel real, vast, and immersive. And these forced "connections" between main characters are so obviously manufactured to generate "OUGHHH" and Dicaprio pointing reactions. Idk about anyone else, but it takes me completely out of the story when I can obviously tell the writing is trying too hard to blow my mind.

The girls' mom waltzing up to Vander and Silco and just. Fucking telling them to help her with her kids lmfaoooooooo. (OUGHH and they both really ended up raising her kids WOAGH😱🤯). Jinx's mom saying choosing a name is stressful because her child will feel stuck with it (GASP and Powder ended up changing her name WOOOOWW😱). Vander coming up with Vi's fucking name. (OUGHHHH HE REALLY WAS MEANT TO BE FATHER ALL ALONG WOADGHHGHDHDH🤯🤯🤯).

Fucking kill me. Arcane Season 1 was surprisingly good precisely because they DIDN'T, for the most part, resort to tropey bullshit like this. It had, for the most part, originality. Uniqueness. In fact all the strongest aspects of Season 1, aspects I loved, were deliberate subversions of overdone clichés. For Season 2 to resort to this kind of writing reminiscent of Disney slop is insanely disappointing.

I'm waiting for a character to unironically say, "What are we, some kind of League of Legends?" in Act 3 now.

3) "Ohhhhh so THAT'S why he did that!!!!!!!!!"

Also death to overexplanations and giving justifications for things that never needed justifications. You know what I was never confused by while watching Season 1 of Arcane? Why Vander adopted the girls. Why Silco adopted Jinx. Why both came to care for their girls so much, they were willing to sacrifice so much for them. I thought the reasons for those things were very clear and poignant in the first season. I never needed an extra on-the-nose justification for the adoptions in the form of, "they wuved yo mama". It's not only redundant, it's also one of the most tired ass tropes in fiction. To me, Vander taking in the girls and Silco taking in Jinx are so much more powerful if they really were just random guys with no real connection to the girls' parents.

But I've already seen some positive reactions to this flashback with "Ohhhhh so THAT's why Silco/Vander cared for the girls so much, now I understand😯🤯😓" mf what exactly did you not understand before??

4) Character motivations

The motivations of both Vander and Silco are made downright bizarre by this flashback. So Silco was hellbent on murdering Vi last season, despite being close friends with her mom whose death he may feel guilty for? Literally despised her and wanted to kill her the entire time with no hesitation lol. So Vander had that aforementioned dramatic moment of character development, dropped the gauntlets, realized violence wasn't the answer, and carried the kids to safety... then doubled back to violently hunt down and murder Silco? But not before shaving his beard and applying youthful lotion of course. Can't kill your bro while looking crusty. Then he failed to kill Silco so he just... went back to the kids and pretended like nothing happened? Lol.

Silco being close to, let alone loving, the girls' parents makes no fucking sense for his character. Vander knowing them at least makes sense, but casual friends would have sufficed. "I was lowkey crushing (?????) on your mom and also named you" just cheapened the entire Vander/Vi and Silco/Jinx surrogate father dynamic. Vander's motivation for killing Silco being yet another fridged woman is also weak as fuck. First Viktor with Sky, and now Vander/Silco. They really should have left this one up to our imaginations if this was the boring tripe they came up with.

[mia-maybank]

I Have A Feeling You Got Everything You Wanted: Part 1 - George Clarke

George Clarke x Fem!reader ( 1.5k words)

The sidemen charity match , a gorgeous ex-boyfriend with a mullet and his entire friendgroup scattered around the stands to avoid ... what could ever go wrong?

warnings: lots of angst (it gets happier I promise) , hints of poor mental health but it's not a heavy focus

series | masterlist

This is my first fic in a while so sorry if it's not the best :) I've had this idea for a while and then I'm gonna start on everyone's requests this week too! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The roar of the crowd only increases as the players slowly filter onto the pitch, shaking each others hands and waving to the crowds. I clutch my drink tighter in my hand as I watch one player in particular laugh and joke with Chris and Will.

I don't know quite how I ended up in the stands of the Sidemen Charity Match. Perhaps the impulsive decision stemmed from the knowledge that it would allow me to set my eyes on George for the first time in 2 months, or perhaps it was just the intense loneliness that has followed me around like an unwanted weight, caging my heart in a murky fog of isolation ever since that one Tuesday night.

It's not like our shared group of friends have ever explicitly stated that they were choosing his side or had ever given me any form of grief; yet when I kept my distance in the days following the breakup, fearing their anger, their lack of messages or calls had given me an answer enough.

I sit towards the back of the stands, well away from the friends and family section where I know the Arthurs, Bach, Liv and various other of my old friends will be sat. My hoodie is drawn up, shielding my face from any spectators that may recognise me and blow up my whole plan of 'slip in, watch the match, slip out and avoid any social interaction at all costs'. I doubted I still had much relevance in the YouTube scene these days anyway, as my channel has remained untouched and been left to bury in dust and the weight of my heartbreak. I truly had tried to keep up my career independently, but filming with the absence of George's warm touch, Chris' gremlin-like laugh and Arthur TV's random historic facts didn't feel right. Therefore, I had just avoided social media entirely for the last 2 months, finding it easier than scrolling through the pictures and videos of George and the others partying and filming like I had never even been a part of their lives in the first place.

The match passes by in a blur of mullets running around the pitch, an impressive amount of goals being scored, and a growing pain in my chest that I tried my best to swallow down, although this proved harder with every passing second of watching the people who my world once orbited around carry on existing and living so vibrantly without me. When George scored, I couldn't help but let out a loud cheer; I knew that playing in this match was something that he had never even dared to dream of, so I couldn't help but feel an abundance of pride settle in my chest as he celebrated with Tobi.

As the final whistle blows , conceding the all stars team as the winners following an intense round of penalties, I slip out of my seat, intending to make it out of the stadium long before the boys left the pitch. I had time after all; they still had to celebrate and be presented with the trophy.

However, it seemed fate had other plans, as the throng of people who similarly were trying to leave early was overwhelming, and impossible to push through. Eventually, I found a more private stairwell that looked like it wasn't open to the public and slipped past security, figuring I could make a dash down the stairwell and escape quickly.

In my rush, I didn't notice a blur of red bouncing up the stairs until we collided, the impact sending the other person stumbling into the rail whilst I slipped fully, crashing onto the hard floor of the stairs.

"oh shit, I'm so sorr-" the person began, before cutting of abruptly. I soon discovered why when I looked up at the person and find myself staring directly into the equally as shocked eyes of ChrisMD.

Well shit, there goes my plan of avoiding everyone.

"y/n" Chris breathes out, his voice surprisingly gentle and void of the anger I had anticipated. "what are you doing here?"

"I'm not trying to make this a thing I swear!" I stammer out, panicked. "I just wanted to watch you guys play, I was planning on just slipping out".

"Without even saying hello?" he frowns, and I'm majorly thrown off by the lack of confrontation or resentment in his tone and how he seems offended at the idea of me actively avoiding them.

"Well I mean, it's George's big day, not mine and I knew you guys wouldn't want to see me so I was just going to stay hidden-".

"y/n" Chris interrupts softly, looking genuinely heartbroken now, his eyebrows drawn together in a mix of frustration and pity. "of course we would want to see you. I mean, we were practically joined at the hip at one point, and the other boys miss you too, you were a part of our friendship group just as much as George until you vanished. We thought you just wanted to move on and distance yourself from George so we left you alone."

"what?" I choke out, tearing up despite my best efforts to keep a lid on the emotions that aroused the second I realised the person was Chris. "of course I wouldn't just abandon you guys, I thought you guys were upset with me when nobody messaged and I didn't want to force my place in the friend group if you guys didn't want me there anymore." My voice wavers, my vision warped from tears at this point as all of the unspoken hurt I've kept firmly buried since the breakup finally pours out.

"This is the first time I've left my house since the breakup and I just wanted to cheer you guys on in secret, I thought you guys hated me".

"y/n hey hey it's okay-" Chris steps towards me now as if he is approaching a scared deer, his face lined with concern as he reaches out towards me. The moment is interrupted by the sound of laughter from below us, and Chris' expression drops as he mutters "oh for fucks sake not now".

It's too late to do anything though, as the footsteps have now approached the flight of stairs that Chris and me are currently frozen on. "Chris where did you get to why do you look like you've seen a ghost- wait y/n?".

I finally dare to look up at the mention of my name, giving up any pretence of disguising my presence and make eye contact with a shell-shocked Simon, who was the person who had spoken.

My eyes fall behind him to see Ethan, Will, Max, Tobi and Harry all looking equally as caught of guard. However, my attention is captured by the man staring at me with an unreadable expression behind the rest of the group, as stiff as a board and as pale as a ghost.

George.

Well, fuck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags:

@the-internets-girlfriend

[thankyoulovely]

squabble (arthurtv)

you dislike confrontation, and there is a misunderstanding with a certain minion

just trying out something new. inspired by chris' soccer saturday video. some sentences might be clunky, my bad! my fanfic writing is quite rusty. no use of y/n!

fluff, angst, happy ending :>, ~4.5k words

You really didn't like confrontation.

You had had your fair share of conflicts, but nothing too major. If you could avoid it, you did. You didn't understand getting in meaningless fights. Even if others managed to get into ugly disputes, it made your anxiety go through the roof. So, you would just ignore it.

Today, it felt like it was going to be unavoidable.

Chris invited you to join them in his Soccer Saturday video, to keep Becky some company and have fun with your mates. This wasn't your first time on camera, but it would be your first appearance on Chris's channel.

Befriending them was just a random coincidence. You had briefly met Liv, Bach's girlfriend, on a night out a year ago. You had lost your phone and she helped you find it. You talked for a bit until you had to leave with your own friend group in a hurry. When you got home, you realised you never asked for her name or socials. Four days later, you bumped into her on the tube and after talking with her a bit, you finally had the courage to ask for her Instagram so you could keep in contact with her. This was out of your comfort zone, but she seemed really cool - and you thought you needed to socialise more anyway. When getting off your stop and checking your phone, you saw the notification - she followed you on Instagram.

From there, you guys would talk to each other on socials ever so often. A month later, she invited you to the pub to meet her boyfriend and friends.

Honestly, you thought you were really awkward that night. There were suddenly so many new people - Isaac, Flo, George, Arthur Hill, Chris, ArthurTV, Becky - who all were interested in getting to know you. Liv convinced you that the night went great and you had nothing to worry about. Clearly she was correct, as you would consider them all your good friends now.

As time went on, the more comfortable you got on camera. Your first time was definitely awkward, as you and George reacted to X Factor. The next time you partook in playing Fortnite with George and both Arthurs, showing off your rusty skills you had developed during quarantine. You were meant to be in a ChrisMD video playing football earlier, but chickened out. Now, there was no escape. Chris insisted on you joining "the legends" for a fun night out somewhere in England.

You do admit the obvious - they are all good-looking. This tipsy confession is not the first time you have admitted this, but realised as soon as you met them. It felt like a ruse. How can they all be handsome and blessed with lovely personalities? In this day and age, it seemed impossible - but the five men in front of you proved otherwise.

Arthur especially had caught your eye. You could relate to his silences during night-outs, knowing the feeling of your social battery running out. Even if you weren't as knowledgeable on some topics as he was, you still listened to his rants and gave your own opinions as well. He really appreciated your opinion.

Your appearance on the Bach & Arthur Podcast is one of your recent favourite memories. You had been really nervous to just sit in front of multiple cameras for 90 minutes and.. talk about yourself. It felt unfamiliar. Arthur helped you alleviate your nerves.

"I promise it isn't as bad as it may seem. I know you're here for just one episode, but you get used to it. And, I have it all structured anyway. No awkward silences unless you make them."

You huffed with a smile, "Thanks, now I will accidentally shut up every time out of pressure."

He laughs and pushes your knee lightly, "I won't let that happen. You will do great."

And you did. You genuinely had such a great time fooling around with Isaac and discussing sea otters with Arthur. If you hadn't acknowledged your crush on Arthur before it, you definitely had after it.

You really liked him. And you thought he liked you too.

Helping him for dates definitely bummed you out a bit, but you didn't let it show. You thought this feeling would pass at one point. Months passed, and it just didn't. You had to navigate your feelings to ensure your friendship would remain unharmed. So far, it was successful.

As you were finally getting off the train, you couldn't help but sneak a peek at him. Looking at him, you realised he had done the same. You both smiled.

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

When the cameras weren't on you anymore, you dropped your head into your hands. You were incredibly tipsy, bordering on drunk. You felt Becky hold you from behind. She was drunkenly yelling gibberish to no one. When she stops, she starts swaying you from side to side, now opting to talk quieter into your ear.

"You alright, love?" she manages to squeeze a hiccup in-between her words.

You let your tipsy self sway along with her, smiling ear to ear, "I am quite alright, darling," you try to face her as you roll your r's. You notice the camera is on the both of you.

You turn around, Becky's hands now holding your upper arms, "Where is everyone?" you ask her.

Becky starts to point behind you when you hear Arthur yell "OH MY GOD" and walk towards an alley with Isaac and the cameraman. You both giggle as you lightly jog to see what the commotion is about.

As you approach, you hear barking and Arthur asking whether they can take a selfie with a local's dog for the bingo game the group were meant to play. He is so goddamn polite and cute. Arthur and Isaac are petting the dog as you both pose for the group photo.

You're crouching in-between Arthur and Isaac, trying to hold your peace sign and not fall over on the dog. Unexpectedly, Arthur puts his hand on your shoulder to stabilise you, which makes your heart skip a beat. After the crew takes the picture, Arthur tries to lightly push you to the ground. However, you didn't fall over and pushed him instead.

Becky and Isaac double over in laughter as Arthur makes a dramatic fall to the ground. In an unsuccessful attempt, you're holding back yours. 

Arthur covers his face with his hands in embarrassment. You give him a hand to pull him up from the ground. Again, he tries to pull you on the ground, but his hand slips and he thumps against the ground, letting out a laugh.

"Oi! Behave now!" Isaac jokingly yells, as him and Becky were already walking back towards the street. This time, Arthur thankfully pulls himself up with your help.

Walking out of the street, you slightly lean into Arthur.

"What were you even attempting to do?" you laugh out.

He starts laughing again, and you glance at his face. His laugh, his smile, his perfume - they're all making you weak in the knees.

"Was that not obvious? I-" he breaks into laughter again, "I wanted you to stumble! Are you stapled to the ground or something?"

The alcohol in you makes you brave enough to pull off a smirk at him, "I think you just suck," and you face Isaac as you guys decide to find the rest of the guys.

Arthur and Becky fell into conversation - you could hear him mentioning the dog - and you looked at Isaac, who was mumbling nonsense into the camera. He notices you standing next to him and stops whatever strange thought he had performed for the camera.

"Right, how are you? Is Arthur being too weird?" he asks in a playful manner.

You riff off of his banter, "When isn't he weird?", and he fake giggles for the camera.

"In all seriousness, the alcohol is hitting, but-", you hiccup, "I'm fine. And I love you all."

Isaac awws sarcastically, but you could tell that he kind of meant it.

In the midst of this, you walk past a couple dressed up as minions. You ignore them and keep walking down the street, immediately catching on that they're not as chill as they may seem. They had caused some sort of ruckus already with other people next to them. You look behind you to see Isaac looking at them and the others spotting them as well.

You recognise Arthur's voice from afar shouting "Oh my god, it's a minion- what the fuck!"

This makes you cringe. Why is he unnecessarily reacting to them like that? Did he have to say something? You were aware that this man liked to put people in uncomfortable social situations for his own amusement, but a random couple in a costume in Doncaster late into the night seemed to be the wrong crowd to entertain.

You catch Isaac suddenly talking to them, trying to calm the man down as Arthur adds irrelevant adlibs - "It's a grumpy minion!" - to the already out-of-control situation.

Barely seconds pass and the situation gets worse. You feel your anxiety rising in your lungs, all the way up your throat. You shut your eyes, trying to ignore the squabble.

You didn't need to see that something got more out of hand. You hear the crew get involved and Arthur's voice still shines through it all.

You really hated confrontations. Even if you weren't involved.

At this point, you are panicking way more than you probably should. You feel like you can't breathe, and you couldn't stay here. So you just sprinted down the street, hoping to catch the other guys and a peaceful setting. You don't hear the crew and Isaac shouting your name.

Through your very slightly teary eyes, you catch sight of cameras and bright lights, knowing that they must belong to the group. You quickly swipe your fingers under your eyes to wipe any tears and you approach George first.

He instantly knows something is off, but doesn't make a big thing out of it, just prompting to ask you, "Is everything okay?"

You just nod. You don't trust your voice to convince them of something they won't believe anyway. Arthur Hill and Chris keep insulting each other's heads off. George stays by your side, trying to make sure you're okay and taking pictures with fans.

Chris starts cackling, "why are they shouting your name?", as you also hear it now - mixed voices saying your name in the middle of a random street. You wave your hands in their direction and also a thumbs up.

Becky gets there first, holding your shoulders, "Was that necessary, love? We were worried!"

The crew share the same sentiments, somewhat telling you off but not in a rude way.

"I really am sorry. The confrontation just got really out of hand really quick and I know it's silly-"

"That was one grumpy minion!" Arthur buts in, pointing his finger up in the air. You just stare at him in disappointment. Isaac shushes him.

"It was a misunderstanding. I was telling the fella to calm down and he just did that!" Isaac expresses, still clearly annoyed at the situation.

Becky hugs you, reassuring you: "It's alright, love. I coulda ran with you!"

You could tell Chris, George and Arthur Hill were utterly confused, but all of them making a mental note of inquiring about this later.

You say this to no one exactly, just mostly every person there, "I still am very sorry. I just really can't stand confrontations."

They all indicate that you're forgiven. They knew you didn't like them. This wasn't the first time that something similar to this had happened. Around 8 months ago, you went to a pub with an even bigger group of UK Youtubers. At one point, some guy got angry over you bumping into him and he tried to instigate an argument with you. Thankfully, some guys nearby told the guy to fuck off and Arthur offered to spend time with you. He calmed you down and made sure you were alright, holding your hand underneath the table at the booth you were sitting. When the others were drunkenly bantering, he talked your ear off with random fun facts he had learned from a documentary he watched. You were both giggling together late into the night and right up until he walked you home.

You realised in bed that night that he kept you distracted from the uncomfortable situation you got into. He made sure you were alright and had someone to laugh with. Fuck.

This was the night you realised. Realised that what he did was so kind and lovely that you wanted more of it.

You really wished he could be doing the same now.

Maybe it was Doncaster, maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the amount of fans they met, maybe it was the grumpy minion... but his carelessness? really put you off at that moment. Was it something you did?

As this thought kept burning, you took a sip of your water.

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

You had been subconsciously avoiding Arthur for the rest of the night. In the next pub, you sat next to Becky, keeping up conversations with everyone else. When you went to get food, you sat with Isaac and George, laughing your head off at their Scottish conversation. At the racecourse, you still stuck around Becky, goofing around with her as the effects of alcohol were slowly wearing off of you. At the stadium, you were exhausted and ever so ready to lay your head on a hotel pillow and fall asleep.

After posing for the end of the video, Chris called three different taxis - the group and the crew having to split themselves equally between them. You jumped in one of them, where Chris and Becky were already sitting with one of the crew members.

Before Chris could close the door, Arthur pops his head in. He looks around until his eyes fall on you. Your breath hitches in anticipation.

"Join me in the other taxi? We have plenty room for you."

You replied to him sarcastically, "Well, I'm already seated and too comfy. And I wanna sleep already!"

You catch his disappointed glance at you, and then Chris shoos him away from the door, shouting at him to get back into his taxi.

The car finally starts moving and you close your eyes.

You are aware that you're probably being quite silly about the whole situation. Thinking back on it, maybe he was just too socially awkward to show you some comfort over the heated exchange.

However weird it may be, the thought of the "grumpy" minions gives you goosebumps. You later heard Isaac telling the other guys that the guy grabbed him from his collar. You were kind of glad you hadn't noticed that.

Chris' question pulls you out of your thoughts.

"So, for your first ChrisMD video appearance, how do you think it went?" He smiles cheekily, waiting for your honest opinion.

You sigh, sharing the same sentiments you had been sharing all night to your friends, "Fucking amazing. Who knew Doncaster would be so fun?"

Becky cheers to that and Chris nods his head.

"What would you say was your favourite moment?"

You think about it for a second before blurting out, "The food we had. It was fucking heavenly."

This time, Becky asks you a question instead.

"What happened between you and Arthur? The poor fella looked so lost after we all met up again."

"What's with all the questions? Am I doing a post-game interview, straight off the pitch?" The sarcasm evident in your reply, they all laugh at your response.

"I just know you won't tell me tomorrow, so I'm asking you now, love." Becky says, leaning towards you.

You sigh again, knowing she's right. You think it through in your head before you answer her question.

"I-I don't know honestly. The minion encounter really put me off. I was actually, like, freaking out quite bad. I know he likes doing that kind of stuff but... the confrontation really got to me. And while you guys forgave me for running off like a twat, he just... didn't say a word to me. He didn't say anything about it. I just got a little upset, I guess - but I know it's really silly of me."

Your train of thought goes awry for a second.

"He's been there for me multiple times when this kind of stuff has happened. He knows how to calm me down. Ma-... Maybe I was just frustrated in the moment but I just wanted to chill with the other guys."

You look up to see Chris and Becky both nodding at you, invested in your confession.

"I'm not mad at him. I promise I won't let this get weird, I'm sorry-"

You can barely say it before Chris interrupts you.

"Don't be daft, and no need to apologise. I know you guys will talk it through."

You smile at him. You're really glad to have great friends.

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

You throw away your cotton pads into the bathroom trashcan as you exit to your bedroom.

Chris was kind enough to give you your own separate room as the others all paired up.

You hadn't felt stable enough for a shower, opting to take one in the morning. You did have to still brush your teeth and remove your makeup.

As you sit down on your bed, as if on cue, someone knocks softly on your door. You smooth out your oversized T-shirt and shorts as you walk to open the door.

Arthur.

You quickly took in his appearance. His hair was messy, his white shirt slightly stained and crumpled. His toned arms were crossed in front of him as he had left his overwear somewhere. His body was leaning on the doorframe. His eyes staring right at you.

"Were you sleeping?"

"No, I was just going to though."

He hums in response. A couple seconds of silence looms over you two.

"Can we talk?"

Your heart drops. It's one of those questions that will always scare the shit out of you. You knew it was bound to happen, but it still frightened you.

You stutter a bit over your words, "Uhm yeah sure, come in," and you move slightly behind the door so Arthur could step in. As he walks towards your bed, you close the door and follow him to your bed for the night. Before Arthur sits down, he looks around the room, and then at you.

"You really packed your pyjamas for this trip? We're leaving tomorrow," a smile etches his face, but it's hard to tell how sarcastic he really is.

"Don't judge. I'd prefer to sleep comfy than in sweaty night-out clothes," you reach to push his shoulder in a joking manner, but you quickly dart your hand to scratch your head, not really knowing how to handle the weird situation at hand. You hope he didn't notice, but he might've - he stares at your hand before taking a seat on your bed.

You sit next to him, putting a little bit of distance between you two. You twiddle your thumbs, hoping he starts off the conversation.

He looks down at his hands as well before speaking up.

"Are you alright?"

This question takes you aback.

"Am I alright?" You repeat back to him, a bit surprised.

This time, he looks at you, "Yes. Are you?"

You force yourself to look at him as well. It has never been difficult to look Arthur in the eyes - if anything, you found yourself staring at him more times than a friend probably would. You liked to admire his style, his outfit he had picked out for that day; his hair and the way it gets more curlier every time you see him. You just really wish it was the same during this moment.

You take a deep breath, "Yeah, I think. I'm doing quite okay right now."

He nods and you quickly ask him the same, "And you? Are you alright?"

A small smile appears on his face again, "I had way too much to drink. My back hurts from falling down the tree and I managed to stub my toe in my hotel room," he starts laughing quietly over his misfortune before continuing, "but I think I am very okay now. Thank you for asking."

You nod in his direction before fading your gaze to the door of your room.

He scooted closer to you, placing his hand on the bed behind your back so you could feel his arm against your back. He leans closer, and with a low voice, asks you:

"Why did you ignore me at the end of the night?"

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. You could feel his bare arm against your sheer shirt, the warmth radiating from his skin. You could feel his breath on your ear, and the smell of beer filled your senses.

You can only mutter out a barely unintelligible "What?"

"I tried to tease you at one of the bars and you... you just didn't do anything. I said a joke, and you didn't laugh; I wanted to talk to you but you just talked with Becky and Arthur; I-I tried to hold you and you just slipped out of my grasp."

Hearing him drunkenly pour his heart out made you feel bad. You really messed up and shouldn't have ignored him like that. At the moment though, you felt like you wanted to hang out with the others and not cling by his side the entire time. Chris pointed this out a couple of months ago, where you two arrived to the pub together, ordered drinks together, sat next to each other and kept falling into pointless rants together. When you were going to go to the bathroom together, Chris complained, "As if you're attached to each other at the hip, get a room!" were his exact words. Ever since then, you've made a conscious effort to spend more time with your other friends as well during night-outs. You still sat with Arthur.

"I just don't know why. I know we can both shut down socially, but you talked with George just fine! Can we please just talk shit out?"

He rambles on more, but you're in your head. You're trying to structure the perfect sentences to get your point across.

You grab his hand, which shuts him up. He looks at the hands, and then back at you.

You huff out a loud breath, "I'm sorry."

Arthur keeps looking intensely into your eyes, and you continue.

"I.. I know when I say it out loud, it's going to sound extremely silly. But I wanted to apologise before-.. uhm before I told you."

He tightens the grip in your hands.

You wipe your eyes with your free hand. You stutter slightly, hoping you stay on track for this.

"The fucking minion. A-and the stupid squabble that happened. It made me really anxious, and hearing you hollering at the man didn't help. I didn't want to get into any stupid fights, but I heard that it could've gone way worse."

You feel your heart thumping in your ears.

"You.. You know I hate confrontations. Even if any of you manage to get into one. It just makes me incredibly anxious. I don't want anyone to get hurt over something stupid- and that minion was stupid to start a fight with."

You giggle at your own words. You hardly believe that a goddamn minion is the reason you're pouring your heart out to your really good friend/crush. You clearly weren't as sober as you thought you were.

Arthur's face stays the same, urging you to finish your thoughts.

You could feel this part was going to be more rogue and straight from the heart.

"I just really wanted to hug you, and selfishly, I wanted you to comfort me like you always have. You just... kinda didn't. And at that moment. I was kinda upset- which is still incredibly silly but the emotions were so high and I was dumb, I sh-"

Arthur interrupts you, sliding his hand onto your shoulder and holding it, "You're not dumb, don't say that."

You don't know how to respond to that. You try to gather your thoughts, but Arthur speaks his mind instead.

"I did want to comfort you, I promise. I was just really drunk at that point, and the minion-" he laughs, "-just had my emotions high. When you ran off, I-I got scared."

This confession surprised you, and you look into his eyes.

"I really did. I was worried for you. I should've done something right away."

You shake your head, "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have expected you to-"

"I'm sorry. I never want to see you unhappy."

Your eyes widen. Am I overthinking this?

"I mean it." Arthur grabs your cheek as you stare deeply into each others eyes.

The air was thick. Your heart was still pulsing, your breath shaky. You felt that it's now or never.

"You mean so much to me, Arthur."

You didn't know how to convey it any better without being extremely straightforward. Seems to you, he got the idea.

He leans forward, closing the space between you two. He tilts his head slightly, kissing you carefully but passionately. You kiss him back, sliding your hands down his sides.

You felt yourself melt under his touch. It seemed unbelievable that it finally happened. You're kissing Arthur, someone who you had liked for many months now. You didn't think he even would reciprocate this feeling. You smile into the kiss, feeling incredibly lucky.

You separate and lean your foreheads together. In a split second, feeling brave enough, you pull him at his side to lay next to you in your bed. On your sides, you kiss him again and he wastes no time kissing you back. This time, it's frantic, but passionate nonetheless. You slide your hands under his shirt, feeling around his toned abs and holding his side. He has his hand behind your head, pushing you even closer to him. You lose yourselves to kissing each other, never wanting this to stop.

You pull back for air, and Arthur tries to lean back in immediately. You laugh, pushing his shoulder, "I need some air, Arthur."

He laughs as well, staring into your eyes.

"Fuck."

"Fuck indeed."

He pulls you closer, resting his hand on your back.

"I really like you. If you couldn't tell," you bluntly confess to Arthur.

He smiles and kisses your cheek, "I really like you as well."

Nothing is said for a while. You both enjoy the feeling of the kissing session, holding each other close. Arthur breaks this silence,

"If I knew a grumpy minion would get us here, I would've done this so long ago."

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

does this even make sense? hopefully it does

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Vipers, crows and dragons" - Aemond Targaryen x spy!reader

(warning: this story contains mentions of suicide)

SUMMARY: Your relationship with Aemond began strictly because of espionage. As time went on, your training failed you and you fell in love with the One-Eyed Prince. Too afraid to reveal the truth to him, you've sworn to carry it to the grave. Until your commander tasks you with murdering the prince who might kill king Aegon. Now you must choose whose life you will sacrifice - his or yours?

(angst with a happy ending, I swear)

WORDCOUNT: 5.3k (I started and couldn't stop)

Sleep has eluded you for three days now. It wasn’t for a lack of trying - recent events and assigned duties kept you too anxious to rest. Even if you closed your eyes, nestled in the strangest cranny of the keep, the sound of your own breath would keep you awake. Each sound, echoed by the stone walls, made you too wary to sleep.

Walking towards the commander’s quarters, you patted your face with the back of your hand. Mild pain and improved blood flow were just good enough to prevent you from stumbling over your feet. Once you report back, you should be off for the next day, maybe two, if Westeros decides to take a quick break from its usual lunacy.

Although most of your attention was focused on the unbearable exhaustion gnawing at your body and soul, some of your thoughts indulged in fantasies. When you finally have a few hours to yourself, what will you do with them? The weather has been lovely lately, ships from Dorne have brought exotic fruit, and…

You hear yourself gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him. Three days felt like three decades. Usually, you would manage a visit here and there, between tasks. This time it was quite impossible, making you realise just how much you crave the attention of none other but Prince Aemond. How funny it really was - so many tried their hardest to avoid him whenever possible and you sought him out like stars do the night sky.

Thinking about him, you feel a sting in your chest. If he ever learns the truth, he… No. He simply can’t know. Not now, not ever. Let him believe that it was a pure accident that you were his designated guard when he travelled to one of the kingdom’s realms. This is better for everyone. Aemond may be wise for his young age but he’s just a man, despite his family’s claim to godhood - the truth will break him in an inconceivable, inhuman way. Perhaps some skeletons should remain inside the closet.

Your knock on the heavy door is more of a courtesy, rather than seeking permission. Without awaiting an answer, you enter the room.

Spymaster’s quarters resembled a library more than they resembled a war room. Stacks of books and parchments littered the space in random columns. If there was any rhyme or reason to the order, it was beyond your comprehension. Only Davros himself could find anything in that mess. Crows came and went through the open window, barely taking time to rest before flying off into the horizon again. Their cawing was comforting in its familiarity - it reminded you of the early days, when the only thing you were allowed to do was sort through the correspondence and write down the replies. Such simpler times…

"Commander Davros,” you called out, “you wanted to see me?"

The man glanced at you for less than a second. His grey eyes, a metallic shade like mercury, flickered towards you only to immediately go back to skimming through the paperwork on his desk. The table was kept in as much disarray as the rest of the room. Maps, sketches, reports and Gods know what else.

"Yes, there is something that needs to be done,” he said. The commander’s voice was, well, commanding. Each question sounded like an accusation, each statement like irrefutable facts of nature. “Swiftly and quietly."

A tired sigh left your lips. All the hopes for some rest burst like soap suds in a bath that’s growing cold. The image of Aemond’s silver hair and bright stare flashed before your eyes. As strange as it may sound, it was starting to feel physically painful to be away from him for so long. The most feared man in the kingdom and he was your safe haven, the only moment in your bleak days that you could feel truly safe.

But you swore your fealty to the Iron Throne. Fighting through another task means keeping Aemond and his family secure for one more night. Now, it seemed, it was the only thing you could do for him.

"Just my expertise.” You force yourself to smile and keep your head high. It would be incredibly naive to think that a few days without sleep could make Davros ease up on you. He was nothing if not demanding. “How can I be of use?"

The commander lifted his gaze at you. He leaned forward, propping himself up on the table. Despite deep wrinkles and greyish hair, he appeared quite youthful. Age hasn’t slowed his body or his mind.

"Kill Aemond Targaryen."

Maybe the lack of sleep started playing tricks on your mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Your voice was a mere breathy whisper. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me just fine, girl."

Most people would say that their hearts started beating out of their chests when hearing something of that sort. In your case, it was quite the opposite - the muscle stopped at once, leaving you unable to breathe. Numbing pain spread underneath your ribs like a beast of horror gnawing at its enclosure to be let out. Is it love or grief that is clawing its way out fo you?

"And I can't believe that I heard what I heard. This is quite unexpected, sir."

"Death usually is.” Davros appeared calm, completely unmoved by the situation and its implications. This was just another day for him. “Prince Aemond is currently the largest internal threat to king Aegon. A mellow rug rat is easier to steer than a maniac with a grudge."

The commander may be a demanding man but he was never greedy. In fact, greed and selfishness were the two things he made sure you grew out of. His methods were painful, at times cruel, but effective. If it wasn’t for him training you, Prince Aemond would never have known about your existence, much less fallen in love in a ploy to keep his plans known.

"Since when do you care about 'steering' the king?” you ask, wary. Something about Davors has changed but you couldn’t quite put your finger on the cause. What was going on behind the curtains, the doors closed even to you? “We're meant to be peacekeepers and scouts, not meddlers."

"What would you call assassinating conspirators?” His question sounded like an accusation. You knew better than to answer. “You've killed many people, kid, and now you care about meddling?” Those mercury-coloured eyes bore straight into your very spirit. For a moment, he became a mirror of truth, forcing you to look at the ugliest part of who you are. Whatever you thought of it was irrelevant - it was true. “A spy with a conscience. As if!"

You’re not sure what to make of this turn of events. Davros is your commander, yes, but he’s acting unlike himself. Did someone put a spell on him? Was one of the Lords threatening him? Although blackmailing the spymaster sounded rather impossible to achieve. Which made this situation even more bizarre.

"It's just…” you hang your voice, looking for the right words. “I don't think this is wise, Davros. With Aemond dead, Rhaenyra has nothing to be afraid of. Aegon will be paralysed with fear that his brother was murdered. And Queen Alicent? She will go berserk. Our heads will end up on spikes before the rooster calls."

There was no visible change in Davros. Your words meant nothing to him.

"Queen Alicent is a woman of reason. She'll come to it."

His apparent lack of concern irked you. The commander was treading the line between callous and stupid. "She's also a mother,” you reminded him.

Davros scoffed and shook his head. "A mother who never loved her children, only the position they gave her,” he answered, the tone of his voice coming off as annoyed or bored.

It seemed as though he wasn’t asking you to assassinate your lover and the crown prince. He was sure it had to be done. All the positive and negative outcomes had already gone through his mind and Davros was content with the final outcome. He was beyond arguing.

The spymaster was clearly sacrificing peace and stability for his personal gain. What kind, you couldn’t be sure yet. What grand offer did it have to be?

“Stop wasting time, girl,” he droned out his words. “Get to it,” Davros spat out the command like a venomous lizard from Dorne’s deserts.

But you were well-acquainted with poisonous fruit and venomous bites. It was your sole purpose in this world to recognise them, to get rid of them before they reach the king. With vipers, as it is with men, one must not run in fear of their fangs. No - to win, you must show that your fangs are bigger. They dig deeper into the flesh, draw more blood.

“I won’t, Davros.” The tone of your voice was cold and calm like the winds sweeping the snow in the North. “And something tells me you knew that already.”

The commander’s eyes turned strangely dark. What once had reminded you of mercury’s colour, now reminded you of the deadly disposition of the substance. Despite healing some ailments of the body, it wasn’t any safer than a sharpened blade. In the same way, the spymaster’s seemingly collected exterior was nothing more but a ruse. 

“I was stupid enough to count on your reason.” The disappointment in his voice made blood rush to your face. As if it were a reflex, you wanted to lower gaze. Strangely enough, the thought of Aemond Targaryen forced your shame to disappear. “It seems it’s too late for that. You know that happens to traitors, don't you?"

It wasn’t a threat, at least not in the way most people understand the word. His question was more of a reminder, a warning at best. The letter of the law was clear and no amount of excuses could save your head should Davros bring your insubordination to the king’s attention.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to treat the matter with proper seriousness. Not when it came to him.

"Bite me,” you barked back at him. Davros raised his eyebrows in surprise and, truthfully, you shared his reaction. Never before have you stepped out against him. “I'm your second-in-command. If I suddenly fall dead your whole operation will go to shit and people will riot."

The commander’s lips twist into something similar to a smile but much too sinister to be a sign of joy. A curious glint in his grey eyes made him appear almost amused at your action.

"How bold,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “You seem to overestimate your worth, girl."

"Do I?” The question rings in your ears, its echo asking you the very same thing - are you overestimating your importance? To Davros, to the Iron Throne… to Aemond? “I'm the one you're asking to kill the prince who is next in line to the Iron Throne. If anything, I'm priceless to you."

"Priceless?” His voice came out as a hiss. Now is the time when the venomous snakes shall bare their fangs and compare. “You're only useful to me because you keep whoring yourself out to the prince. No one will question your weaponry and visits at strange hours of the night. You're not irreplaceable, girl. Just convenient."

His words hurt only because they were true and you couldn’t honestly deny the claims. Indeed, you and Aemond have indulged in ways that did not befit a couple from such different backgrounds. It was quite distasteful to call you a ‘couple’. A man and a whore aren’t a couple after all, are they? They are a person and an object. The only difference between you and the ladies in Flea Bottom was the price - you had none. Which made the whole scenario even more disparaging. The prince could do with you as he pleased and you never asked for any payment. Aemond, however, did pay. At least in some way. For every night spent in your company, he divulged parts of himself never known by any other living soul.

The decision should have been harder to make.

"Then you will have no problem finding my replacement."

Your fingers swiftly take off the small crow-shaped brooch from your coat. The pin clattered on the desk, right under the commander’s nose, when you tossed it away. One of the crows sitting on the windowsill cawed, as if in shock at the scene it witnessed.

Davros slowly picked up the brooch. He inspected it in his hands, although needlessly. It wasn’t something new or unknown to him. 

"I raised you,” he spoke after a moment of silence. His voice wasn’t calm but rather empty - rid of any emotion. “I've taught you everything you know. You would be nothing without me.” Davros raised the pin to his eye level like he was showing the pin to you. Then, he threw it across the room, missing your face by less than an inch. It wasn’t truly a miss; he meant to scare you. The metal accessory clattered as it hit the wall and then the floor. “And that's how you repay me?"

You slowly exhaled. It took a lot from you not to flinch when the pin just about missed your left cheek. Dodging flying knives was much easier, you noticed. Mainly because the people throwing them weren’t the ones who took you in around the time you learnt to walk. Those hands that taught you to tie shoelaces and braid hair had just shown you that they could easily maim you without much hesitation.

All doubts, guilt and shame left you the moment you took a deep breath. Davros no longer looked like your almost-father. No, his face contorted under the weight of something corrupted, festering inside him. He was the same man he was when you met him and yet, he appeared as a strange-faced devil.

"I'd rather be nothing than aid your struggle for power.” You clenched your hands into fists in hopes of stopping them from trembling. That waver in your voice was enough to let Davros know just how much effect he had on you. “You taught me about servitude, not…”, you hang your voice for a moment, realising you’re still in the dark about his motivation, “whatever this is supposed to be. The Iron Throne has blinded you."

The commander scoffed again. His eyes are staring at you as if you were a court jester, humiliating yourself in hopes of crumbs of dignity or food from the less-than-caring overlord. In other words, Davros found you pathetic to the point of amusement. Perhaps he had realised his own mistake - he never should have allowed you near the prince. It was his lapse of judgement that you’ve found yourself in such an undignified position; he should have known better than to make you responsible for such an important matter.

"Like the noble prick blinded you, girl? At least power is not something that will cast you away when nicer tits come its way."

A corner of your lips twisted into a half-grin. The expression was nothing short of contemptuous.

"Then you know nothing about power, Davros."

You turned to leave the room when the commander called out after you for the last time:

"This will cost you your life."

Some part of you wanted to look at him, desperately hoping to see even the shadow of the man you had almost called your father. But you knew better than to tease fate. Your eyes remained blankly focused on the door handle and your hand wrapped around it.

"It already did,” you said under your breath. “You raised me, remember?"

The door shut behind you and with them - your life. It was quite clear that by sunrise, someone would be dead. If not prince Aemond, then you. Davros wasn’t the kind of man to simply give up or let go of a grudge. Even if you were to flee King’s Landing, he was bound to find you at some point. The king’s spymaster had crows everywhere, some winged and some not. Prying eyes and ears of Westeros would be more than willing to sell you out for the commander’s favour.

Truthfully, the choice wasn’t much of a choice to you. The thought of killing Aemond was unfathomable to you. And to continue living with his blood on your hands? No, you didn’t have the heart to do this. To suffer for decades on end until your time runs out. If it’s not Aemond you will kill, it leaves you with only one option - yourself.

No matter the outcome of this night, you knew you had to do something beforehand. If you must take your longing for the prince to your grave, the truth should be known. The very truth you had sworn to yourself never to reveal. However, if you’re not going to live to tomorrow, it is only fair that Aemond becomes aware of just what awful thing you have done to him. Maybe, if you actually were more than a cheap whore to him, the truth would make his grief lighter. Perhaps it would rid him of any heaviness that your death shall bring.

You waited until nightfall, well after supper. At this hour, Aemond should be in his chamber, unbothered by any visitors. Aside from you, that is.

The twilight inside the bedroom made him appear even more alluring than he already was. Candlelight paired with deep shadows danced across his features, painting him both divine and sinister. Aemond’s silver hair, flowing down his shoulders and back, brought memories of flawless pearls smuggled by a merchant. You obtained them through trickery as well.

He didn’t move from his seat by the table when you opened his window and came in. There was no doubt that he heard you in the silence of the night. Only assassins and thieves enter homes through windows or balconies in the dark. Aemond Targaryen was yearning to see one of them.

You’re no farther than a meter away from him when the prince acknowledges your presence at last:

“You finally came.”

As cold as his voice sounded, you heard the unspoken fear, longing and anger writhing under his skin. Both lovers and spies seemed to be able to listen closely to the other’s silence. And Aemond’s silence was never empty or quiet. It spoke of things grander than life, too viscerally human to be expressed in any known language.

His leather clothing creaked as he got up from the chair and looked at you. The twilight surrounding you captured his demeanour all too well - divine and sinister, loving and dismissing, rejoiced and furious.

But most of all, he appeared sad.

It was the sadness of a child once again forgotten, a lover once again scorned.

And there you stood in front of him, bringing more heartache in place of apologies. 

“This is hardly a social visit, my love.” As much as you wanted to look Aemond in the eye, you couldn’t. If you met his longing gaze, you were sure to do just another foolish thing. “I came…” You paused, only to take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. “I came because there is something that you must know. I have no doubts that it will change your view of me. In fact, I’m afraid it will make you despise me. But it must be said before the morning comes.”

Aemond’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he regained control over his expression. How truly him it was, to put on a blank mask in naive hope of fooling himself into disregard for the emotional turmoil inside. You’ve learnt to see beyond that facade, to see the small boy begging the world to finally love him. And how cruel the world was to make the love come from you.

“Despise you?” he repeated as though these words were foreign to him. “Why would I do that?” Aemond’s voice was soft, airy. Flowing through the room like a fallen leaf, guided by the cold autumn wind. “Indeed, there are many things in this world that I hate but you will never be one of them. You can’t make me hate you, my beloved.” His fingers gently brushed against the side of your face and neck. “Even if you tried.”

You grabbed his hand and held it against your chest. If it wasn’t for the layers of clothing you were wearing, he could have felt your heart hammering against your ribs.

“I hope you’re right, Aemond,” you whisper, more to assure yourself than him. “I pray to the Gods that you love me just as much as you claim.”

He remained silent, quietly egging you on to finally reveal the true reason for your visit. His blue eye bore into you, as if attempting to read your thoughts before you can say them out loud. The intensity wasn’t intimidating, quite the opposite - Aemond was wordlessly begging you to open your heart to him, to be allowed to know you on the deepest level. If he could, he would crawl inside you and inspect your inner workings up close. Maybe then he would finally learn how you could so easily bewitch him entirely.

You held his hand a little tighter. It was a naive attempt at grounding yourself, foolishly proving to yourself that Aemond was here, right in front of you. He wanted to hear the truth.

“Our meeting wasn’t an accident,” you confessed. “It was calculated, very much so. Davros knew that you’re too smart and too guarded to speak of your ambitions with just anyone. He devised a plan that I should form a relationship with you. Everything you told me, I was meant to pass on to him. And in the beginning, I did.” Tears gathered in your eyes and fell down your cheeks despite your miserable attempts at stopping them. They rolled down your face only to drip onto your and Aemond’s hands resting against your chest. “I was so proud of myself. Finally, I was given a responsibility that mattered. I was doing something important for the kingdom.” You noticed his jaw clenching, muscles desperately flexing to stop Aemond from something. “But then you made me laugh, we talked into late hours of the night and I grew to trust you in a way I’ve never trusted anyone. You’re the only person that I feel truly safe with, Aemond. I don’t deserve it but Gods!” You let out a scoff, suddenly realising just how pathetic you must sound and look. But it didn’t really matter if you were going to die soon. “I want to deserve it. I want to deserve you because I love you. And I know that after what I’ve told you, my words mean nothing, less than nothing.” You choke on a sob, Aemond momentarily stiffens. Something dark and unspeakable clouded his eye. “But if there is one truthful thing I have said in my life, it’s that: I love you, Aemond.”

He looked away for a while. To anyone else, he might have looked unbothered or even annoyed by this scene. You, however, knew the prince quite well. The way in which he couldn’t meet your gaze, how he stood unnaturally straight, how his nostrils flared and jaw was more prominent - it all pointed to Aemond caving in on himself, a vulnerable part of him shattered like a glass vase thrown on the floor. His ever-calm resolve was cracking, revealing the raw, unhealed wounds beneath. 

"Why are you telling me this now?" He managed to say in a low, raspy bark.

Aemond tried to pull his hand back but you kept it still against your chest. Your hold was firm enough to feel the bones under his pale skin.

"Because someone has to die tonight.”

The blue eye found your face again. A glaze of anger and betrayal clouded it, making it appear as though it belonged to an animal rather than a person. It was the eye of a viper whose venom you would welcome.

A questioning look, a tense silence.

“Davros ordered me to kill you and I refused,” you finally revealed, after a long silence that felt closer to years than minutes. “By the letter of the law, that is treason.”

“So is killing the prince,” he retorted in an equally low tone. 

Perhaps if the two of you spoke any louder, malicious spirits lingering in the castle would hear you, bringing doom upon you for their own pleasure.

“Which means I will die no matter what happens.” The certainty in your voice was tugging at something primal deep inside Aemond’s viscera. His hand should hurt from your iron grip but he felt nothing. There was numbness in his limbs, as though your statement had made his heart stop beating. “That actually makes it easier.” Your lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “I can’t run from Davros, there is no corner in the world where he couldn’t find me. Running is futile. The only choice I have is regarding the manner of my death.” 

Time seemed to slow down for Aemond, allowing him to fully comprehend the horror unfolding in front of him:

You reached into your coat, pulling out a sharp knife. It reflected the low candlelight, for a moment resembling the softness of water. But water can both cleanse and drown. What cleansing, what rapture, could this blade offer to Aemond?

Your trembling fingers held onto the tip of the knife. In the most submissive of gestures, you offered him the handle of the weapon.

“Do this for me, Aemond,” you whispered. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Was is fear or excitement? He couldn’t be sure. “If you have ever loved me, kill me. Please.” Your voice and hands trembled as you begged. “I don’t want to bleed out in some back alley, cold and alone. If I have to go, I want you to be next to me.”

Aemond took the knife from you. He inspected it closely, admiring the craftsmanship of the blacksmith who had forged it. There was a motto inscribed on the handle: “Virtue guide me”.

And virtue shall guide it.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the blade into the lit fireplace.

Before you can protest or ask what he was doing exactly, Aemond held your face in his hands. You were forced to meet his intense, fiery gaze as he spoke slowly, in a low voice:

"Gods be witness when I say this: if I ever raise my hand against you, its flesh shall rot down to the bone, resembling the fester and rot of my heart."

Tears fell down your cheeks again. Why did he have to be this way? His devotion was transgressive, turning from something romantic to delusional and viscous. As demented as it may sound, you didn’t want him any other way than treading the line between sane and sick.

“Don’t do this, my love,” you begged between whimpers. “Don’t make this harder than it already is. How can I die when you confess your love for me in such a tragic way?”

His hands felt delightfully warm against your skin. Your tears burned against his fingers. Their scorch travelled to his heart and further, into his viscera. It fed a flame you had set ablaze the first time your lips met his. This fire whispered to Aemond’s lovesick mind the most horrific promises and ideas. But the prince was a dragon - he didn’t know tender, innocent love. He only knew to devour and be devoured. Aemond listened to the whispers, slowly losing certainty where they ended and his own thoughts began. You had set his very spirit on fire and he welcomed the burn. Now the flames begged to be set free, to make true the violent vows of an immortal, all-consuming love.

Aemond rested his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, my love,” he said. It wasn’t a plea but a demand. “If you die before me, I shall burn this world to ash. Noblemen and smallfolk alike will suffer like I do. The Gods will hear my cries of your name and they shall tremble in fear, for I will storm the gates of their castles. They will answer for taking you away from me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. A sob was stuck in your chest.

“Don’t do this to me, Aemond, please,” you continued to beg him. “Have mercy on me.”

“I will not grant you mercy, for it is not yours to be begged for.” His cold tone gave you goosebumps. This cool anger could strike fear in the heart but not in yours. To you, it was comforting - like leaning against a cold wall in the heat of summer. “You’re mine,” he whispered, droning out the last word. “You’re mine as I am yours. If you wish to die, you will have to take me with you. If you wish death on anyone, my hands will be yours.”

Gently, you held his wrists. You were unsure whether to keep his hands on your cheeks or to pry him away from you. It was quite clear that the longer you remained in Aemond’s grasp, the less willpower you had. Truly, he could simply stand in your vicinity and gain control over you with nothing more but a stare or a mischievous half-grin.

“I can’t kill you, Aemond. I couldn’t even kill myself.”

He tilted his head backwards enough to look straight into your eyes. Your noses were brushing against one another.

“Then ask me to kill Davros.”

“I can’t, it’s-”

“Ask me,” he demanded. The cold blue of his iris stared through you, gazing into the marrow of your bones, the very fibre of your spirit. 

To be precise, Aemond wasn’t asking your permission. No, his goal was quite more sinister. He was going to kill Davros anyway. What he craved was absolution - if he committed a sin in the name of love, not hate, was it truly a sin? Was he not akin to a saint if he slew out of devotion?

“Help me,” you whispered, barely audibly.

His lips softly pecked your forehead. Aemond found some wicked satisfaction in seeing you so broken and desperate. The vulnerability hidden under your resolve was for his eye only. Only his ears will hear your whispered pleas. He was a cruel man and he could use this weakness for malice. You, well-aware of his dreadful character, ripped your heart open just for him. It was proof enough that your love for him was equally mad.

“You’re mine, my love,” he whispered into your ear. “And I will do horrible things just to remain yours.”

Aemond Targaryen was black of heart and he knew it. There was no doubt about it. He always thought that being loved would mend his cruelty, that it would fix whatever was broken inside him. It did no such thing to him, quite the contrary - it made him indulge in the most unspeakable of fantasies. He should feel ashamed, shouldn’t he? But Aemond knew no such emotion when you trembled against him, your salty tears wetting the pads of his fingers.

‘Shame is for good, honest men,’ he thought. ‘They feel ashamed because they know right from wrong. I only know her.’

Tonight, the venomous viper will meet a fire-breathing dragon, only to learn that its venom and fangs are useless against the beast of legends.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Part Four

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.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 20k

Warnings: Quiet unraveling after a season’s end, the weight of everything left unsaid, tension that turns into something else entirely, unspoken history turning physical, the kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask for permission, care folded into every touch, a shift you can’t walk back from, and the softest possible version of certainty.

Taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

November 2025 - Days After the Kiss

The morning light filtered through Y/N's blinds, casting golden strips across her bedroom floor. Three days had passed since the kiss in the edit bay, and she hadn't slept properly since.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the weight of Joe's hands on her face, the urgency in his touch, the way years of restraint had broken between them like a dam finally giving way.

She rolled over, checking her phone for what must have been the tenth time that hour. No new messages from Joe since last night, a simple text asking if she was okay, to which she'd responded with a politeness that felt painfully inadequate after what they'd shared. She wasn't avoiding him, not exactly.

They'd exchanged necessary communications about content schedules, nodded at each other across conference rooms, even managed brief conversations when others were present. But she hadn't allowed herself to be alone with him, hadn't created space for the conversation they both knew needed to happen. Her phone buzzed, and her heart jumped before she saw Sam's name on the screen.

Sam: You can't hide out forever. Lunch?

Y/N sighed, typing back a quick affirmative before dragging herself from bed. The Giants decision loomed, their emails increasingly persistent as the deadline approached. She needed to focus on that, on the career opportunity, the New York skyline, the VP title. Not on how Joe Burrow kissed like a man coming up for air after being underwater too long. At the facility, Y/N moved through the corridors with purpose, files clutched to her chest like armor. She'd nearly made it to her office without incident when she spotted him, leaning against the wall near the media suite, scrolling through his phone. The sight of him sent a physical jolt through her body, like muscle memory responding to a stimulus she couldn't control. Joe looked up as if he'd sensed her, his eyes finding hers with an intensity that stopped her in her tracks.

"Morning," he said, straightforward as ever. No pretense, no small talk.

"Morning," Y/N replied, hating how her voice sounded, too high, too breathless.

He pushed off the wall, taking a single step toward her. "Do you have a minute?"

She glanced at her watch, a pointless gesture since time had become meaningless the moment she'd seen him. "I have a meeting with Kayla at nine."

"This won't take long," Joe said, nodding toward an empty conference room nearby.

Something in his tone , all little demanding, made refusal impossible. Y/N followed him into the room, watching as he closed the door behind them with deliberate care. The click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet space. Joe turned to face her, hands in the pockets of his team-issued sweatpants, shoulders slightly hunched forward. It was the posture he took when he was thinking carefully about what to say next, Y/N recognized it from countless post-game interviews, from difficult rehabilitation sessions, from moments of honesty that were rare and precious.

"You've been avoiding me," he said simply. Not an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Y/N set her files on the table, buying time. "I've been busy. The Giants deadline—"

"I know about the deadline," Joe interrupted, though his voice remained calm. "Friday, right?"

She nodded, surprised he'd kept track.

"Three days," he continued, taking a step closer. "That's what you have left to decide."

"Yes."

Joe studied her face, those observant eyes taking in details most people missed. "Have you made up your mind?"

Y/N shook her head, suddenly unable to look at him directly. "I'm still weighing options."

"Including what happened between us?"

Her eyes snapped back to his. "That's not a factor in a career decision."

"Isn't it?" Joe asked, his mouth curving into that subtle, barely-there smile. The one that appeared at the corners first, almost reluctantly. "Because it seems like you've been avoiding me specifically to keep it from being a factor."

Y/N exhaled slowly, refusing to be drawn in by the perceptiveness that had always been Joe's most disarming quality. "I can't make a life-changing decision based on one kiss."

"It wasn't just one kiss," Joe countered, his voice dropping slightly. "And you know it."

The air between them shifted, charged with something that had nothing to do with their professional relationship. Y/N felt the weight of five years, of every glance, every private joke, every moment of trust between them, pressing on her chest.

"What do you want from me, Joe?" she asked, finally saying what she'd been holding back.

He didn't hesitate. "I want you to be honest. With me, and with yourself."

"About what?"

“About whether you’re running to New York or away from Cincinnati.” He took another step closer, close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw, the sharp focus in his eyes, could smell the faint trace of his aftershave. “Away from whatever this is between us.”

Y/N's pulse quickened, her body betraying her attempt at composure. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," Joe agreed, surprising her. "The timing, especially. But I've spent too long not saying things I should have said. Not acknowledging what's been happening."

"Which is what, exactly?" Y/N pressed, needing to hear it directly.

Joe's eyes locked with hers, his expression more open than she'd ever seen it. "That there's always been something between us. Something I didn't understand at first. Something I couldn't act on for a long time. But something real." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I loved Olivia. What we had was real and important. But even then, there was always... this connection with you that I couldn't explain. I told myself it was just respect, or friendship, or that you just got me in a way other people didn't." His jaw tightened slightly. "After Olivia, when I started seeing Ellie, I think I was still trying to figure things out. To move forward. But the whole time, you were there, and that connection never went away." Y/N felt tears threatening and blinked them back, unwilling to give in so easily to the words she'd waited years to hear. "Why now, Joe? Why when I'm finally being offered everything I've worked for?"

"Because I'm finally clear about what I want," he said simply. "And because the thought of you leaving made me realize I can't keep pretending I don't feel what I feel." He stepped closer again, close enough to touch her but not making any move to do so. "But I'm not asking you to stay for me. That wouldn't be fair to either of us."

"Then what are you asking?"

"I'm asking you to consider that maybe what you've built here isn't finished yet. That maybe your story in Cincinnati isn't over." His voice softened. "And I'm asking you to believe that whatever you decide, I'll respect it. We'll figure it out." The door behind them opened suddenly, Kayla's voice breaking the moment. "Y/N, I was looking for—oh." She stopped, registering the tension in the room. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"We were just finishing," Y/N said quickly, gathering her files. "I'll be right there."

Kayla nodded, retreating with a knowing glance between them. Joe remained still, watching as Y/N collected herself.

"I have to go," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Joe nodded, giving her space. "That's okay. I said what I needed to say." He moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at her. "Just remember, I asked you to be honest with yourself. Not with me. Whatever you decide... make it about what you want, Y/N. Not what you think you should want."

He left her standing there, her heart racing, her carefully laid plans suddenly in disarray. The Giants offer still gleamed with promise, but for the first time since receiving it, Y/N allowed herself to consider what staying might mean. Not just professionally, but personally. That night, as she sat at her kitchen table surrounded by pros and cons lists, salary comparisons, and career projections, Y/N found herself staring out at the Cincinnati skyline. The city lights twinkled against the darkness, familiar and somehow new all at once. She traced the edge of a paper where she'd written "New York" at the top, the space beneath filled with logical reasons to go. Her phone buzzed with a text from her oldest brother, Matt.

Matt: Made up your mind yet, sis?

Y/N stared at the message for a long moment before typing her response.

Y/N: Not yet. But for the first time, I'm letting myself consider what I really want, not just what looks best on paper.

She set her phone down, her gaze returning to the city lights. Cincinnati had become home in ways she hadn't expected. And somewhere in that skyline was Joe Burrow, who'd finally acknowledged what had been growing between them for years. Three days to decide. Three days to choose between a career-defining opportunity and the possibility of something she'd wanted longer than she cared to admit. Three days to determine if she was running toward something or away from something else entirely. Whatever she decided, Y/N knew one thing with absolute certainty, she was done pretending that Joe Burrow didn't matter in her calculations. He mattered. He always had.

* * *

The Decision Process

Y/N stared at her phone Friday evening, the family group chat already buzzing with plans for the weekend.

Mom: Dinner's at 6. Your dad's making his chili

Matt: Finally ready to make this decision?

Lucas: About time. We've been waiting for you to ask for help instead of overthinking yourself into a panic

Aaron: Bringing the pros and cons lists you've been obsessing over?

Y/N smiled despite her stress. Of course they knew she'd been making lists. She'd been talking through every angle of the Giants offer with them for weeks, just like she'd been processing her complicated feelings about Joe for years. Her family knew her too well to miss the signs when she was spiraling. The drive south on I-71 was automatic after five years of regular trips home. Less than two hours door to door, close enough that she'd been home just two weeks ago for her nephew's birthday party, where her mom had asked pointed questions about whether she'd heard from Joe since his breakup with Ellie. Her parents' house in the Highlands was warm and welcoming as always, the smell of her dad's famous chili greeting her at the door. Matt, Lucas, and Aaron were already there with their families, the usual chaos of a Y/L/N family gathering in full swing.

"There's our VP," her dad said, pulling her into a hug. "Or should I say, our soon-to-be VP?"

"That's what we're here to figure out," Y/N replied, accepting the glass of wine her mom pressed into her hands.

"Honey, we've been figuring this out for weeks," her mom said with gentle exasperation. "You've called me every other day since that first Giants interview, going in circles about the same questions."

"Because I can't think straight," Y/N admitted, settling into her usual spot on the family room couch. "This is the biggest decision of my career."

"Which is why you need to stop overthinking it," Matt said, claiming his spot across from her. "You've analyzed this thing to death."

"The money's incredible," Lucas added. "VP title, creative control, New York market."

"But you don't sound excited when you talk about it," Aaron observed. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

Y/N took a sip of wine, looking around at the faces of people who'd heard every detail of her internal struggle. "I should be more excited, shouldn't I? This is everything I've worked toward."

"Should be doesn't matter," her mom said firmly. "What matters is how you actually feel."

"Confused," Y/N admitted. "Torn. Like there's no clearly right answer."

"Because you're not just choosing between jobs," her dad said, settling into his recliner. "You're choosing between different versions of your life."

Sarah appeared from the kitchen, having settled the kids with a movie upstairs. "Are we talking about the Giants thing or the Joe thing?"

"They're connected," Y/N said, acknowledging what everyone already knew. "That's part of the problem."

"How so?" her mom asked, though Y/N suspected she already knew the answer.

Y/N set down her wine glass, suddenly needing both hands free. "Because for the first time in five years, there's actually a possibility with Joe. He's single, he's made it clear he has feelings for me, and now I'm being offered this incredible opportunity three states away."

"Terrible timing," Lucas agreed.

"The worst," Y/N confirmed. "And I can't tell if I want to stay because it's the right career move or because I don't want to leave when things with Joe might finally work out."

Her mom leaned forward, the expression on her face shifting to the serious one Y/N had seen countless times growing up, the look that meant important wisdom was coming.

"Sweetheart, you've been talking to us about Joe Burrow for five years. Five years of 'he said this' and 'we worked on that together' and 'you should have seen how he handled this situation.' Do you really think your feelings for him are clouding your judgment about your career?"

"Maybe?" Y/N said uncertainly.

"Or maybe," her dad interjected, "your feelings for him are part of what's made Cincinnati feel like home. Part of what's made you put down roots there."

Aaron nodded. "You've built a life there, Y/N. Not just a career. A life. Friends, routines, relationships."

"Exactly," Matt agreed. "When you talk about the Giants offer, you sound impressed. When you talk about your work in Cincinnati, you sound passionate."

Y/N felt tears prick at her eyes. "But what if I'm just scared to take the leap? What if I'm using Joe as an excuse to stay comfortable?"

"Then let me ask you something," her mom said, reaching over to take her hand. "And I want you to really think about the answer, because we've been dancing around it for weeks."

Y/N nodded.

"If Joe wasn't a factor at all – if you'd never met him – would you take the Giants job?"

Y/N opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. Really considered it. Her family waited patiently while she worked through the question that had been at the heart of her struggle.

"No," she said finally, the answer surprising her with its certainty. "No, I don't think I would."

"Why not?" her mom pressed gently.

"Because what I really want is to build something that's mine. My vision, my strategy, my impact. In New York, I'd be implementing their existing framework, following their culture, adapting to their way of doing things." She paused, the realization crystallizing. "In Cincinnati, I could create something entirely new. I have the relationships, the understanding, the foundation to build whatever I can imagine."

The room went quiet, letting that truth settle.

"There it is," her dad said softly. "That's the first time you've sounded certain about anything in weeks."

"You're not scared of the leap," Sarah observed. "You're scared of making the wrong leap."

"And this doesn't feel like the wrong leap?" Lucas asked.

Y/N shook her head, feeling lighter than she had in months. "No. Staying feels like the right move. Building on what I've already created instead of starting over somewhere else."

"Good," her mom said, squeezing her hand. "Now, what about Joe?"

Y/N smiled, the knot in her chest finally loosening. "Joe gets to be the cherry on top instead of the whole decision. Important, but not the determining factor."

"That's my girl," her dad said proudly. "Making choices for yourself first."

They talked late into the evening, her family sharing the relief that came with her finally reaching clarity. Her mom made her promise to call the Giants first thing Monday morning, before she lost her nerve. Her brothers teased her about finally admitting what they'd all known for months – that her heart had been in Cincinnati all along.

"What are you going to tell Joe?" Aaron asked as they were saying their goodbyes Sunday evening.

"That I'm staying for me," Y/N replied. "And then we'll see what happens next."

The drive back to Cincinnati felt different than it had in weeks. Instead of anxiety, Y/N felt anticipation. Instead of confusion, she felt purpose. Her phone rang as she crossed into Ohio – Sam's name on the display.

"How was the family intervention?" Sam asked without preamble.

"Clarifying," Y/N replied, laughing. "Turns out I've been overthinking something my gut decided weeks ago."

"Which is?"

"I'm staying. Not because of Joe, but because this is where I can build something really special. Something that's actually mine."

"And Joe's just a bonus?"

"Joe's just a bonus," Y/N confirmed, the Cincinnati skyline coming into view. "A really, really good bonus."

For the first time in weeks, Y/N felt like she was moving toward something instead of running from something else. She had a decision to make official, a conversation to have with Joe, and a future to build. And for the first time, all of those things felt exactly right.

* * *

Making the Choice

Y/N arrived at the facility early Monday morning, her weekend in Louisville having provided the clarity she'd been seeking for weeks. She'd texted Kayla the night before, requesting a meeting first thing in the morning. The response had been immediate: 8 AM. My office. I'll have coffee ready. Now, sitting across from Kayla's desk with a steaming mug in her hands, Y/N felt more centered than she had in months. "So," Kayla said, settling back in her chair with her own coffee. "Louisville was helpful?"

"Very," Y/N replied. "I've made my decision."

Kayla's expression remained neutral, though Y/N caught the slight tightening around her eyes that suggested she was bracing for disappointment. "And?"

"I want to stay," Y/N said simply. "But we need to discuss terms."

The relief that washed over Kayla's face was immediate and genuine. "I was hoping you'd say that. What are you thinking?"

Y/N set down her coffee mug, leaning forward slightly. "The Giants offered me Vice President of Content Strategy and Fan Engagement, essentially overseeing their entire digital presence. You've offered Director of Content Strategy, which I appreciate, but if I'm staying to build something truly transformative, I need the title and authority to match that vision."

Kayla nodded slowly, as if she'd been expecting this conversation. "What are you proposing?"

"Vice President of Digital Media and Brand Strategy," Y/N said, the title she'd been thinking about since her conversation with her family. "Broader scope than just content, overseeing how this organization tells its story across every digital platform, how we engage with fans, how we build the brand that drives everything else."

"That's a significant expansion from what we discussed," Kayla noted, though her tone was more thoughtful than resistant.

"Because what I want to build here is bigger than what either of us initially imagined," Y/N replied. "The Giants saw that scope in me. I need to know the Bengals see it too."

Kayla leaned back in her chair, considering. Y/N could practically see her running calculations, weighing budgets and organizational structure against the value of keeping Y/N in Cincinnati.

"VP of Digital Media and Brand Strategy," Kayla said finally. "I can make that work. I'll need to run it by ownership, but given what they were prepared to offer to keep you, I don't see any pushback."

"What about compensation?" Y/N asked directly. "You mentioned getting closer to their offer, but I need specifics."

Kayla opened a folder that had been sitting beside her coffee mug. "I spent most of yesterday putting this together, anticipating this conversation." She slid a detailed breakdown across the desk. "I won't lie to you, we can't match their exact salary figure. But I've structured something that could be even better."

Y/N studied the numbers, feeling her eyebrows rise. The base salary was substantial, nearly matching what the Giants had offered, with only about a fifteen thousand dollar difference.

"But the real opportunity is here," Kayla continued, pointing to a second page. "Performance-based bonuses that could put you well above their offer within the first year."

Y/N read through the structure, impressed by the thought that had gone into it. "Quarterly bonuses based on engagement metrics?"

"If our digital engagement outperforms league averages, if content goes viral, if we see measurable increases in fan satisfaction surveys, all of that translates to additional compensation." Kayla smiled. "Plus team performance bonuses. Playoffs, division titles, conference championships, your success is tied directly to the organization's success."

"And long-term incentives?"

"Stock options that vest over five years, retention bonuses at years three and five, and full authority to expand your team as needed."

Y/N felt excitement building as she processed the structure. This wasn't just about matching the Giants' offer, it was about creating a compensation package that reflected the true scope of what she wanted to build.

"When would this take effect?"

"Immediately. We'll announce the promotion this week, and the new compensation structure starts with your next paycheck." Kayla leaned forward. "Y/N, I want you to know that this offer represents the organization's full commitment to your vision. We're not just trying to keep you, we're investing in what you can build here."

Y/N looked at the paperwork again, then back at Kayla. "I'll need two additional full-time positions and budget for freelancers during peak content seasons."

"Already accounted for," Kayla confirmed. "Plus you'll have input on any sponsor content deals and partnership opportunities that involve digital strategy."

For the first time in weeks, Y/N felt genuine excitement about a career decision. This wasn't just about staying in Cincinnati, it was about growing into something bigger than she'd originally imagined.

"Let's do this," she said, extending her hand across the desk.

Kayla shook her hand firmly, her smile broad and genuine. "Welcome to the executive team, VP Y/L/N."

After finalizing the paperwork and discussing implementation timelines, Y/N walked through the facility with a completely new perspective. This wasn't just her workplace anymore, it was the foundation for something she would build from the ground up. Her vision, her strategy, her legacy. She was reviewing notes from the meeting when she heard the familiar sounds of practice echoing from the field. Without really deciding to, she found herself walking toward the windows that overlooked the outdoor practice area. The team was running drills, the November air sharp enough to see their breath as they moved through formations. Y/N spotted Joe immediately, he had that particular way of moving that she'd catalogued over five years, economical and precise, even in simple passing drills. She stood there for a moment, watching him work, thinking about how different this felt now that she'd made her choice. She wasn't watching him with the complicated mix of longing and resignation that had defined so much of their relationship. She was watching him as someone who'd chosen to stay, who'd chosen to see what might develop between them. As if sensing her attention, Joe glanced toward the building. Their eyes met through the glass, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade, the other players, the coaches calling plays, the general noise of practice. Y/N gave him a small nod. Subtle, but deliberate. A communication that said: I'm staying. Joe's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something that looked like relief, then something warmer. He nodded back, the corner of his mouth lifting in that barely-there smile she knew so well. Neither of them moved to break the moment. It felt significant, this quiet acknowledgment across the distance. She was staying. He knew she was staying. What that meant for them remained unspoken, unresolved, but suddenly full of possibility. A coach's whistle broke the spell, Joe's attention returning to practice as players reorganized for the next drill. Y/N remained at the window for another moment, watching him slip back into quarterback mode with the same focused intensity she'd always admired.

Her phone buzzed with a text from the Giants' front office, probably wondering about her timeline for a decision. Y/N looked at the message, then at the bonus structure paperwork in her hands, then deleted the text without reading it fully. She had a call to make, a job offer to decline, and a future to build. Right here in Cincinnati, where she'd always belonged. Walking back toward her new office, Y/N felt lighter than she had in months. The choice was made. The next chapter was beginning. And for the first time in five years, Joe Burrow knew she wasn't going anywhere. The rest, they'd figure out together.

***

Y/N was still processing the paperwork from her meeting with Kayla when her phone buzzed with a text from Joe.

Joe: Can we talk? No pressure, just clarity.

She stared at the message for a long moment. After their silent exchange through the practice window, she'd known this conversation was inevitable.

Y/N: When?

Joe: Tonight? I know a place. Quiet. Private.

Y/N: Where?

Joe: Ever been to Hermitage Brewing? They have a back room. Owner's a friend. We can talk without interruption.

Y/N had heard of the small craft brewery tucked away in a converted warehouse in Camp Washington. The kind of place that catered to locals rather than tourists, with dim lighting and high-backed booths that offered privacy. It made sense that Joe would have found a spot where he could have personal conversations without cameras or curious fans.

Y/N: 8 PM?

Joe: I'll be there. Thank you.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of transition planning and phone calls. Y/N officially declined the Giants' offer with a professional grace that masked her relief, then spent an hour on the phone with Brian Reynolds, who was disappointed but understanding.

"If you ever change your mind," he'd said, "the door's always open here."

By 7:45, Y/N was driving through the narrow streets of Camp Washington, her nerves humming with anticipation. She'd changed clothes twice, finally settling on dark jeans and a sweater that felt professional but not overly formal. This wasn't a date, she reminded herself. This was a conversation between colleagues who needed to clear the air. Hermitage Brewing occupied the ground floor of an old brick building, its windows glowing warm against the November cold. Y/N parked on the street and made her way inside, immediately understanding why Joe had chosen this place. The main bar area was busy but not packed, filled with the kind of neighborhood regulars who minded their own business. Craft beer taps lined the wall behind a weathered wooden bar, and the lighting was dim enough to create natural privacy. Joe appeared at her elbow almost immediately, as if he'd been watching for her arrival.

"This way," he said quietly, guiding her toward a hallway she hadn't noticed. "Danny set us up in the back room."

The back room turned out to be a small, private space with exposed brick walls, a single table, and a door that Joe closed behind them. Two beers already waited on the table, he'd remembered her preference for IPAs.

"This is perfect," Y/N said, settling into one of the chairs. "How did you find this place?"

"Danny and I went to high school together," Joe explained, taking the seat across from her. "He opened this place a couple years ago. Sometimes I need somewhere to decompress without ending up on social media."

Y/N nodded, understanding the unique challenges of his visibility. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both seeming to gather their thoughts.

"So," Joe said finally, "you're staying."

"I'm staying," Y/N confirmed, meeting his gaze directly. "I got promoted to VP of Digital Media and Brand Strategy. It's everything I've been working toward."

Something flickered in Joe's expression, pride, maybe, or satisfaction. "That's incredible, Y/N. You've earned it."

"Thank you." She took a sip of her beer, then decided to address the elephant in the room. "I need you to understand something, though. I stayed for my career. For the opportunity to build something that's truly mine. What happens between us has to be separate from that decision."

Joe nodded slowly, as if he'd been expecting this clarification. "I respect that. I'm glad you made the choice that was right for you professionally."

"Are you?" Y/N asked, studying his face. "Because the timing of your... revelation... was pretty coincidental."

Joe's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained steady. "I know how it looked. Believe me, I've thought about the timing constantly since our conversation in your office."

"And?"

Joe leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his beer bottle. "I've had feelings for you for years, Y/N. Not just attraction, not just respect for how you work. Real feelings that I didn't know how to handle."

Y/N felt her heart skip, but she kept her expression neutral. "Then why Ellie?"

"Because I was trying to prove to myself that what I felt for you wasn't real," Joe admitted, his voice dropping. "You work for the team. We see each other every day. I told myself it was just proximity, or gratitude for how you handled my rehab, or..." He shook his head. "I was making excuses because acknowledging the truth felt complicated."

"And Olivia?" Y/N asked, needing to understand the full picture.

Joe's expression grew more serious. "I loved Olivia. What we had was real and important. But even then, there was always this... awareness of you. This connection I couldn't explain. I thought it was just friendship, or professional respect. It took me a long time to realize it was more than that."

Y/N absorbed this, turning it over in her mind. "So breaking up with Ellie—"

"Breaking up with Ellie wasn't about you," Joe interrupted. "It was about finally being honest with myself. About admitting that I was trying to force something that wasn't working because I was afraid to face what I actually wanted."

The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, but Y/N had spent years protecting herself from hope. "And what do you actually want?"

Joe met her gaze directly, no hesitation in his voice. "You. I want to see what this could be without all the barriers we've built around it. Without me being with someone else, without you planning to leave, without all the professional complications we've used as excuses."

Y/N felt tears threatening and blinked them back. These were the words she'd wanted to hear for years, but now that she had them, she found herself more cautious than elated.

"I need to know this is real, Joe," she said, her voice steady despite the emotion underneath. "That it's not just because I was leaving or because I was suddenly unavailable. I can't be someone you want just because you thought you might lose me."

"It's not that," Joe insisted, leaning forward. "Y/N, I—"

"Let me finish," she interrupted gently. "I've spent five years watching you build relationships with other people. Five years learning to be okay with just being your colleague, your friend. I won't be your rebound from Ellie, and I won't be the consolation prize you settle for because your other options didn't work out."

Joe's expression shifted, understanding dawning in his eyes. "What do you need from me?"

Y/N considered this, knowing her answer would set the tone for whatever came next. "I need you to show me who you are beyond the facility, beyond football. I need to know Joe."

"How do I do that?" Joe asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Y/N felt a small smile tug at her lips. "Figure it out. You've got time now."

Joe's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's not exactly a roadmap."

"It's not supposed to be," Y/N replied. "If this is real, if you really know me the way you claim to, then you should be able to figure out how to show me who you are when you're not performing."

They sat in silence for a moment, Joe processing her challenge, Y/N waiting to see how he'd respond.

"Okay," he said finally. "I can do that."

"Can you?" Y/N asked. "Because it means being vulnerable in ways you might not be comfortable with. It means letting me see the parts of yourself that don't make the highlight reels."

Joe's mouth curved into that subtle smile she knew so well. "I think you've already seen some of those parts. During rehab, during late-night content sessions, in moments when I forgot to be careful."

"Maybe," Y/N acknowledged. "But now I need to see them intentionally. Not by accident."

"What about work?" Joe asked. "How do we handle that?"

Y/N felt her expression grow more serious. "Nothing changes at work. We're still professional colleagues, and I mean that completely."

"Should we tell HR? I don't want there to be any issues down the line."

Y/N's stomach tightened at the suggestion. "I just got this promotion, Joe. I literally signed the paperwork this morning. I can't have people thinking I got the VP title because of personal relationships."

Joe's expression immediately shifted to understanding. "You're right. I didn't think about the timing."

"The optics would be terrible," Y/N continued, feeling the weight of her new position. "New VP suddenly dating the franchise quarterback? People would assume the promotion was connected."

"What do you want to do?"

Y/N considered this carefully. "We keep this private for now. Figure out what we are before we deal with what other people think we are. I need my promotion to feel established, to prove that I earned it, before anyone can question my motives."

"How long are we talking?"

"I don't know," Y/N admitted. "Long enough that when people find out, if they find out, no one can say I got where I am because of who I'm dating."

Joe nodded slowly. "I can respect that. Though it might be challenging to pretend I don't notice when you're in the room."

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks. "You've been noticing me in rooms for years."

"Yeah," Joe admitted, his voice dropping. "But now I don't have to pretend I'm not."

"Well, for a little while longer, you do," Y/N said, though her tone was gentle rather than harsh. "At least at work."

"And outside of work?" Joe asked.

Y/N felt that small smile return. "Outside of work, you get to show me who you really are. If you can figure out how."

Joe leaned back in his chair, something like determination settling in his expression. "Challenge accepted."

As they finished their beers and prepared to leave, Y/N felt a cautious optimism she hadn't experienced in years. Not the desperate hope that had characterized her feelings for Joe before, but something more mature and grounded.

"One more thing," she said as they stood to leave. "I'm not making any promises about where this leads. I'm willing to see what happens, but I won't pretend this is a sure thing."

"I'm not asking for guarantees," Joe replied. "Just a real chance."

"Then you've got one," Y/N said. "Don't waste it."

As Y/N drove home through the quiet Cincinnati streets, she reflected on how much had changed in a single day. She had a new job title, a new salary structure, and for the first time in five years, the possibility of something real with Joe Burrow.

The future felt uncertain but full of potential. And for the first time, Y/N was ready to see where it might lead, as long as Joe was willing to meet her challenge and show her who he really was when the cameras weren't rolling.

* * *

Late November 2025 - First Steps

Y/N's phone buzzed at 6:47 AM as she was getting ready for work, the early hour making her heart skip before she recognized it wasn't an emergency alert.

Joe: Coffee before work? Not facility coffee. Real coffee.

She stared at the message, toothbrush still in her mouth. Direct, no preamble, exactly what she'd expect from Joe. Not "would you like to" or "if you're free" - just a statement of what he wanted.

Y/N: Where?

Joe: You know that bookstore cafe you mentioned? East side? Thought I'd see what the fuss was about.

Y/N nearly dropped her phone. He'd remembered her throwaway comment from months ago about her refuge spot - the little cafe tucked into the back of a used bookstore where nobody cared about sports. No sentiment about it, just practical recall of information that might be useful.

Y/N: Collective Grounds. 7:30?

Joe: See you there.

No "if that works for you" or "hope that's not too early." Just confirmation. Y/N found herself smiling as she finished getting ready. This was more like the Joe she knew - efficient, direct, confident in his decisions.

She arrived first, claiming her usual corner table near the poetry section, surrounded by the familiar smell of old books and fresh espresso. The morning crowd was predictably eclectic - graduate students, local artists, the occasional professor grading papers. No one who would recognize a Bengals quarterback on sight.

Joe appeared in the doorway at exactly 7:30, scanning the space with the same methodical assessment he brought to reading defenses. He spotted her immediately, navigating the narrow aisles between bookshelves with purposeful efficiency. He looked completely at ease - not trying to hide, but not drawing attention either. Just present.

"This place makes sense for you," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. No greeting, no small talk. He'd already gotten coffee - black, no surprise there.

"How so?"

"Quiet. No distractions. Good for thinking." He glanced around, taking in the mismatched furniture and floor-to-ceiling books. "Also no one here cares about football."

"That obvious?"

"I haven't been recognized once since walking in." His mouth curved slightly. "Novelty experience."

Y/N smiled despite herself. "Poor you, having to be just another customer."

"It's not terrible," Joe replied, deadpan. Then, more seriously: "You come here often?"

"When I need to think. Or when I want to read something that has nothing to do with sports."

Joe nodded, seeming to file away this information. "What kind of books?"

The question was casual but felt intentional. Like he was gathering data, building a more complete picture of who she was outside of work.

"Fiction, mostly. Some poetry. Whatever catches my attention." Y/N studied his face. "What about you? Do you read?"

"Physics, mostly. Some astronomy. I've been working through this book on string theory." He gestured toward the science section. "Probably sounds boring."

"Not boring. Surprising, maybe."

Joe's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Why surprising?"

"Most people don't read string theory for fun."

"It's interesting how everything connects. The way small forces can create massive changes." His expression grew more engaged, the careful composure slipping slightly. "Plus it helps with pattern recognition."

"Pattern recognition?"

"Everything has patterns. Physics, football, people." He paused. "I like understanding how things work."

It was such a Joe answer - analytical, strategic, revealing more about his mindset than most people probably realized. Y/N felt a flutter of genuine fascination with how his mind worked.

"And you think relationships follow patterns too?" she asked.

Joe's eyes met hers directly. "Most of them. People playing roles, following expected behaviors, responding to predictable stimuli." He paused. "But not all of them."

The implication hung between them, subtle but clear. Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks despite the casual delivery.

"What makes the difference?"

"When both people stop performing," Joe said simply. "When what they want from each other is just... truth."

The word landed with quiet weight. Y/N found herself studying Joe's face, noting the absence of his usual careful composure. Not nervous or uncertain - just present, direct, real.

"Is that what this is?" she asked. "Truth?"

"That's what I'm hoping for," Joe replied. "From both of us."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the background hum of the cafe creating natural privacy. Y/N felt something shifting between them - not dramatic or emotional, just a subtle recalibration from colleagues testing boundaries to two people acknowledging mutual interest.

"So what happens now?" she asked.

Joe leaned back slightly, that measured confidence settling over him like armor. "Now we figure out what we want from each other. Without all the professional complications and timing issues and excuses we've been using."

"Just like that?"

"Why make it complicated?" Joe asked, though his eyes held hers with an intensity that suggested he understood exactly how complicated it actually was. "We're both adults. We're both interested. We're both capable of handling whatever challenges come up."

The matter-of-fact delivery was so perfectly Joe that Y/N almost laughed. No dramatics, no uncertainty - just practical assessment of the situation and confidence in their ability to manage it.

"You make it sound simple."

"The feelings part is simple," Joe said. "I know what I want. I think you do too. Everything else is just logistics."

"Logistics like my brand-new promotion and workplace dynamics and the fact that we see each other every day?"

"Logistics," Joe confirmed, unruffled. "Things to be managed, not barriers to be overcome."

Y/N shook her head, both amused and impressed by his clinical approach. "You've really thought this through."

"I think everything through," Joe replied. "It's what I do."

"And what conclusion did you reach?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, though his voice remained steady. "That I want to see what this could be. That you're worth whatever complications might arise. And that I'm done pretending otherwise."

The simple directness affected Y/N more than any elaborate declaration could have. This was Joe at his most authentic - no performance, no charm, just honest assessment and clear intention.

"What about work?" she asked.

"What about it? We're both professionals. We know how to separate personal and business." He paused, considering. "Though we should probably be discrete until your promotion feels established. For your sake, not mine."

The practical consideration, delivered without her having to ask for it, made Y/N's chest tighten with something like relief. He'd already thought through the potential complications and developed a strategy to protect her interests.

"How discrete?"

"As discrete as you need," Joe said. "I'm not looking to broadcast anything. I just want the option to see you outside of work without having to pretend it's about content strategy."

Y/N found herself smiling at his phrasing. "The option?"

"The standing invitation," Joe clarified, that hint of humor flickering in his eyes. "To coffee that isn't about work. Dinner that isn't about team business. Conversations that don't involve quarterback mechanics or social media metrics."

"That sounds..." Y/N paused, searching for the right word.

"Normal?" Joe suggested.

"Revolutionary," Y/N corrected, making him laugh - a real laugh, not the measured chuckle he deployed in interviews.

"I'll take revolutionary," he said, checking his watch. "But right now I'll settle for not being late to morning meetings."

They gathered their things in comfortable efficiency, Joe waiting while Y/N collected her bag and notes. Walking to their separate cars, Y/N felt a cautious excitement she hadn't experienced in years.

"Same time tomorrow?" Joe asked as they reached the parking area.

The challenge was subtle but unmistakable. Y/N felt her competitive instincts respond despite herself.

"Tomorrow might work," she said, deliberately casual.

"Good," Joe said, getting into his truck. "I'll bring better coffee recommendations. This place is adequate, but I know better."

As he drove away, Y/N stood in the parking lot processing what had just happened. No grand gestures or emotional speeches - just Joe Burrow being exactly who he was. Confident, direct, strategically minded, but honest about what he wanted.

For the first time in five years, Y/N felt like she was seeing the real Joe. And for the first time, that felt like enough.

* * *

December 2025 - Getting to Know You

Y/N: Target run. This is what my Saturday has become.

Joe: Which Target?

Y/N: Springdale. Getting boring stuff - shampoo, paper towels, etc.

Joe: Let me come pick you up when you're done. We can grab food.

Y/N: You want to rescue me from Target?

Joe: I want to get dinner and you're already out.

An hour later, Joe picked her up from the Target parking lot, Y/N loaded her bags into her car while Joe waited with the engine running.

"Drive-through okay?" he asked as she buckled her seatbelt. "I'm not really feeling like sitting in a restaurant."

"Fine with me."

They ended up at a Culver's drive-through, eating burgers in Joe's car in an empty parking lot, talking about nothing important while music played quietly from the radio.

"This is nice," Y/N said, stealing one of his fries.

"Better than eating alone."

"Is that what you usually do? Eat alone?"

"Usually. Or with teammates, but that's just different."

"How so?"

Joe considered this, unwrapping his second burger. "With teammates, you're still kind of performing. Even when you're relaxed, you're still the quarterback. This is just... normal."

***

A Week Later

Y/N: Car's at the shop. Apparently I need new brakes and God knows what else.

Joe: How long?

Y/N: All day apparently. I'm about to call an Uber.

Joe: I'll come get you.

Y/N: You don't have to do that.

Joe: I'm not doing anything anyway. Text me the address.

Joe picked her up from the service center, and they spent the afternoon driving around Cincinnati with no particular destination. Y/N navigating from her phone, Joe following her random directions as they explored neighborhoods neither had seen before.

"Left here," Y/N said as they approached a residential area. "I want to see what's down this street."

"You're just picking random turns."

"That's the point. When do you ever get to just drive around without a destination?"

Joe glanced at her, something shifting in his expression. "Never."

"Exactly. So today we're going nowhere in particular."

They ended up parked at a scenic overlook, Cincinnati spread out below them, talking about their respective childhoods and the differences between small-town Ohio and Louisville. Easy conversation that felt more personal than anything they'd shared before.

"Thanks for rescuing me from car service hell," Y/N said as they headed back toward the city.

"Thanks for showing me how to drive without a plan."

Week Seven

The first real moment of physical contact came during a Sunday afternoon at Joe's house. Y/N had come over to watch a game, settling onto his couch with the casual familiarity that had developed over weeks of hanging out.

"Come here," Joe said during halftime, gesturing to the spot beside him. "You're too far away."

Y/N moved closer, close enough that their shoulders touched when Joe leaned forward to explain a play. Close enough that she could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

"See how the linebacker's dropping back?" Joe said, his voice quieter now that she was right beside him.

"Mmhmm," Y/N replied, though she was more focused on the way his hand had come to rest on her knee, casual and warm, like it belonged there.

The game resumed, but the awareness between them had shifted. Joe's thumb traced absent patterns on her leg, and Y/N found herself leaning into his side, her hand resting on his forearm.

"This is nice," Joe said during a commercial break, his voice low.

"What is?"

"You being here. Like this."

Y/N tilted her head to look at him, suddenly aware of how close they were. "Joe..."

"I know we're supposed to be taking this slow," he said, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "But I really want to kiss you right now."

Y/N felt her breath catch. "Then kiss me."

Joe's hand cupped her face, thumb brushing across her cheek before his mouth found hers. Soft at first, tentative, then deeper when Y/N's hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him closer.

When they broke apart, Joe rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing harder than they should have been from just a kiss.

"We should probably talk about this," Y/N said softly.

"Probably," Joe agreed, though his hands hadn't moved from her face. "But not right now."

"Not right now," Y/N confirmed, before kissing him again.

Week Eight:

The physical awareness between them became constant after that. Not dramatic or overwhelming, but present in every interaction. Joe's hand on her back when he passed behind her chair. Y/N's fingers briefly touching his when he handed her coffee. Small moments of contact that felt significant because they were chosen, deliberate.

Y/N: Dinner? I'm tired of my own cooking.

Joe: Come over. I'll order something.

Y/N arrived at Joe's house to find him already changed out of his work clothes, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that made him look younger, more relaxed.

"What did you order?" she asked, settling onto his couch.

"Thai. Should be here in twenty minutes."

"Good choice."

Joe sat beside her, closer than necessary, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. "How was your day?"

"Long. Meetings, content reviews, more meetings." Y/N leaned into his side, enjoying the solid warmth of him. "How was practice?"

"Fine. Nothing dramatic." Joe's fingers found her hair, playing with the strands in a way that made Y/N's eyes flutter closed. "This is better."

"What is?"

"Coming home to you being here."

The casual intimacy of the statement made Y/N's chest tighten. "Joe..."

"I know," he said quietly. "I know we're being careful. But I like this. I like you being here."

Y/N turned in his arms to face him properly. "I like being here too."

Joe's thumb traced along her jawline, his touch gentle but sure. "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes."

This kiss was different from their first, less tentative, more certain. Y/N's hands slid up his chest to curl around his neck, and Joe pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair.

When the doorbell rang with their food delivery, they broke apart reluctantly.

"Bad timing," Joe muttered against her lips.

"Very bad timing," Y/N agreed, though she made no move to get up.

Joe didn’t either. He just looked at her for another beat, like he was committing this exact image to memory. Then he leaned in and kissed her again. Deep. Slow. Nothing rushed, nothing hungry. Just full contact, like he wanted her to feel it in her spine. By the time they actually ate, they'd begun to establish a new normal casual touches, stolen kisses, the kind of easy physical intimacy that felt natural rather than rushed.

"This is working," Joe said as they cleaned up the takeout containers.

"What is?"

"This. Us. Whatever we're calling it."

Y/N smiled, standing on her toes to kiss him briefly. "It is working."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer. "Because I'm not ready to go back to pretending I don't want to touch you."

"Then don't," Y/N replied simply. "At least not when we're alone.

* * *

Late December 2025 - Playoff Push

The facility buzzed with playoff energy as the Bengals secured their wildcard spot. Y/N found herself working longer hours, coordinating playoff content strategies and managing increased media demands. Joe's schedule was equally intense - practice, film study, media obligations, team meetings.

Their stolen moments became more precious and more carefully orchestrated.

Monday - Content Planning Meeting

The monthly content planning meeting was one of the few times Joe was required to attend Y/N's meetings. As VP of Digital Media, she needed quarterback input on playoff messaging and fan engagement strategies.

"Playoff content timeline," Y/N said, pulling up her presentation for the small group - herself, Kayla, Tyler, and Joe. "We'll need quarterback availability for three key pieces."

Joe sat across the conference table, taking notes on his tablet, occasionally asking practical questions about filming schedules and time commitments. Professional, focused, giving no indication that twelve hours earlier he'd had her curled against his side on his couch, her head on his shoulder while they watched a movie.

"The fan message piece - when do you need that filmed?" Joe asked, his tone strictly business.

"This week, before playoff prep intensifies," Y/N replied, matching his professional tone despite the way his eyes lingered on her face for just a fraction too long.

"Wednesday afternoon work?"

"Perfect. Tyler will coordinate the details."

As the meeting wrapped up, Joe lingered while the others filed out, ostensibly reviewing something on his phone.

"Wednesday filming," he said once they were alone, moving closer to her chair. "What time?"

"Three o'clock. Should only take an hour."

Joe's hand found her lower back, hidden from view by the conference table. "And after?"

"After what?" Y/N asked, though her pulse quickened at his touch.

"After filming. You free?"

"Depends what you have in mind."

Joe leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. "Come to my place. I want to actually spend time with you without worrying about who might see us."

Before Y/N could respond, he straightened up and walked toward the door, leaving her sitting there with her heart racing and her skin warm from the brief contact.

Wednesday - After Filming

The playoff fan message filming went smoothly, Joe delivering exactly the kind of authentic, confident content that resonated with fans. Y/N watched from behind the camera, noting how naturally he connected with the lens, how his media training had evolved into genuine comfort with being filmed.

"That's a wrap," Tyler announced as they finished the final take. "Great stuff, Joe."

"Thanks," Joe replied, already looking toward Y/N. "Y/N, can I get your take on the messaging? Make sure it hits the right tone?"

"Of course," Y/N said, recognizing the manufactured reason for them to talk privately.

Tyler packed up equipment while Y/N and Joe moved to the side of the media room, ostensibly discussing content strategy.

"Tone was perfect," Y/N said quietly. "Confident but not arrogant. Focused but not tense."

"Good," Joe said, stepping closer. "Now, about tonight..."

"Tyler's still here," Y/N murmured, hyperaware of their colleague's presence across the room.

"He's not paying attention," Joe replied, his hand brushing against hers. "Eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

Joe's smile was subtle but unmistakable. "Good. I'll order dinner. Actually want to talk to you without interruptions for once. This week has been crazy."

Thursday Morning - Facility Hallway

Y/N was walking toward her office with coffee and the content satisfaction that came from a good evening at Joe's house - dinner, conversation, and comfortable time together without the constant awareness of being in public.

"Morning," Joe said, appearing beside her in the hallway with the timing that suggested he'd been waiting for her arrival.

"Morning," Y/N replied, fighting a smile at the memory of how relaxed he'd seemed the night before, more himself than she'd ever seen him.

"Sleep well?" he asked, matching her pace toward the office area.

"Very well," Y/N said, remembering how natural it had felt to curl up against him on his couch during the movie.

Joe's mouth curved slightly. "Good. You looked comfortable when you left."

"I was comfortable. Your couch is better than mine."

"It's not the couch," Joe said, his voice dropping. "It's the company."

The comment sent warmth through Y/N's chest, even as she glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said. "Wrong place for this conversation. But I like having you there. In my space."

They'd reached the area where their paths diverged, Joe toward the player facilities, Y/N toward the media offices. He paused, creating a natural stopping point.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked, his tone casual enough for any passerby.

"Can't. Early meeting tomorrow, need to prep."

"Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow works."

Joe nodded, then surprised her by stepping closer, his hand briefly touching her elbow. To anyone watching, it would look like a casual gesture, but Y/N felt the intentional warmth of his palm.

"See you later," he said, already moving toward the player area.

Friday - Storage Room

Y/N was gathering equipment for a social media shoot when Joe appeared in the storage room doorway.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"Just grabbing camera gear," Y/N replied, though she stopped what she was doing when she saw the look in his eyes.

"How long until your shoot?"

"Twenty minutes. Why?"

Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist. "Because I've barely seen you this week and I miss you."

"Joe, we can't keep doing this here," Y/N said, though her hands came up to rest on his chest.

"Doing what?" he asked, his thumb tracing a small circle on her hip.

"Meeting in storage rooms like we're in high school."

"Would you prefer your office?" Joe asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Because that seems riskier."

"I'd prefer not to get caught by my staff making out with the franchise quarterback."

"We're not making out," Joe pointed out, though he leaned down to kiss her neck softly. "We're just talking."

"This isn't talking," Y/N said, her eyes fluttering closed at the gentle contact.

"Fine," Joe said, pulling back to look at her. "Let's talk. How was your meeting with the sponsors?"

"Boring. How was film study?"

"Tedious." Joe's hands stayed at her waist, warm and steady. "Better topic, what are you doing this weekend?"

"Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Time together. No meetings, no schedules, no one else around."

"That sounds perfect," Y/N admitted.

Joe smiled, leaning down to kiss her properly - soft, brief, but enough to make her pulse quicken. "Good. Because I have plans for us."

"What kind of plans?"

"The kind where I get to keep you on my couch for hours without anyone interrupting."

Weekend - At Joe's House

Saturday afternoon found them exactly where Joe had predicted - on his couch, Y/N curled against his side while he traced absent patterns on her arm. No agenda, no timeline, just comfortable proximity and the luxury of time together.

"This is nice," Y/N said, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Better than sneaking around storage rooms," Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Much better."

Joe's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining naturally. "Y/N?"

"Mmm?"

"I like this. Whatever this is we're doing."

Y/N tilted her head to look at him. "Even with all the complications?"

"Especially with the complications," Joe said, his expression serious. "Makes it worth something."

"Yeah," Y/N said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "It is worth something."

Joe leaned into her touch, then kissed her palm gently. "Stay for dinner?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer. "Because I'm not ready for you to leave yet."

As they settled back into comfortable silence, Y/N reflected on how natural this felt - the easy intimacy, the unforced conversation, the way they fit together both literally and figuratively. Whatever they were building, it felt solid, real, worth the careful navigation required to protect it.

* * *

January 4, 2025 - Pittsburgh

The final whistle echoed through Acrisure Stadium like a death knell. Y/N watched from the sideline as Joe stood motionless in the pocket where the last play had died, his head tilted back toward the gray Pittsburgh sky. The scoreboard told the story: Steelers 28, Bengals 21. Season over.

Y/N kept her camera trained on the scene, capturing the raw aftermath professionally even as her chest tightened watching Joe's shoulders slump. She'd documented his victories, his comebacks, his moments of triumph. Now she was documenting the end of another season that had promised so much.

Players from both teams mingled at midfield, the Steelers celebrating while Bengals players moved through the motions of sportsmanship with hollow eyes. Joe shook hands mechanically, his face a mask of controlled disappointment that Y/N recognized from previous heartbreaks.

"Get the locker room reaction," Kayla's voice came through her earpiece. "But give them space. Keep it respectful."

Y/N nodded, following the team toward the tunnel. She caught Joe's eye briefly as he walked past - just a moment of recognition between them before he disappeared into the visiting locker room with the weight of another failed season on his shoulders.

The locker room was a study in quiet devastation. No dramatic outbursts or emotional speeches, just the hollow silence of a team that had believed they were destined for more. Y/N moved carefully through the space, capturing moments of disappointment without intruding on private grief.

Joe sat at his locker, still in full uniform, staring at the floor between his feet. Y/N didn't point her camera at him - some moments weren't meant for content, even when they told the truest stories.

Coach Taylor's brief comments to the media were professional, measured, focused on the future. Joe's were even shorter - credit to Pittsburgh, disappointment in the outcome, gratitude for the season. The same words every eliminated quarterback said, delivered with the same controlled composure.

Y/N packed her equipment as players began changing out of their uniforms for the last time this season. The bus ride to the airport was quiet, twenty-plus grown men processing the reality that their championship window had closed for another year.

On the Plane - 11:47 PM

The team plane was subdued, most players sleeping or staring out windows at the darkness below. Y/N sat toward the front with the other staff members, reviewing footage on her laptop with headphones on, giving the players space to process their disappointment.

Her phone buzzed against her leg.

Joe: When we land, will you come to my house and stay?

Y/N looked up from her laptop, finding Joe several rows behind her. He wasn't looking at his phone or at her, just staring out the window, but she could see the tension in his shoulders even from a distance.

Y/N: Of course.

Joe: Don't want to be alone tonight.

The simple honesty in the message made Y/N's chest tighten. In all the time she'd known Joe, through injuries and losses and disappointments, he'd never asked for anything like this. Never admitted to needing someone.

Y/N: I'll follow you home from the facility.

Joe: Thank you.

Y/N closed her laptop, no longer able to focus on work. She understood the weight of what Joe was carrying - not just tonight's loss, but the accumulation of seasons that had ended short of their ultimate goal. The pressure of being the franchise quarterback, of carrying a city's hopes, of being responsible for so many other people's dreams.

And for the first time, he was asking her to help him carry it.

Cincinnati - 1:23 AM

The facility parking lot was mostly empty when the team buses arrived, just a few scattered cars belonging to staff and family members who'd waited for the team's return. Y/N loaded her equipment into her car with mechanical efficiency, her mind already focused on Joe and whatever he needed from her tonight.

Joe emerged from the building twenty minutes later, dressed in sweats, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical fatigue, the bone-deep weariness that came from pouring everything into something and watching it slip away.

Their eyes met across the parking lot, and Y/N felt the weight of the moment settle between them. This wasn't about stolen kisses or building sexual tension. This was about Joe trusting her with his vulnerability at his lowest moment.

He nodded toward his truck, and Y/N followed him through the empty Cincinnati streets toward his house, both of them driving in silence through a city that had gone to sleep disappointed.

Joe's House - 1:52 AM

Joe's house was dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the energy that usually surrounded him. Y/N followed him inside, noting how his movements seemed heavier, more deliberate, like he was moving through water.

"You want anything?" Joe asked, dropping his bag by the door. "Water, food, whatever?"

"I'm fine," Y/N said softly. "What do you need?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, the first crack in his composed facade since the game ended. "I don't know. Just... not to be alone with this."

Y/N moved closer, her hands finding his forearms. "You don't have to be."

"We were so close. Again. And I just... I can't stop thinking about what I could have done differently."

"Joe..."

"The interception in the third quarter. The sack on second down. The audible that didn't work." His voice was quiet but strained. "I keep replaying every decision, every throw, every fucking play call."

Y/N stepped closer, her hands moving to frame his face. "Stop."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. For tonight, you can." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones. "Tomorrow you can watch film and analyze every play. Tonight, you're just Joe. And Joe doesn't have to carry all of this alone."

Something in Joe's expression cracked at her words, the careful control he'd maintained all evening finally beginning to slip. "I wanted it so bad. For the team, for the city, for..."

"I know," Y/N said simply. "I know you did."

When Joe opened his eyes, something had shifted in his expression. The professional mask was gone, the careful composure stripped away by exhaustion and disappointment and the relief of finally having someone who saw him as more than just the quarterback who'd lost the game.

"Come here," he said quietly, pulling her closer until there was barely any space between them.

Y/N went willingly, her arms sliding around his neck as his wrapped around her waist. They stood like that in his dark living room, holding each other while the weight of the season's end settled around them.

"Thank you," Joe murmured against her hair. "For being here. For seeing me."

"Always," Y/N replied, meaning it completely.

Joe pulled back to look at her, his hands still at her waist, and Y/N saw something new in his expression. Not just grief or disappointment, but something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Or the realization that in his worst moment, she was exactly where he wanted her to be.

Y/N could feel the tension radiating from him, not just disappointment, but something deeper. Frustration, anger, the weight of carrying everyone's expectations and falling short. She took his hand, leading him to the couch.

"Sit," she said gently.

Joe sank onto the cushions, and Y/N moved to straddle his lap, her hands resting on his shoulders. The position was intimate but not sexual - more like she was anchoring him, giving him something solid to hold onto.

"What do you need?" she asked, studying his face.

Joe's jaw clenched, his hands finding her hips. "I don't know. I'm just... I'm sad and I'm angry and I don't know what to do with any of it."

“I’m not asking for soft,” she said, quiet but clear, hands moving to his face. “And I’m not asking for slow. I’m asking you to stop holding it in. You don’t have to protect me from this.”

Joe's eyes searched hers, something vulnerable and desperate flickering there. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

"Let it go", she said. "I'm right here."

"If I don't hold it together—"

"Then don't," she said simply. "Let it break. Let me help you put it back together."

Joe's breathing grew uneven, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped her hips. "Y/N..."

"Stop," she said quietly, her hands moving to frame his face. "Stop trying to be okay for me."

Joe's breath hitched, his eyes searching hers. "Y/N..."

"Use me," she whispered, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. "Work it out on me. Be angry. Be sad. Be real. I can take it. I want it."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes, the last of his control beginning to fracture. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer against him.

"You want me to stop being careful?" he asked, his voice rough with barely contained emotion.

"Yes," Y/N breathed. "Show me who you are when you're not trying to be perfect."

Joe stared at her for a long moment, his breathing heavier. She could see the exact moment his restraint snapped.

His mouth was on hers in the next second, rougher than he’d ever kissed her, like he’d been holding it back for years. Y/N met him with equal force, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to the moment.

He broke the kiss with a breathless curse, hands gripping her hips tight enough to bruise. “Off,” he said, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I need—fuck—I need to see you.”

She stripped in silence, eyes never leaving his, then dropped to her knees between his legs like she’d been holding that move inside her for years.

Joe leaned back slightly, his hands braced on his thighs, watching her like she was something holy and wreckable all at once.

“You want this?” he asked, voice low, raw.

Y/N met his gaze without hesitation. “Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “Then look at me.”

She held his eyes as she undid the drawstring of his sweats, pushed them down just enough. He was already hard, the tension in his body radiating off him like heat.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered, his hand cupping the back of her head. Not forcing. Just there. Steady. “Not tonight.”

Y/N wrapped one hand around him, slow and sure, then took him into her mouth in one smooth motion, no hesitation, no pretense.

Joe’s head dropped back for a beat, a hiss escaping his teeth. “Fuck—that’s it.”

He looked back down, his hand tightening slightly in her hair. “Deeper. You can take it.”

She did, adjusting her angle, letting him guide the pace.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Eyes on me. I want you to feel this. I want to feel you.”

Y/N moaned around him, and he felt it, low and vibrating and god, he was already too close. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when her mouth felt like relief, like home.

“Don’t look away,” he said, voice breaking. “Don’t fucking look away.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t. Not when his voice sounded like that. Not when every rough breath and broken word told her he was finally, finally giving in.

Joe’s thighs tensed under her palms, every muscle in his body drawn tight like a live wire. His grip in her hair wasn’t punishing, but it was firm, guiding her, grounding him. She kept her rhythm steady, eyes never leaving his.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Fuck, you love it, don’t you?”

Y/N hummed around him, the sound deep and deliberate, and his whole body jerked like he couldn’t take another second. His hips lifted just slightly, control fraying at the edges.

“I’m not gonna last,” he breathed, voice cracked and unsteady. “Not like this.”

He looked down at her, eyes blazing. “Get up.”

Y/N pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, still breathless, still tasting him.

Joe stood and reached for her hand, gripping it tight, not gently, but not rough either. Just certain. Certain that she’d follow. Certain that he needed her right now.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on my couch.”

He pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion and led her down the hall, hand locked around hers like he didn’t trust himself to let go. His other hand pushed the bedroom door open, and he backed inside without missing a beat, tugging her in with him.

The moment the door clicked shut, he was on her again.

Joe backed her toward the bed with purpose, hands on her waist, mouth hot and relentless against her throat. She hit the edge of the mattress, and he nudged her down, eyes raking over her body like he didn’t know where to start and wanted all of it.

She reached for him, but he shook his head once, firm.

“Lie back.”

Y/N obeyed, breath shaky, legs already falling open for him.

When his fingers slipped between her legs, he stilled.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “You’re soaked.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, sharp, involuntary. She didn’t try to answer right away.

He looked up at her, eyes dark and locked in. “That was just from your mouth on me?”

Y/N’s breath stuttered. Her eyes didn’t leave his. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“Good,” he muttered, and then he dropped his head and took.

No teasing. No warm-up. Just his mouth, hot, focused, hungry, covering her like he meant to undo her completely. His tongue moved with precision, not laziness or showmanship. He worked her like he’d been thinking about this for five fucking years and didn’t want to waste a second of it.

Y/N cried out, one hand flying to her mouth like it shocked her how good it was. “Oh my God—Joe.”

His hands came up to her hips, holding her still.

“Don’t run from it,” he said against her, voice wrecked. “Stay with me.”

“I’m trying,” she gasped, voice high and cracking. “Fuck—don’t stop.”

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, groaning low when she gasped, licking deeper when her hips tilted, letting her ride every second of it. Like her pleasure was the point. Like it anchored him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured between strokes. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

“I—” she tried to speak, then broke instead, legs trembling, hands grasping for him like she needed something to hold. “I’m gonna—Joe—fuck—”

“Do it,” he said, lifting his head just enough to speak against her, breath hot. “Come on. Give it to me.”

Y/N shattered.

The sound she made wasn’t sweet or quiet, it was raw. A cry pulled from the center of her chest, like her body had been waiting to give this to him. Her thighs clenched around his shoulders as she came, and Joe held her through it, mouth never leaving her until she slumped back against the mattress, wrecked and shaking.

Only then did he rise, slow and deliberate, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on hers like he was making sure she knew exactly what came next.

Joe pulled back from between her legs, breath ragged, his mouth still wet with her.

He stood, slow and deliberate, towering over her at the edge of the bed. One hand slid down to grip the base of his cock, giving himself a single stroke, measured, controlled, like he was holding the last thread of patience.

His eyes never left hers.

“This what you want?” he asked, voice wrecked and low.

Y/N nodded, breath catching. “Yes.”

Joe tilted his head slightly, thumb brushing across his length. “You’ve wanted this for five years?”

She exhaled like the air was punched out of her. “Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “Say it.”

“I’ve wanted you,” she said, voice breaking on the edge of breath and desperation. “Please, Joe. I want you.”

Joe didn’t need anything else. He pressed forward in one smooth, devastating thrust—deep, deliberate, filling her all at once.

Y/N gasped, hands flying to the sheets as her back arched off the mattress. “Fuck—”

Joe groaned, his head dropping for half a second as he bottomed out inside her. “Jesus, Y/N…”

He didn’t move for a breath, just held there, inside her, around her, his hands firm on her hips like he needed to feel every inch of her before he gave in.

“You feel that?” he murmured, pulling back and driving in again, slow but hard. “That’s what you’ve been needing?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He gave her more, deeper, harder, his pace tightening as her body met him in rhythm. One of her legs locked higher around his hip, like she couldn’t get close enough.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, the sound caught somewhere between a breath and a curse. “Me fucking you like this?”

“God, yes, harder,” she gasped, nails digging into the sheets. “Just like that—Joe, fuck—”

He bent slightly over her, hand bracing beside her head, his thrusts driving deeper with every word.

“You take me so fucking well,” he said, jaw clenched, voice shredded. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

Y/N’s head tipped back, her moan sharp and open.

“I want to feel you come,” Joe said, pace stuttering just enough to push her further. “You gonna come for me again?”

She whimpered, nodding as her body tightened, every muscle straining toward him.

“I want to feel you lose it around me,” he ground out, low and firm. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.

“Joe, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Look at me.”

Her eyes flew open, meeting his.

“Look at me when you do it.”

Y/N shattered.

Her whole body clenched, a cry tearing from her throat as she came hard, thighs shaking, muscles gripping him so tight he nearly lost it right there.

“Fuck—” Joe gasped, driving into her once, twice, then groaning deep and broken as he let go, spilling into her with a shudder that took his whole body.

He stayed exactly where he was, inside her, above her, forehead pressing against hers like he needed the contact to remember this was real.

Neither of them spoke right away.

* * *

Joe stayed inside, long enough for both of them to feel the weight of what they’d just done settle between their ribs, then pulled out carefully, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee before stepping back.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, voice low and rough but no longer wrecked.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, limbs heavy, heart still racing. She heard the water running in the ensuite, then his footsteps returning. When he came back, he was still naked, holding a warm, damp cloth in one hand.

He knelt between her legs again, eyes lifting to hers like a question, then cleaned her with soft, deliberate care, each stroke unhurried, like he didn’t want to rush this part either.

Every place the cloth passed, he followed with a kiss. Her inner thigh. The dip of her hipbone. The curve where her stomach rose and fell with uneven breath.

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and looked at her.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

Y/N didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away.

Joe ran a thumb over her knee, steady as ever. “I’m not going back from this. And I’m not going to pretend.”

She swallowed, heart still thrumming under her skin.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “The higher-ups, the Bengals front office. I’ll talk to them myself. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

His eyes stayed locked on hers. “All you need to do is give Kayla a heads up. So she’s not blindsided. The rest? I’ve got.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Joe’s hand skimmed up her thigh again—gentle now, grounding. “We’ll keep it professional at work,” he said. “I won’t make you look bad.”

Y/N met his eyes, no hesitation. “I know you won’t.”

He leaned forward, kissed her again, this time slow, lingering, his hand cupping the side of her face like she might slip away if he didn’t hold her there.

They climbed under the covers without saying much. Not because there was nothing to say, just because the silence felt like a continuation of what they’d already said with their bodies.

Y/N curled onto her side, and Joe reached for her automatically, pulling her in until her head rested against his chest and her leg hooked around his like they’d done this a hundred times. Like it hadn’t just happened for the first time an hour ago.

His hand traced slow, absentminded lines down her back. For a while, that was all.

Then, quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure he should speak at all, Joe said, “Thank you.”

Y/N stirred just slightly. “For what?”

He exhaled through his nose, like the weight of it lived in his chest.

“For being here tonight,” he said. “For giving yourself to me.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Her fingers brushed lightly over his ribs.

Joe’s voice was low, wrecked again but in a different way now. “I’m sorry it took me five years to get here.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she didn’t let it break her voice. “You’re here now.”

He nodded once, his hand settling at the base of her spine like he was anchoring them both to this exact second.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - Joe's House, 7:47 AM

Y/N stood at Joe's bathroom sink, electric toothbrush humming as she worked through her morning routine. A week of nights at his place had created an easy domestic rhythm - her toiletries claiming space on his counter, her clothes mixed with his in the hamper, the comfortable intimacy of shared morning routines.

She was mentally running through her day - content review at nine, budget meeting at ten-thirty, lunch with Sam to finally tell her about the relationship - when Joe appeared in the doorway behind her, already dressed for the facility.

"I'm sitting down with the front office today," he said, leaning against the doorframe with his coffee. "To tell them about us."

Y/N's toothbrush stopped mid-stroke. She met his eyes in the mirror, toothpaste foam still in her mouth.

"Today?" she managed around the toothpaste, then quickly spit and rinsed. "What do you mean today? What time?"

"Eleven," Joe replied, taking a sip of coffee like he'd just mentioned the weather. "Meeting with ownership, Kayla will probably be there, maybe legal."

Y/N whirled around to face him, her heart rate spiking. "Joe! You can't just spring this on me! I haven't told Kayla yet!"

"I told you last week I was done hiding this," Joe said, his tone patient but firm. "I meant it."

"You said you were 'done pretending' - I didn't know you meant this week!" Y/N's voice rose slightly as the implications hit her. "Shit, what time did you say? Eleven?"

"Eleven."

Y/N glanced at her phone. 7:51 AM. "Fuck. Okay. I need to get to work and talk to Kayla before you talk to them. She needs to hear this from me, not find out in a meeting where she's blindsided."

She pushed past him toward the bedroom, her mind already racing through how to handle this conversation. Kayla valued loyalty and transparency above everything - being caught off-guard about her VP's relationship with the franchise quarterback would not go over well.

"Y/N," Joe called after her, following her into the bedroom where she was pulling clothes from his dresser - another sign of how settled they'd become. "It's going to be fine."

"You don't know that," Y/N said, pulling on her blouse with sharp, efficient movements. "This could mess up everything I've worked for. The timing, the optics, the fact that I just got promoted-"

"Hey." Joe caught her hand, stopping her frantic dressing. "Look at me."

Y/N met his eyes, seeing the calm certainty there that she both loved and found infuriating in moments like this.

"I've thought this through," he said quietly. "I know what I'm going to say, how I'm going to frame it. This isn't going to hurt your career."

"But you're telling them before I tell Kayla," Y/N pointed out, pulling her hand free to continue getting dressed. "That makes it look like I was keeping secrets from my boss while you were being transparent with yours."

Joe's expression shifted slightly, understanding dawning. "Shit. You're right."

"I know I'm right!" Y/N said, grabbing her phone to check the time again. "Which is why I need to get to the facility right now and have a very awkward conversation with Kayla before eleven o'clock."

She was already texting as she spoke, her fingers flying over the screen.

Y/N: Emergency meeting this morning? Something important I need to discuss before 11.

The response came back almost immediately.

Kayla: How emergency? Can it wait until after 9 AM content review?

Y/N: It really can't. 8:30?

Kayla: My office. Coffee will be ready.

Y/N grabbed her bag and keys, already mentally rehearsing how to explain that she'd been secretly dating the quarterback for a week and he was about to inform the ownership group in three hours.

"This is going to be a disaster," she muttered, checking her reflection quickly in Joe's mirror.

"It's not," Joe said, moving to block her path to the door. "Y/N, stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking, I'm being realistic about the professional implications of-"

Joe kissed her, cutting off her spiraling anxiety with the kind of certainty that had convinced her to trust him in the first place.

"Better?" he asked when they broke apart.

"Marginally," Y/N admitted, though her heart rate had slowed slightly. "But I still need to go handle damage control."

"There's no damage to control," Joe said firmly. "We're adults in a relationship. We're both good at our jobs. Everything else is just logistics."

Y/N stared at him, marveling at his ability to reduce the complexity of their situation to simple facts. "I wish I had your confidence about this."

"You don't need confidence," Joe replied, opening the front door for her. "You just need honesty. Tell Kayla the truth - that we've been seeing each other, that it's serious, and that it won't interfere with either of our professional responsibilities."

"And if she thinks the timing of my promotion looks suspicious?"

Joe's expression grew more serious. "Then you remind her that you earned that promotion through five years of excellent work, and anyone who suggests otherwise can take it up with me."

Despite her anxiety, Y/N felt a flutter of warmth at his immediate defensiveness on her behalf. "Okay. I'm going to go have the most awkward conversation of my professional life. Try not to torpedo my career while I'm gone."

"I'll be the picture of professionalism," Joe promised, kissing her forehead. "Text me after you talk to Kayla."

Y/N was already walking toward her car, her mind switching into crisis management mode. She had two hours and thirteen minutes to explain to her boss that she'd been secretly dating the franchise quarterback.

This was either going to go very well or very badly. And given her track record with timing, she wasn't optimistic about which way it would fall.

* * *

8:31 AM - Kayla's Office

Kayla was already at her desk with two steaming coffee mugs when Y/N knocked on the open door. Her expression was alert but curious - the look of someone who'd been mentally preparing for whatever crisis had required an emergency morning meeting.

"Close the door," Kayla said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "And tell me what's got you looking like you're about to throw up."

Y/N closed the door and sat down, accepting the coffee with hands that were steadier than she felt. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to hear it from me before you hear it from anyone else."

Kayla's expression sharpened. "This sounds serious."

"It is." Y/N took a breath, then decided to just rip the bandage off. "I'm in a relationship with Joe. It's new, it's serious, and he's telling the front office about it this morning at eleven."

Kayla's coffee mug stopped halfway to her lips. "Wait. The eleven o'clock meeting with ownership? That's what he's planning to discuss?"

"Yes."

Kayla set down her mug with a soft thud, her expression shifting from confusion to understanding to something like delight. "Well, that explains why he was so insistent about scheduling it but wouldn't tell anyone the topic."

"You knew about the meeting?"

"He requested it yesterday. Said it was important and needed ownership in the room, but wouldn't elaborate." Kayla's mouth curved into a smile. "Joe Burrow being mysterious about a meeting agenda. Now it all makes sense."

Y/N felt her anxiety spike. "You didn't know what it was about?"

"Not a clue. Which had everyone speculating - contract issues, endorsement conflicts, trade requests." Kayla's smile widened. "Instead, our franchise quarterback wants to tell ownership he's dating our VP of Digital Media."

"When you put it like that, it sounds-"

"It sounds exactly like something Joe would do," Kayla interrupted, her tone fond. "Direct, honest, no games. I should have guessed."

Y/N blinked. "You're... okay with this?"

"Y/N, I've watched you two dance around each other for years," Kayla said, leaning back in her chair. "The way you light up when you talk about his content, the way he specifically requests you for everything, the careful distance you've been maintaining since your promotion. I'm not surprised - I'm relieved you finally stopped overthinking it."

"I thought we were being professional."

"You were being professional. You were also clearly crazy about each other." Kayla's expression grew warmer. "I'm happy for you, Y/N. Really happy."

Y/N felt unexpected tears prick at her eyes. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"But now I understand why you looked like you were about to throw up," Kayla continued, her tone shifting slightly. "Joe's about to walk into a room full of executives and announce he's dating his media coordinator without any warning."

"VP of Digital Media," Y/N corrected automatically.

"Even better," Kayla said dryly. "That'll make the conversation even more interesting."

Y/N felt her stomach drop. "Should I be worried?"

"About Joe handling the conversation? No. He's the franchise quarterback - they're not going to give him grief about his personal life." Kayla paused. "About the timing and optics? We'll need to manage those carefully."

"What do you mean?"

"Your promotion was six weeks ago. Some people might wonder about the connection, even though I know it's not there."

Y/N nodded, feeling the familiar anxiety return. "So what do we do?"

"We establish clear protocols," Kayla said, pulling out a legal pad. "Tyler continues handling all direct quarterback content - which was smart thinking on your part. You oversee strategy and final approval, but we eliminate any situations where your personal relationship could be questioned."

As they discussed the practical implications, Y/N's phone buzzed.

Joe: How did it go?

Kayla noticed her checking the message. "Go ahead, tell him I figured out why he was being so secretive about his meeting agenda."

Y/N: She knew about your meeting but not the topic. Says it explains why you were being mysterious.

Joe: Figured it was better to tell them in person than put it in an email.

Y/N: Very Joe of you. She's happy for us.

Joe: Good. See you after.

"He's relieved you're happy for us," Y/N said, looking up from her phone.

"Tell him I said good luck explaining to ownership why their franchise quarterback felt the need to schedule a formal meeting to discuss his dating life," Kayla replied with amusement. "That should be an interesting conversation."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

* * *

10:58 AM - Bengals Front Office Conference Room

Joe walked into the conference room with the same controlled confidence he brought to playoff games. He'd thought through this conversation the same way he analyzed defensive schemes - identify the key players, understand their motivations, execute the plan cleanly.

Ownership was already seated: Mike Brown, Katie Blackburn, and the executive team. Kayla had joined them, which Joe had expected after Y/N's emergency meeting this morning. Better to have her there - she understood both sides of this equation.

"Joe," Mike Brown nodded as he took his seat. "Appreciate you making time during the off-season. What's on your mind?"

Joe settled into his chair, hands relaxed on the table. No notes, no prepared remarks. Just the same directness that had served him well for five years.

"I wanted to inform you that I'm in a relationship with Y/N Y/L/N," he said simply. "It's serious, and I thought you should hear it from me directly."

The silence that followed lasted maybe three seconds, but Joe could read the room like he read coverage - surprise shifting to calculation, executives processing implications.

Katie Blackburn spoke first. "Y/N from our media team? The new VP?"

"That's right."

"How long has this been going on?" Mike Brown asked, his tone neutral but evaluating.

"We've been seeing each other for a few months. It became official last week." Joe's voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. "I want to be clear about something from the start - this relationship had nothing to do with her promotion. Y/N earned that position through five years of exceptional work."

He let that statement settle, making direct eye contact with each person at the table. Not defensive - just establishing facts.

"The timing of her promotion and your relationship becoming public could raise questions," one of the executives pointed out.

"It could," Joe agreed. "Which is why I'm addressing it directly. Y/N and I are both professionals. We understand the boundaries required to maintain our respective roles."

"Joe," Mike Brown said carefully, "you understand this is... sensitive. A franchise quarterback dating a member of the front office staff."

Joe nodded slowly, his expression remaining calm. "I do understand. And I appreciate that you need to handle this appropriately." He paused, his tone staying conversational. "I also think it's worth noting that I just finished a season where I threw for over 4,000 yards and led this team to the playoffs despite some significant roster challenges."

The subtle shift in the room was immediate. Joe continued, his voice still measured.

"The offensive line issues, the depth concerns at key positions - we all know what this team dealt with this season. But we made the playoffs anyway." His eyes moved around the table. "I mention that because I think my commitment to this organization has been pretty well established."

Katie Blackburn nodded slowly. "It has been, Joe."

"Good. So when I tell you that Y/N is the most talented media professional this organization has, and that she earned her promotion through merit, I hope that carries some weight." Joe's tone remained friendly, but there was steel underneath. "Because I'd hate for anyone to suggest otherwise."

The implication hung in the air - polite, but unmistakable.

"Joe, no one would suggest that," Mike Brown said.

"I'm sure they wouldn't," Joe replied smoothly. "But just so we're all clear - Y/N doesn't know I'm saying this, and she'd probably prefer I didn't - but her success reflects well on this organization. She's been documenting my career since my rookie year, and she's a big part of why our media presence has improved so dramatically."

He leaned back slightly, the picture of relaxed confidence. "I'd consider any suggestion that her promotion was connected to our relationship to be... inaccurate. And I think my track record gives me some credibility on personnel evaluations."

The room was quiet, but it wasn't tense - just thoughtful. Joe had made his point without raising his voice or changing his expression.

"Now," he continued, as if the previous exchange had been purely informational, "Kayla can walk you through the protocols Y/N has already implemented to ensure there are no conflicts of interest."

Kayla leaned forward, visibly relieved to move to practical matters. "Y/N's already transitioned Tyler to handle all direct quarterback content. She oversees strategy and final approval but doesn't work with Joe one-on-one."

"That sounds appropriate," Katie said.

"It is," Joe confirmed. "Y/N thinks three steps ahead. Always has."

"Alright," Mike Brown said, standing up. "We'll work with HR to make sure everything's documented properly. Joe, thank you for handling this the right way."

Joe stood as well, shaking hands around the table. "I appreciate your understanding. And just so you know - this won't affect my focus or performance. If anything, having someone who understands this business makes everything easier."

As he moved toward the door, Katie Blackburn spoke up. "For what it's worth, Joe, Y/N's promotion was unanimous. The executive team was impressed with her vision."

Joe smiled. "Good. Because she's exactly where she belongs."

Walking out of the conference room, Joe felt the controlled satisfaction of a perfectly executed play. He'd protected Y/N without appearing defensive, established his position without being confrontational, and made sure everyone understood exactly where things stood.

Y/N: How did it go?

Joe: Exactly like it should have. They're supportive. Kayla will handle the paperwork.

Y/N: That's it? No pushback?

Joe: Why would there be? I'm the franchise quarterback and you're the best at what you do. Pretty straightforward.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - 12:47 PM - Y/N's Office

Y/N had been staring at the same email for twenty minutes, her mind completely unable to focus on quarterly budget projections when Joe's meeting with ownership had ended almost an hour ago. She'd received his brief text saying it went well, but the lack of details was killing her.

A soft knock on her office door made her look up. Joe stood in the doorway, still in his team-issued quarter-zip, looking completely relaxed.

"Got a minute?" he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Y/N practically launched herself out of her chair. "How did it go? Seriously, be honest."

Joe's mouth curved into that subtle smile she knew so well. "Exactly like I said it would."

"That's not details," Y/N said, moving closer to him. "I need actual details. What did they say? How did they react? Are we in trouble?"

"We're not in trouble," Joe said, reaching for her hands. "Y/N, breathe. It was fine. Better than fine."

"Define fine."

Joe pulled her closer, his hands settling at her waist. "Mike Brown said they appreciate me handling it the right way. Katie confirmed your promotion was unanimous and had nothing to do with us. Kayla will handle the HR paperwork. End of story."

Y/N searched his face, looking for any sign of concern or uncertainty. "That's really it? No pushback, no concerns about optics?"

"None that matter," Joe said simply.

"What does that mean?"

Joe was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "They needed to understand that questioning your qualifications or suggesting your promotion was connected to us would be... problematic."

Y/N's eyes widened. "Joe, what did you say?"

"Nothing dramatic," he replied, though there was something in his expression that suggested otherwise. "I just reminded them that I had a pretty good season despite some organizational challenges, and that my opinion on personnel carries some weight."

"You didn't..."

"I protected you," Joe said firmly. "Without being dramatic about it. Just made sure everyone understood where things stand."

Y/N felt something warm and overwhelming rise in her chest. "You really did handle it."

"I told you I would."

"But I was so nervous, and you were just... confident. Like you knew exactly how it would go."

Joe's hands moved to frame her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Because I did know. Y/N, We're both good at our jobs. We're both adults. There was never any real question about how this would go."

"Again you make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Joe said, leaning down to kiss her softly. "Everything else was just noise."

When they broke apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his. "I can't believe we're actually doing this. Like, officially doing this."

"Finally," Joe said, his voice dropping lower. "No more hiding. No more pretending I don't want to touch you when you're in the same room."

"No more storage room meetings," Y/N added with a laugh.

"Definitely no more storage room meetings," Joe agreed. "Though I have to admit, there was something exciting about the secrecy."

Y/N pulled back to look at him. "You're not going to miss it?"

Joe's expression grew more serious. "I'm not going to miss watching you worry that someone might see us together. I'm not going to miss you editing yourself out of conversations because you're afraid of how it looks. I'm not going to miss pretending that what we have isn't important."

The honesty in his voice made Y/N's throat tighten. "It is important."

"It's the most important thing," Joe confirmed. "And now everyone important knows it."

Y/N's phone buzzed on her desk, breaking the moment. She glanced at it to see a text from Sam.

Sam: Emergency lunch. I need details about whatever has you glowing like a Christmas tree.

Y/N showed Joe the message, making him laugh.

"Looks like the news is spreading," he observed.

"Sam's been suspicious for weeks. She's going to lose her mind when I tell her."

"Good," Joe said, kissing her forehead. "I want people to know. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours and we're done pretending otherwise."

The possessiveness in his voice sent heat through Y/N's chest. "Yours, huh?"

"Completely," Joe said without hesitation. "Is that a problem?"

"Not even a little bit," Y/N replied, standing on her toes to kiss him properly.

When they broke apart, Joe's expression was soft but determined. "So what happens now?"

"Now we go back to work," Y/N said practically. "I have meetings, you probably have film study or workouts or whatever quarterbacks do in January."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight you come home to my place and we celebrate not having to sneak around anymore."

Joe's smile was slow and satisfied. "I like the sound of that."

"Good," Y/N said, straightening his quarter-zip unnecessarily. "Because I have about five years of not being able to touch you in public to make up for."

Joe kissed her once more, quick but thorough, then moved toward the door. "I'll see you tonight. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"No more worrying about this. It's handled. We're handled. I promise."

As he left her office, Y/N sat back down at her desk with a completely different energy than she'd had all morning. The email about budget projections was still open on her screen, but now she could actually focus on it.

For the first time in months, maybe years, she wasn't carrying the weight of hidden feelings and careful boundaries. She was just Y/N, VP of Digital Media, who happened to be dating the franchise quarterback.

And apparently, that was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Her phone buzzed again.

Sam: Lunch in 10 minutes. Don't even think about canceling.

Y/N smiled, already reaching for her purse. Sam was going to absolutely lose her mind, and Y/N was finally ready to tell her everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

* * *

July 15, 2025 - Training Camp Begins

Y/N arrived at the facility early for the first day of training camp, coffee in hand and her usual equipment bag slung over her shoulder. The summer air was thick with humidity and the promise of another season ahead. It had been six months since Joe's meeting with ownership, six months of being openly together, and this was their first time back in the facility as an official couple.

The parking lot was packed - players' cars mixed with media vehicles and staff arriving for the official start of football season. Y/N spotted Joe's truck in its usual spot and smiled. No more careful timing of arrivals, no more pretending she didn't notice his schedule.

"Y/N!" Tyler jogged up behind her as she approached the main entrance. "Ready for another season with the happy couple?"

"Tyler," Y/N said with mock warning, though she was smiling.

"What? The whole building knows at this point. You two have been spotted around town enough."

It was true. Over the off-season, she and Joe had been careful but not hidden. Quiet dinners at upscale restaurants, private boxes at UC basketball games, the occasional charity event where Joe felt comfortable being seen. The local media had covered their relationship with respectful interest - positive coverage that focused on Joe's happiness rather than invasive details.

As they walked through the facility corridors, Y/N noticed the differences immediately. Staff members smiled at her with a warmth that felt more personal than professional. No more careful nods or polite distance - she was Joe's girlfriend now, not just the VP of Digital Media.

"Morning, Y/N!" called out one of the equipment managers. "Tell Joe I've got his lucky practice jersey ready."

"Will do," Y/N replied, feeling the easy familiarity of being part of the team family in a completely new way.

"Look who's back," Sam's voice came from the communications office doorway. "How does it feel to be Cincinnati's most private power couple?"

"Like we're doing it right," Y/N laughed. "Joe's not exactly built for the spotlight when it comes to personal stuff."

"No kidding. The man gives one-word answers about you in interviews and somehow still makes it clear he's completely gone."

"He's protective of what matters to him."

"Including you," Sam said with obvious affection. "It's actually really sweet how he handles it."

The media room was buzzing with activity as Y/N set up for the day's content shoots. Through the windows overlooking the practice fields, she could see players arriving for the first official practice of training camp.

"Y/N!" Ja'Marr Chase's voice came from the doorway. "How's it feel to be back?"

"Good to be back, Ja'Marr. You ready for another season?"

"More than ready. And can I just say, it's about damn time you two stopped pretending."

Y/N felt her cheeks warm. "We weren't pretending, we were being professional."

"Girl, you were torturing yourselves," Ja'Marr said with a laugh. "The whole team could see it. Joe's been different since y'all got together - more focused, less uptight. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

Before Y/N could respond, Kayla appeared beside Ja'Marr.

"Ja'Marr, don't you have a practice to get ready for?"

"Yes ma'am. Y/N, good to have you back where you belong."

As Ja'Marr headed toward the locker room, Kayla turned to Y/N. "How are you feeling about today? First time back as an official couple?"

"Good," Y/N said honestly. "Excited, actually. No more pretending, no more careful scheduling."

"Joe seems settled. You both do."

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with a text.

Joe: First day back. Feels right being here with you.

Y/N: Feels right not hiding.

Joe: Never hiding again. See you at lunch?

Y/N: If you're not too exhausted from practice.

Joe: Never too exhausted for you.

Around eleven, as she was reviewing content schedules, there was a soft knock on her office door. Joe appeared in the doorway, still in street clothes before practice started.

"Got a minute?" he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"Always," Y/N replied, looking up from her computer. "Ready for the first practice?"

"More than ready. Excited." Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist as she stood up from her chair. "I missed this place. Missed working here with you."

"We've been together all off-season," Y/N pointed out.

"Not here. Not where it all started." Joe's expression grew more serious. "Y/N, having you here, being able to be open about us - it makes everything better."

"Even with people watching?"

"Especially with people watching. I like that the team knows you're mine."

The kiss was brief but thorough, and Y/N marveled at how natural it felt to be affectionate with him here, in her office, without worrying about who might see.

"Go get ready for practice," she said when they broke apart. "Show them why you're worth all the fuss."

"What fuss?" Joe asked with that subtle smile.

"The fuss of dating the VP of Digital Media."

Joe's expression grew more serious. "Best decision I ever made."

As he reached the door, he paused and turned back.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Love you. See you at lunch."

"Love you too," she replied, her heart doing that familiar flutter it still did every time he said those words so casually, so certainly.

After he left, Y/N returned to her work with a sense of completeness she'd never felt before in this building. For five years, she'd been excellent at her job while carrying the weight of hidden feelings. Now she could be excellent at her job while being completely herself.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam.

Sam: Saw your boyfriend's pre-practice office visit. You two have mastered the art of being together without being dramatic about it.

Y/N: Joe doesn't do dramatic.

Sam: No, but he does do completely devoted. The whole building can see it.

Y/N smiled, looking out her window at the practice field where Joe was now warming up with the team. For the first time in five years, she could watch him work without having to hide how much she admired him, both as a player and as a person.