#trying to end 2020 on a good note

[jaesvelvet]

reconnection

SUMMARY ➤ You've been longing for Robert Reynolds for seven years now. No matter how hard you try to let him go, your heart refuse to do so but after a weird moment of being trapped in your own nightmare, you finally found Robert. On a local news along side with the new Avengers.

PAIRING ➤ Robert (Bob) Reynolds x fem! reader

GENRES ➤ Angsty with happy ending

WARNINGS ➤ THUNDERBOLTS* spoiler ahead A tiny part of suicidal scene, reader is in deression but no one's helping, and mention of drugs

WORDS COUNT ➤ 4k words

NOTES ➤ it took so long for one fic and i'm sorry about it!!! i thought i was ready to be back but i was so insecure of my writing to the point i've had to disregard my two enha's fic )): also it's so obvious that i already watched thunderbolts* ^^ the movie was so good i had to write for bob's character.

Soon after Robert announced that he is going somewhere to get himself on a track– nobody would even guess he would volunteer himself to an untrusted medical research. Presumming the naive man would surrender himself as soon as the doctor said it would turn him into a better man– he must have signed whatever papers given without having second thoughts.

Robert tries to be better, but at the end of the day, he cannot escape the household he’d been living in. You’re the only one who can truly see how hard it is to avoid all the drugs, lean into a healthy life, and live a life without any disturbing surroundings. But he keeps coming back to square one. 

He always asked you to leave him once he relapsed, but you stood there, firmly. He was so sure you’re here because of sympathy and not because of him. He wants to believe in you but it’s not that easy because at the end of the day, he always ended up alone.

In late 2020– three years before The Avengers found a way to bring back half of the population, he had enough of this shit. He slowly began to realize that you’re here because you want to. The hopeful feeling slowly began to rise inside of him after so long. With his parents having been blipped, he finally can breathe. No more fights, screaming and sounds of hitting. He is lowkey on Thanos’s side in this war but keeps his mouth shut, you lost half of your family in the blip and he simply does not want to hurt you; the person whom he cares most about. 

But he only works on his plan, seven years later. Thinking he cannot leave you like this, not when your emotional state is not stable. And the other reason— he is broke and needs more than his ‘savings’ to change himself.

He landed in Malaysia after hours on the air, his smiles wide, thinking of how he can be a better person after this project and how he can finally prove to everyone that he isn’t just a useless human being. Ah. the thoughts of your ‘I’m so proud of you, Robert” lingers in his mind. He would text you if his phone wasn't confiscated by the researcher, he assumes it would be hours of research and everything will change after that.

Robert soon curses at himself as soon as he hears that he is not the only volunteer they had, they all died during the trial but it is too late for him. He is trapped in the metal coffin that they put him in. He tried to scream and punch everything but it was all useless. Soon he feels the temperature slowly rising up and his body feels tense all of sudden scares him. At this moment he thought that staying alive would be the ideal prayer he can utter right now. He couldn’t die now, not with your face still haunting his thoughts.

His whole body started to ache, his energy slowed down and his scream got slower. His body can’t take whatever they gave him right now, but it looks like the thing is being forced down inside of his body. He cannot even wriggle in pain due to limited space, the only words he could utter at that moment was “Stop…” 

The void left by Robert’s absence weighs heavily on you as you grapple with uncertainty of his fate.

“You’re wasting yourself waiting for him” 

You try your best to move on. Your friends told you that a meth addict was better off without you anyway, you tried to ignore them but the pain of longing is much worse than you think. For seven months you couldn’t meet anyone to replace Robert, you can’t understand the exact reasons why your heart still longing for him, the probability of him died in some foreign country is high and you are ready to accept the fact that Robert is gone but your heart still couldn't fathom this ‘statement’.

“Maybe he was there somewhere…” is the only excuse you can give to your friends although deep down, you don’t even know what to expect anymore.

Your high hope of Robert make you all alone, your friends start to keep of their distances on you, your siblings seems to give up to support your stance of ‘Robert is there somewhere’ and your parents seems to accept that their daughter might suffers from some mental health problem but do nothing to help– they thought paying for psychiatrist and medications are waste of money if you still hoping for the man. 

And that’s when you decided you are better alone anyways. Starting your day in your rented apartment with leftover food from last night, settling into the couch that your sister handed down to you when she’s decided to move from New York and suddenly your surroundings turning black all of sudden. 

Your breathing unsteady at first, thinking that this is a dream– or did you depress enough to start hallucinating things? You gulped down your saliva, nonetheless you start walking– very slowly, searching for a starting point but all of the sudden the black scenery quickly turns into an airport. The day was sunny and there’s a lot of cars parked at the waiting area; it felt like a deja vu for a moment before you spotted two familiar figures hugging outside of your parents car. 

It was you and Robert. 

You walk closely with the two of you hugging. You tried to hold your tears but failed when you saw Robert’s face when he broke the hug.

“I’ll be back better than before, then we can talk about us. I promise you this time” Robert said with a gentle touch to your cheek before you both parted ways.

“Please don’t go…” you sobbed. Your voice trembling with desperation. But it was clear– you were invisible to them. As Robert’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance, the scene suddenly reset. Again, he turned to leave and once again your tears went unheard. You shook your head, whatever this was, it seems like you’re trapped in your own nightmare.

The repeated scene in front of you causes you to feel light headed, you walk away from the scene, hoping for a way out and suddenly you’re in your own bedroom. You sigh in relief, your heart still pounding fast from the strange experience you felt. You’re about to land on your bed before a sound of cries could be heard. You brows furrowed, searching for the source of the sound around the bedroom.

You gasped in silence when you saw yourself on the floor, on the other side of the bed. Staring blankly at the pills on your palm. 

You remember this moment, it was months after everyone returns from being a dust but not your Robert. It was tough for a few weeks, you can’t accept fate. There’s no news or phone call from him. You are tired of waiting for him after years of praying for him to come back in one piece. The pills on your palm was the answer, your soul is nowhere to be found, and maybe taking your own life would be ideal. 

“This is not the way…” you sobbed. 

The old version of yourself slowly turned to face you. A faint, almost bittersweet smile played on her lips as she raised the pills to her mouth and swallowed them in one gulp

“We are always alone” she whispered, the words echoing through the room like a curse carved into time. 

You stood frozen, powerless. Watching yourself spiral, watching the weight of silent suffering crush someone who was—still is—you. It was unbearable. The isolation, the desperation, the quiet resignation etched in her face—it made you feel small, fragile. Pathetic.

You screamed every name you could think of, mom, dad, your sister and even Robert. Hoping if anyone could hear your desperate hoarse voice even if it is a faint sound but to your dismay, there’s no answer. You ran through the endless corridors, searching, pleading for a way out just to find every door you opened led to another nightmares of your past. 

All of the painful memories greet you at every turn– echoes of moments you tried so hard to bury deep down in your head. It felt like you’d been running for hours, maybe even longer, your legs seemed to give out but you can’t give up just yet. The last thing you want is to die in the maze of your own sorrow and regret. 

Then without warning,  the darkness began to dissolve, the screams faded, the air lightened and the oppressive weight lifted.

And suddenly– you were back. Sitting on your couch, in your living room. Silence. 

Everything looks the same… but you weren’t.

It wasn’t long enough for the news of the New Avengers broke, soon after the chaos of ‘the Void’ (according to the news) ended, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine; the director of CIA immediately announce of the new Avengers including Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier and John Walker, the second Captain America that killed a civilian in public eyes. You don’t even trust the new group she formed, hell you couldn't care less at this point. You almost choked on your water as your eyes glued on the man on the right side of the group. A man who wears a blue crewneck sweater with light brown corduroy pants with curly hair that goes unnoticed. 

The glass slipped from your hand and shattered the moment it hit the floor. You instinctively covered your mouth, eyes wide. Your breathing grew unsteady again. You froze in front of the television for a moment before a sudden phone call jolted you into reality. 

Still shaken from the shock, you answered the call from your sister. A shaky hello is all you could manage at the moment. 

“Am I seeing this right? Bob is on the television? Bob joining the Avengers?” she asked. Her voice was laced with impatience and disbelief. 

“I- I don’t know… You see him too?” you asked her. It’s hard to confirm what you’ve been seeing after the ‘episode’ you had earlier.

“Duh! Everyone can see it! He disappeared for seven years just to be an Avengers? He looks so uncool with that ordinary outfit. Maybe I can help with his out–”

You ended the call, her ranting was more than enough to prove that you’re not hallucinating. The person on the television was Robert. Your Robert. 

If you followed your instincts you'd drive to the Watchtower right now to confront him. But you stopped yourself. You need to be ready. If you’re going to face Robert, you have to be prepared– both physically and mentally. At the very least, you needed to look presentable to meet him after so long. 

Your outfit wasn’t terrible and the makeup you’d applied to make you look presentable wasn’t bad either. Everything seemed fine– on the surface. But you couldn’t bring yourself to step out of the car. Your grip on the steering wheel was so tight to the point your knuckle turned white. It has been so long waiting for Robert. You should at least be excited to meet him right?

But in this case, you couldn't pinpoint exactly what you’re currently feeling right at the moment. Anger, Sadness, Anxious, Happy. It’s all blended into one. 

A knock on your window pulled you out of your thoughts. A police officer stood outside, gesturing for you to roll it down. You did so without hesitation, your fingers still trembling slightly.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you can’t park here,” he said politely but firmly. At that moment you realized that your car stopped near the building– which is crowded with cranes and construction workers. 

“Oh... right. I’m sorry,” you murmured, trying to gather yourself. “I didn’t mean to stay long.”

He nodded, not pressing further. “Alright. Just be sure to move along soon.”

As he walked away, the pressure in your chest returned. You looked back at the looming Watchtower building for a few seconds. You decided to park a little further away from the building. A big sigh escapes from your mouth. You’re here. You waited seven years for him. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.

This is it, you thought. No more stalling.

Your hand reached for the door handle, it is now or never. 

“Where’s Bob?” Alexei asked, both of his hands carrying four bags of heavy grocery as if it's nothing. 

“In his new room I guess” a man with blonde hair answered lazily, he was about to leave the pantry, his eyes glued on a foreign person behind Alexei. 

“Ah, great. Does Valentina send us a new PR manager so her reputation is untouchable? Cause let me tell you, we owner her now, one bad decision she ended up with President Ross in the raft” the blond whinged.

“Ah no no… Valentina does not send her here. I am” Alexei clarified.

“You want us to have a PR Manager?” he asked, one brow lifted in confusion.

“No, fool. This is our number one fan!” Alexei chirped. A huge and wide smile could be seen from his face. He put the groceries down, and gently pushed you forward to properly introduce you to the man. 

You recognized the man standing in front of you—he was the second Captain America after Steve Rogers. You were sure of it; the day he was announced, his face had been everywhere.

Walker’s confused expression quickly shifted to one of disapproval. He shook his head as he looked between you and Alexei.

“No… no… Alexei you can’t bring some random people in here! She could be some secret agent or something or just some creep!” he grumbled. 

You’re about to open your mouth to defend yourself but Alexei cuts you off immediately.

“She is harmless. We’re going through security seven times, no guns and knives on her, I guarantee that” 

Walker rolls his eyes back, first day as the new Avengers, Alexei already does so much work in marketing their team. The blonde let out a small sigh while the older male still trying to reassure him. Seeing the tense in the room, you clear your throats to gain their attention which is a success. 

“I’m not a secret agent or some creep, I just want to meet Robert. I’m his friend” you speak up

“Bob got another friend?” Walker asked 

You nodded your head slowly. Seems like Robert still uses the nickname ‘Bob’ to introduce himself to others. You dropped the nickname a long time ago, you thought the name Robert sounds too good not to use, besides he also likes being called Robert by you.

“I met her in the lobby. She begging to meet Bob, I thought she is a fan” 

“Fans or friends. She cannot be in here. I’ll call the security–” 

“Please! I’m begging you, I need to meet him, even for a minute.” you pleaded, the sound of desperation in your voice is noticeable which makes the stern Walker having second thoughts.

“Okay sure. But under one condition” 

You expect the usual would be; having almost thirty guards surrounding you, security check for the nth time and you need to talk to him in the visiting area but your assumptions went straight out of the window when they ask a girl with platinum blonde hair or they called her as Yelena to accompany you to meet Robert. 

You trailed along behind her silently to Robert’s room, the walk from the pantry isn’t that far,  but on each step, your hand grew colder. You glance at Yelena, you’ve seen her once– on the news yesterday but even from that brief impression, she seemed confident, brave and a kind of person who genuinely cares for others. You could tell by how cautious she is before allowing you to meet Robert. 

You didn’t even know what kind of relationship she had with him but you can’t help but feel slightly insecure. You used to be Robert’s safe place. You were always there for him, through every hell he endured. But now, it was Yelena the others trusted with him.

Was she really trustworthy?

You knew how naive Robert could be. That’s what worries you most—that this “new Avengers” crew might be filling his head with promises, just to turn him into their next lab rat.

“Well, Bob doesn’t mention he has a friend” Yelena spoke up, breaking the silence between the two of you. 

You frowned slightly, a sharp pang tightening in your chest.

“He hasn’t?” Seven months—seven long months—you waited for him like a fool, and he hadn’t even mentioned you to his new friends?

A slow wave of regret crept over you. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

“Well, it’s only fair. We just met 48 hours ago and his memory is still hazy after the incident” Yelena answered. 

You stop in your tracks and so does Yelena, the blonde girl turned around to face you with a confused face.

“I– is he okay?” you asked, the news hasn’t covered much about him, they only talk about the other superheroes hence you don’t even know why they took Robert as well. Does the medical research he went to seven years ago link into this chaos?

“Yeah, he’s fine. But just don’t pressure him into remembering things, he can’t control it yet” Yelena said. 

“It?” you asked in confusion. What exactly happened to him?

“Uh, the thing yesterday, it was him– not entirely him but his dark side I would say” 

You fell silent, a chill spreading through you. Had they already made him into their lab rat? For seven months, he has been suffering alone all these months?

Your steps grew heavier as you followed her through the quiet corridor. The sterile lights overhead flickered slightly, casting shadows that seemed to dance with your thoughts. Every footstep echoed your anxiety.

“Bob?” Yelena knocks on his door once before Robert opens it up, with a wide smile plastered on his face. 

“They gave me a good bed!” he exclaims

“Uh yeah, good for you…” Yelena smiles at him, she hasn’t checked her room yet, too busy dealing with the superiors with Bucky. She took a look at Robert's room, it was huge and comfortable, much better than her old room. 

“I think I want to request some books, vinyl records and oh! Maybe a huge TV–”

“Uh, Bob?” Yelena cut him off gently.

Robert turned, eyebrows raised—until Yelena stepped slightly to the side, revealing the girl who had been standing quietly behind her.

Robert froze, stunned into silence. It took him a few seconds to fully register the woman standing in front of him. But when recognition finally clicked into place, his eyes welled with tears, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Y/N” 

Without another words you ran towards him and he caught you in a warm hug. It was surreal, almost unbelievable to feel Robert’s arms around your waist again. You had dreamt of this moment for so long and now it was all real, the realization broke you into tears as you clung tightly to him.

On the other side of the room, Yelena let a small smile form on her lips. It felt good to see people reunited, wrapped in each other’s arms, finding happiness again. She dreamed of that too—especially on the days that felt heavier than most.

Her found family meant everything to her. And now, with her sister Natasha gone, all she could do was keep moving forward. Still, deeply inside she longed for the same kind of peace the two of you had just found in each other.

“Seven months… I’ve waited for you for seven months, Robert” you speak up after a moment being in each other's embrace.

Robert wipes the tears off from your cheek while nodding his head.

“I’m sorry– everything happened so fast, one moment I was in a metal coffin and the next thing I knew I was in a vault and met them” he explained. From the moment Robert regained his consciousness inside the OXE Vault, everything felt like a blur to him. The sight of four strangers in cool suits locked in a deadly battle made him nauseous.

He can’t remember the details but he remembered the tension in his body and when he turned into the Sentry, it felt good. For the first time in forever, everything felt right. He wanted to fly straight to you and show how powerful he became but then again he suddenly collapsed after feeling a buzzing from his new costume and waking up once again not remembering anything. 

He got a little too excited with the news of the new Avengers and the fact that he had a room of his own again. It was a lot to take in after everything. He hated that it distracted him, even for a second.

“I’m sorry” he added

You shook your head, this time it is your turn to wipe the tears off his cheek. 

“I’m just glad that you’re okay. Everyday I pray for you to come back to me.” you snivelled. 

“I’m here now, I will not leave you again. No more volunteer to any medical researchers shit” he slightly chuckle

You scoff at his banter, slowly removing your arms from his waist. 

“You have a lot to tell me, Robert. I can’t wait for us to go back home and–”

“Um, not trying to ruin the moment here but he cannot go back home” Yelena cuts your word. You turn your face to her with a confused expression. 

“What? Why? He is just civilian like me” 

“Uh no… Apparently Bob is one of us now, the thing about medical research make him powerful” Yelena explained

You glance at Robert for a moment, then shift your gaze back to Yelena.

“So about the ‘It’ thing you said earlier–”

“Yup” Yelena Yelena answered before you could even finish your question—already anticipating it. She was worried Robert might try to force the memories back too soon.

“So, can I stay?” you asked her

Yelena seems caught off guard with your question, it tooks a second for her to make a decision. 

“Just don’t let Bucky see you,” she said and left the room.

You turn to Robert again, now his face mirroring your facial just now– the confused look. You let out a small laugh and held both of his warm hands. 

“She cares for you a lot, I can tell. I need to beat her in this one-sided competition” you joked. Robert smiles at you and caresses your cheek– the things that he always does to you, it was more like a habit when the two of you are close like this.

“She feels like a sister to me. A sister that I never had, I don’t know why though, but you… You’re the most special person ever in my heart. The person who trusts me the most. Thank you for waiting for me, I really appreciate you. I really do” 

“I think I love you a little too much to the point that no one in earth can replace you” 

“My girl, I love you too. So much! Gonna spend all of this moment with you forever!” He pulled you into a tight hug and spun you around, making you let out a small shriek in protest, laughing as you begged him to stop.

“I’m glad you found friends that truly care for you, Robert. Me and your other friends are always on your side, through thick and thin” 

Robert’s heart is getting warm hearing your words. He grew so used to the word alone, he nearly forgot what it felt like to be surrounded by people who truly cared. His memories are still foggy, but after meeting the others yesterday, he knew one thing for sure. He is not alone anymore. 

​​For the first time in forever, the void is finally filled with something beautiful.

[weneeya]

touch starved

m.list | rules

pairing. msby x reader

characters. hinata, atsumu, sakusa, bokuto

note. omg i heard 2020 is back? guess i'm back with it then

Hinata or touching cheek to cheek

You always came to watch Hinata play, there was no exception to the rule. He was your lovely boyfriend, and obviously your favourite player. It was the first match of the season today, and you were in the front row to see him be as good as he always was. 

When his team won the game, you made your way through the crowd to join him and the rest of his teammates. You waved at Bokuto who saw you first, before your boyfriend turned around and yelled your name with a bright smile. You almost ran and jumped his open arms. 

The second you were in his arms, Hinata pressed his cheek against yours, making both of you chuckle a little. He loved doing this so much. It was a simple touch, leaving no room for imagination on your relationship with him, but without being too demonstrative. 

Hinata did not care, but you were more discreet than him, and he understood that you did not want your intimacy to be shown to the whole world like this. Pressing your cheeks together was the best way he found to keep being clingy to you in public. 

Atsumu or hiding his face in your neck

Everyone knew how much Atsumu loved to be seen, to have all the attention on him all the time. He was the biggest show-off you ever met, and sometimes you wondered how you ended up dating a guy like him. Until you saw the way he looked at you, and how needy he was between your arms when you two were alone. 

Today was no different. It was early in the morning and you were making breakfast for the two of you. Alone in the kitchen, you were softly humming to the song playing on the radio while cooking the eggs. You were stopped by two strong arms sliding around your waist to keep you in place, and a nose nuzzling against the skin of your neck. 

You giggled softly at the feeling, and one of your hands rested on his arm around you. It was too early for Atsumu to be awake, so you were not surprised to see him being so sleepy and touchy. 

“You should have stayed in bed,” you told him in a soft voice, and he grumbled something against your skin. 

“Missed ya…” You understood in his half said words, before you put the eggs on the side and turn off the gas. 

You slowly turned around to be facing him, but it did not last long, his face soon hidden back into your neck. You ran your fingers on the back of his neck, and he hid his face even more, if only it could be possible. It was those moments which made you remember why you loved this man so much.

Sakusa or feeling your pulse

Sakusa hated crowds, it was nothing new : and being a world famous volleyball player did not help at all. He despised them, but he could not simply avoid them all of the time. Thankfully, you were now by his side to help him get through this. 

It was an important meeting for the teams which were about to play a friendly game for both the public and the wellbeing of practices. The real problem was how many people were there for the encounter. Sakusa was in a pretty bad mood, and everyone had noticed it, especially his own teammates. After a quick talk, Hinata made his way to bring you there. 

You were now by your boyfriend’s side, holding his hand while talking to him to try to ease his poor mind. He was glancing here and there from time to time, but his attention slowly began to focus on you. You knew he was solely focusing on you when his fingers slowly moved down to rest on your wrist. 

Sakusa closed his eyes for a second, his touch on your wrist taking note of your calm pulse. It always soothed him down, knowing how relaxed you were next to him while he was a nervous wreck. He stayed like this until he felt his own pulse slowing down, before he looked back at you. 

You gave him a light smile, and he nodded as an answer, as his lips were hidden behind his mask. With that, you waved at him and left, the match about to start.

He waved back at you before a light sigh escaped his lips. He would never be grateful enough for how much you were helping him all the time, with even the smallest details.

Bokuto or resting his head on your chest

It was safe to say that Bokuto could not wait until he finally got home to you. The man was tired from practice ; not physically, but mentally for sure. All he wanted to do was to spend time with his pretty girlfriend and care about nothing else but the comfort of your presence next to him. No surprise he almost ran away when the coach told him they could leave the gym. 

He probably never came back home so quickly before, and it almost surprised you who did not expect him to be here so soon. You were laying in bed, reading a book, when you heard the slam of the main door shutting. You did not have the time to move from your position, Bokuto was already in the bedroom. 

Before you could say anything, your boyfriend let his broad figure fall right on top of you. You gasped slightly for air, putting your book to the side so he would not destroy it. A smile dancing on his lips, he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on top of your chest. Eyes closed, he simply hummed softly in satisfaction. 

You ran your fingers through his messy hair, and it simply made him nuzzle even more against your chest. It was all he needed, your body pressed against his and nothing else around. Your chest was definitely his favorite pillow ; no wonder why you always ended up like this while laying down with him. 

You decided that it was perhaps the right time to take a break from your book and just relax for a moment. You kept playing with his hair while your free hand ran along the top of his back slowly. It didn’t take long before the two of you fell asleep like this, in the warmth of each other's embrace.

thank you for reading!!

[xxepherr]

.ೃ࿐ELECTION DAY

summary — in which austin accidentally lets it slip that hasan’s faceless (yet public) girlfriend is the woman they’re currently watching analyse the maps on CNN. 

pairings — hasan piker x politicalcorrespondent!girlfriend!reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 1893

note — i personally would have “6’4 jacked boyfriend” as his contact name so that whenever weird men try to hit on me they see that but thats just me (and this reader insert ofc) (also this is nothing special just me rambling tbh — what’s to say this political!reader doesn’t become a mini series)

THE DAY WAS HERE. election day. not only was it the day your boyfriend had spent hours upon hours preparing for for weeks, but you, too. you were a political journalist and correspondent currently working the map for CNN during the weeks in the lead up to the election. 

it was a big day for you. four years ago you were streaming your own map coverage to fifteen thousand people on twitch, accessing your sources across multiple states to provide statements on what was going on nationwide. being asked a couple months ago to run the maps in front of millions was certainly a step up, but it gave you control to speak objectively without bias unlike most of the other news anchors and correspondents that were pushing right-wing sentiment over any other coverage. 

you hadn’t seen hasan in a few weeks now unless you counted facetimes and tuning into his streams. you’d get texts while he was streaming and the occasional kaya video ( because apparently she’d been whining with your leave ). it wasn’t the same, but you were both incredibly career-driven people, so being hours apart by plane wasn’t as daunting as it probably should’ve been.

“you’re gonna be late to stream,” you laughed softly, fiddling with the cap of the bottle of water someone had gotten you. endless tabs were open on your laptop in front of you, following aspects of every state because there was still hours to go before the polls closed, so you were only needed in short segments for now to go over 2020 and 2016 county votes in particular states at a time. 

“you’re right,” hasan’s voice was slightly staticky through the phone. “i might have to focus on kornacki or fox news so that i don’t spend too long staring at you.”

“aw,” you let go of your phone, holding it between your ear and shoulder to screw the cap back on the bottle. one of the directors caught your attention across the room, holding up his hand to say that she had five minutes before they were back on air again. “i’m back on in a few . . . i’ll have your stream open on my laptop, though!”

“good luck today,” hasan said softly as he started his stream, leaving it on his opening scene while his mic was muted. people were already flooding in by the thousands. “i’ll talk to you in, what, twelve hours? i love you.”

“twelve hours,” you hummed in agreement, “i love you more,” you sighed softly, noticing that the twitch tab was reloading to take her to his ‘starting soon’ overlay. “good luck.” you ended the phone call first, quickly putting it back on do not disturb and placing it over on the table that was full of analytical notes. the board that now had the map of the united states of america was lit up again, an empty canvas waiting for you to load up the old votes to load up projected blue and red areas.

TOO MANY HOURS TO count and three hundred thousand viewers into the election, hasan was still going strong. despite the pull to watching CNN more than he probably should, he managed to force himself to switch between fox news to laugh at republican propaganda and msnbc. though, he would one hundred percent lying if he said he didn’t have CNN up on his second monitor. 

things were steadily climbing, and josh ( ettingermentum ) was back after mike from PA left the call. josh, who had been raging on ( no seriously, no one had really heard him be that loud all day ) about how the democrats fucked up was finally broken up when austin joined the call, the atmosphere shifting.

christmas sign in full view and a cold slab of a slice of pizza being shoved into his mouth, austin’s discussion on if he was being sent to prison if the republicans dominated was dwindled until josh left the call to analyse the polls for twitter. 

“ugh, can we watch something else?” austin asked, barely swallowing his mouthful of pizza first. “all i’ve done is watch fox today.”

“yeah,” hasan chucked humourlessly, clicking around mindlessly between tabs as he tried to find msnbc’s coverage. because the tabs were so small thanks to the fifty million twitter tabs he had open, he almost groaned in frustration when he accidentally clicked on the CNN tab.

 the tab where you were conveniently fiddling with the data of state of pennsylvania. it was already a dangerous game having you on screen when the chat knew what the silhouettes of you looked like — photos from behind of you walking with hasan, photos of your eyes after he tried to do your makeup, mirror fit checks with your face covered by the phone . . . chat only needed to be railroaded enough to work it out. 

just as he was about to switch tabs again, austin opened his mouth. “oh, man, i miss her,” there was a shift in his tone, more than just him speaking without thinking. familiarity shone through. from the way he casually uttered your nickname to the sigh, it was probably worse than railroading. it was the train forgetting to slam the brakes on worthy. 

hasan wisely kept his mouth shut as he switched to fox news — anything was better than CNN currently — and his eyes slowly zeroed in on the chat. question marks upon question marks until it eventually morphed into ‘holy shit she looks familiar’ and ‘girlfriend reveal????’ to ‘omg face reveal’ and his breathing faltered. 

someone switched the chat to emote only mode in the few moments he was silent for, austin thankfully following suit. glancing at his second monitor, you were still doing your thing, this time discussing the iowa flip from blue to red, completely oblivious. 

“austin,” hasan finally said, tone flat. there was no use making a big fuss out of denying it — that would just make it more obvious. 

austin chuckled nervously, awkwardly. “uh . . . sorry, hasan. i didn’t think about it . . . awkward.”

“clearly,” he grumbled, digging his fingers into his hair for a moment as he thought. the election was put on hold in his mind for a moment as he switched the screen to the full facecam. he wasn’t going to directly deny or confirm anything, so instead he said, “take what you will from what austin said. in saying that, don’t go harass her, clearly she was faceless for a reason. anyway,” hasan cleared his throat, “moving on, back to the election . . .” and he swiftly moved on like nothing ever happened ( while the mods were timing out anyone who asked about it for an entire week ).

“PENNSYLVANIA AND NEVADA ARE expected to be the closest as of currently,” you gestured to the map that demonstrated the slight wave from the blue shift. “we’re looking at about half a percent, but election night is full of surprises so . . . we’ll continue to keep an eye on that for now.” the directors in the back signalled that the camera was no longer live, and you nodded and took a deep breath. the polls weren’t looking as good as everyone had expected it would look for the democrats.

finally off the air for a much needed break, you wandered back over to your little table off to the side. notes were piling up, but upon noticing the spam of notifications flashing across your phone. weird, you thought, your notifications usually not showing up unless it came from verified accounts across all social media platforms . . . until you noticed that it was coming from your private instagram and twitter account. super weird. 

and then the text from hasan. 

6’4 SUPER JACKED BOYFRIEND: uhhh so austin accidentally told 300k people we’re dating 

6’4 SUPER JACKED BOYFRIEND: call me when ur done? so sorry

oh. on one hand the first part was exciting. three hundred thousand? it was a new viewership record for him. on the other? that means a shit ton of people knew the secret you guys had spent almost two years safeguarding. you’d wanted to keep your face out of everything because you had your own career and didn’t want his to intertwine with it. a healthy work-life balance was keeping that shit separate, but it was only really time until people found out anyway. it wasn’t the best kept secret, anyway. 

still, you weren’t mad. you sent off a quick text saying ‘it’s alr’ with a smiley face emoji and shut your phone off completely, shoving it off to the side and turning your laptop back on. you’d be back in california tomorrow, anyway, it could be dealt with then.

THE AIRPORT WASN’T AS secretive anymore. tired after only getting a couple hours of sleep because you got back to your hotel at some god awful hour this morning, it was an instant relief to see hasan waiting for you, dresses comfortably to not draw too much attention to himself — which was difficult because he was fucking huge.

either way, you had no energy to do anything but collapse into his waiting arms, letting him engulf you until you were suffocating. “this is nice,” you mumbled. “sorry i didn’t call, was so tired.”

“you’re fine,” he promised, pulling you back slightly to look at him. “i missed you,” he slipped his hand into yours, and he took your suitcase with his other hand. it was nice to be able to publicly be in his presence without worrying, so much so that you leant into his arm, tiredness dragging your feet.

“missed you more,” you said honestly, but there was more on your mind than just small talk. “where’s austin? motherfucker’s been blowing up my phone.”

hasan chuckled, “if i hear him apologise one more time i’m gonna commit a hate crime.” he then shook his head, “he wanted to stay at the house but i told him to come ‘round tomorrow . . . want you to myself first.”

you knew what that was code for, so you shook your head with a silent laugh. “let me sleep first, god.”

and sleep you did. the house was silent thankfully so you were content tucked up in hasan’s arms, stealing him from clocking in with his twitch chat for ten hours in a fit of selfishness that you were entitled too.

“austin might’ve saved our relationship,” you teased, trailing your fingers up his arm that was tightly wrapped around you, both on the verge of falling into dreamland. “now we can go out on proper dates again.”

“you can tell him yourself,” hasan’s arms tightened around her a little bit more, so full of warmth that the blanket was starting to render useless. “when he knocks our door down tomorrow morning.”

“aw, come on,” you tapped his arm a little harder, fighting the urge to gnaw on his forearm. “you love him.”

“i love you, he’s just my side piece,” he kissed the side of your neck tenderly, “night, baby.”

“g’night,” you mumbled back with a soft smile, the world drifting away for just that little bit longer until tomorrow rolled around. you could deal with your very public relationship then.

[stillmonsterz]

you know i'm down

pairing: jay x reader

genre: smut

summary: it's march 2020 and you're stuck in the house with your stepfather during lockdown. can the two of you keep it together?

warnings: stepcest, unprotected sex, swearing, dubcon, panty-sniffing, virus mention, COVID implication (?),

word count: 3.8k

--

“Yeah. Yeah, I know, things are getting crazy, but try to keep your head up, yeah? You’ll be safe,” Jay said into his phone, his forehead creasing as he spoke. His newly wedded wife had taken a trip to visit her mother shortly after their marriage, but now the government was advising that she stay where she was. The news was scaring her, and it scared Jay, too, but he couldn’t let her know that. He was her steadfast protector, her bastion, and so he reassured her that everything would be okay.

“And you’ll take care of her too, yes?” she asked firmly, referring to her daughter.

“Of course, honey. I’ll take care of her like she’s mine,” Jay said, rubbing his forehead. “I promise.”

“You’re so good with her,” his wife said. “You know, she really likes you, right?”

“I really like her, too,” Jay said softly, and it was the truth. His wife and her daughter had moved in with him three short months ago, and neither of them had caused trouble. On the contrary: Jay wished that he could see more of her daughter so they could be closer. He wanted to be a good stepfather, but she was always holed up inside of her room.

They exchanged goodbyes, I love yous, and promises to stay safe, and then Jay was alone on the couch with his own thoughts. If he sat there for too long, stewing in fear, he would lose his mind. Jay turned the television on and checked the news. They were strongly advising people to stay put for at least two weeks, and Jay made a mental note to coordinate with his employees about this in a few hours. No point riling people up and forcing them to worry about work so early in the day.

Jay was sitting on the couch with lips set in a line when you had tentatively crept down the stairs, worry etched on your features. He turned the television off and assessed you carefully. You were so similar to your mother in stature and facial features, but Jay doubted that his wife would ever don the dolphin shorts and hoodie combination you were so fond of wearing. Of course, you made it look cute. You shuffled over to him, wringing your hands. 

“Mom really can’t come back?” you asked, hovering near the other end of the couch.

Jay nodded, setting his phone on the side table. “Yeah, they really want to curb the spread of the virus,” he said, smoothing his hands down his legs. “She’ll be okay, though. There’s a lot of food at her mom’s house, and she won’t be alone. It’ll only be two weeks.”

Your lower lip trembled, and you looked away from Jay as you tried to calm yourself down. You rubbed your hands along your arms, and Jay could see that you had goosebumps. “You don’t think she got it, do you?” you asked in a wavering voice. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jay said quietly. “Look at me.” When you refused, obstinately staring at the ground, his voice became firm. “Look at me.”

You lifted your head, and he spread his arms and gestured for you to come to him. He wrapped you in his embrace, rubbing your back. You leaned on him, kneeling in between his legs as you hugged him tightly. “There’s no way that she caught it,” Jay said soothingly. “She’s been with her family the entire time. She hardly went off their property.”

“I’m just so worried. I’ve never lived through anything like this before,” you said falteringly, pulling away so you could look at his face. Jay knew you were looking at him to check for chinks in his armor, a sign of doubt. He pulled his features into a convincing mask of resoluteness and confidence. 

“It’ll all be okay,” he said, running his thumb along your cheek. “Look on the bright side, you won’t have to commute to school for two weeks.”

You chuckled, looking down as you smiled. “You’re right, Jay.” Jay liked that you didn’t try to call him Dad or Daddy. When he had first met you after a few months of dating your mom, he had been pleased to find that you weren’t the archetypal bratty stepdaughter. Instead, you were sweet and intelligent, and you hardly asked him for a thing. Jay stroked your hair comfortingly and kissed your forehead. 

“You wanna watch a movie together? Would you like that?” You nodded your assent, and Jay reached around for the remote and went on Netflix. He put something lighthearted on for you, and shortly after the movie started you rested your head on his chest. Belatedly, Jay realized that it might be somewhat inappropriate to hold you like this, with you curled up in his arms, kneeling between his legs. But you were so worried, and you needed a guiding figure there, so what else could he do?

Jay continued to rub your back as you watched the movie together. At some point, though, Jay’s attention permanently moved from the film onto you, and he studied your features closely. His wife was a very pretty woman, and started to realize that her daughter was a very pretty girl. 

Maybe this lockdown wouldn't be so bad, if he could get closer to you.

–

The next day, Jay took stock of everything in the kitchen. Thankfully, they tended to bulk-buy, so he didn’t think that they would have to go shopping for two weeks. Yesterday, you hadn’t eaten dinner, blaming your nerves for curbing your appetite. He decided to surprise you with a pancake breakfast. He smiled as he imagined you eating pancakes. You’d look so adorable with full cheeks…

As he started to gather the ingredients, he heard footsteps padding on the tiled floor. 

“What are you doing?” you asked quietly. Jay turned to face you, and his breath caught. You were rubbing your eyes, looking around the kitchen, and you were so cute. Jay swallowed thickly and returned his attention to the array of supplies in front of him. 

“Just making breakfast,” he mumbled. “Pancakes.” 

“Can I help?” He heard you come closer, and he could smell your body wash. It was fruity and playful; something from Victoria’s Secret or Lush, a store like that. It went so well with your natural fragrance, Jay had to resist the urge to sniff the air.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Jay replied, kneeling down to find where the pans were stashed. It was his house, but his wife had reorganized the kitchen to her liking, so he had trouble finding things. 

“I want to help,” you said, and Jay looked up at you. A mistake. How could he refuse those earnest eyes of yours?

“Yeah, sure,” he said, hoping he came off as nonchalant. He gave you some instructions, well-aware that his voice was somewhat strained. Jay watched you bustle around the kitchen, shamelessly checking you out. Guilt nipped at him, but he reasoned that it was just looking. There was nothing wrong with looking. And when you wore little shorts like that, you were asking to be looked at, really. 

Jay snapped himself out of it and returned his attention to cooking. He flipped the pancakes without using a spatula, and you clapped. “I wish I could do that,” you said. 

“Here, I’ll show you.” Jay wrapped your hand around the end of the pan and covered it with his own. “You have to utilize a certain flick of the wrist, but put pressure on your index finger, your middle finger, and your thumb…” When you successfully flipped a pancake with his help, you giggled, and he felt warm. Like a proud father, he thought. Just like a proud father.

As you two ate breakfast together, he could see your happiness returning. You must have been so worried about your mother, and he was glad to see you shoveling pancakes in your mouth and laughing about some video your friend had sent you. 

“You’ve got syrup all over your mouth,” Jay said, smiling. Before you could wipe it yourself, Jay wet his thumb and wiped it off, relishing in the opportunity to touch your lips. “I bet you were such a messy kid,” he murmured.

“I was,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh. “My mom was always running after me with Wet Wipes.” 

Jay chuckled at the thought, retracting his thumb. “I’m sure she didn’t mind. You were probably a cute kid, too.”

You groaned. “I was so cute. I have no clue what happened.”

You got pretty, Jay thought. 

“You think I’m pretty?” you asked, a smile playing on your lips, and Jay realized that he had carelessly complimented you. 

Jay cleared his throat. “Of course you are,” he said, desperately trying to center himself. “You look just like your mother.”

You nodded, still looking pleased with the compliment, and Jay could feel his heart racing out of his shirt. You were going to be the death of him.

–

The next day, after dinner, (another collaboration between the two of you), you had announced that you would do the laundry. Jay shook his head and handed his plate to you. “You do the dishes,” he said, smiling slyly. “I’ll take care of the laundry.”

You begrudgingly took the plate and stacked it on top of yours. “I hate doing the dishes.”

Jay laughed and ruffled your hair as he walked past you. “Doing things you hate builds character,” he called behind his shoulder. 

As soon as he got upstairs, he made a mad dash to your bedroom to retrieve your laundry basket. He didn’t have a lot of time. Jay opened your door and bent down to examine the white hamper. Pawing through your clothes, he shakingly retrieved a pair of your panties. It was painfully conservative. Weren’t girls your age supposed to be wanton little sluts? He held it up, examining it closely. Common sense told him to put it back, morality told him to put it in the hamper, and his own conscience was screaming at him to just drop the fucking panties. But something stronger compelled him to hold the panties to his nose and sniff them deeply. Your scent was intoxicating, and he sighed. Jay took a few more deep sniffs before he dropped the panties back into the hamper and walked down to the laundry room. 

It was lockdown, he concluded as he set the basket down. Lockdown was driving him crazy, turning him into a libidinous beast. Never mind that it had only been three days - three days was enough. Three days of being forced to watch as your stepdaughter pranced around in shorts that just barely hid her tight little ass, of having to smell her, of knowing that there was pussy that he couldn’t get to…that would drive a monk to drink. As long as he didn’t act on it, Jay reasoned, he’d be fine. 

-

Over the next week, you and Jay had fallen into a routine. You ate breakfast together, then you dispersed to your separate rooms- you had to do online school, and Jay had to navigate running a business over Zoom. You would eat lunch together, discussing the virus, your problems, or just comfortably sitting in silence. 

Then you squirrel away back to your room. When that happened, Jay would generally do two things in an interchangeable order. He would either retire to his office and read a business management book or go over his emails, or he would rub his dick raw in his ensuite bathroom to the thought of stepdaughter pussy. Pornography wasn’t necessary; he could just close his eyes and imagine you in those stupid shorts, imagine you taking them off and crawling towards him, imagine his hands groping your forbidden body.

 After that, he would cook dinner for the two of you, and you would watch a movie together. You liked to rest your head on his shoulder, saying that that’s how you and your mother would watch movies. So Jay would wrap his arm around you, his other hand clenching the armrest of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white as he tried to fight off his basest urges. After that, you would go to your room, and Jay would go to his room and edge himself for half an hour. 

Then, he would text your mother and tell her that he loved her.

–

A week after the lockdown had been announced, Jay checked his appearance in the mirror in the living room and frowned. He had a meeting in an hour, but he noticed that he was developing a unibrow. Normally, his wife would help him pluck the hairs.

You walked downstairs and noticed Jay scowling at himself. “What’s wrong?” you asked, standing next to him. By now, just your scent went straight to his cock, making it stir, and Jay sighed.

“Your mom’s not around, so now I’m turning into a caveman,” he said, pointing at his eyebrows. 

Your face brightened. “I can pluck them for you!”

Jay’s face fell, but he quickly put on a mask of indifference. “Oh, you don’t have to, I can figure it out,” he said, waving his hand.

You reached out and grabbed his hand. “Please, Jay? It’ll be so fun. It’ll be therapeutic. Please?”

You were the devil, he decided, the devil cloaked in the vestments of a college student. “Fine,” he relented, and you cheered.

Jay wearily stood next to the mirror as you sprinted up the stairs to get your tweezers. You bounced back down shortly, opening and closing the tweezers with the steeliness of a surgeon. 

“Sit down,” you ordered, pointing at the couch in the living room. Jay obeyed, sitting down on the far end of the couch. You straddled his waist.

“What are you doing?” Jay asked, his voice somewhat panicked.

“I have to get close to you,” you replied. Jay realized that his reaction was unwarranted and he was doing a shit job of acting like he didn’t want to fuck you, so he nodded. 

As you plucked his eyebrow hairs, Jay rested his hand on her waist to stabilize you. He stared at you as you worked; you were so lovely when you focused. Jay decided not to fight it, just for now. He languidly rubbed a circle around your waist as you plucked his eyebrows, and his other hand rested on your knee. If Jay tried, he could almost forget who you were. He could just pretend like there was no relation, that you were a stranger, that it wasn’t wrong to feel like this.

“Done!” You put the tweezers on the side table and examined his brows by tilting his head this way and that. Jay continued looking at you. He leaned back so that he was resting fully on the armrest, and your chest pressed against his due to the slight shift in position.

Jay’s voice was low and rough. “How does it look?” His hand still caressed your waist over your hoodie, and he noted that you made no move to get up.

“Very nice,” you replied, both hands still on his face. “You look very handsome now.”

Jay smiled slightly, looking you up and down. “Yeah?”

You looked in his eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”

Jay wasn’t sure who had leaned in first, but he did know that he was the one who deepened the kiss. You tasted incredible, and you weren’t a bad kisser, either. Your lips were soft and you took your time; your hands still cupped his cheeks. Jay’s hand slipped from your waist and worked its way up your hoodie, resting on your stomach. His other hand crawled up your leg, and he was endlessly grateful that you wore those dolphin shorts all the time. 

You were the one who probed your tongue at the entrance of his mouth, and you were the one who ran it along his teeth. He stroked his tongue along yours, tilting his head even further. Your hands slipped from his cheeks to rest on his shoulders.

Strangely enough, as he made out with his stepdaughter, Jay felt no qualms. All he could focus on was how good it felt, on how warm your little mouth was, on the way your body tensed as he ran his hands over you. Jay brought his hand higher, from your stomach to your ribs, until it was resting just below your breasts. He waited for you to pull away, to tell him to stop, but when you didn’t, he continued. Jay’s hand cupped your breast, and he briefly broke the kiss.

“You didn’t wear a bra?” he asked in an accusatory tone, kneading your breast. 

You shook your head.

“You wicked little minx.”

You shrugged, placing your hands behind his neck. “I normally don’t wear bras around the house. I mean, it’s just you and me in here.”

“No,” Jay whispered. “It’s not ‘just’ me.” Jay leaned in to kiss you with renewed fervor. His other hand slipped up into your shorts, fondling your upper thigh. Gently, Jay began to push you down onto the couch, until he was resting his full body weight on top of you. His hand groped at your chest, and he used both of his hands to pull your hoodie off. Finally, finally, he would get to see your body without a massive piece of fabric hiding it.

Jay moaned as soon as he saw your naked torso. He momentarily stopped kissing you to suck your tits. Both of his hands ran up and down your thighs, and he relished in your little gasps and whimpers. Jay took his mouth off of your breast and looked up at you. “You like that?”

You nodded, your face contorted in pleasure. “I like it, Jay.”

You had all but given him the green light to do whatever he wanted to your body, and almost without his knowing he began grinding his hips against yours. After leaving sloppy kisses all over your breasts, Jay kissed you again, sucking your tongue over and over again. 

He continued to rut against your clothed pussy, the friction assuaging the painful stiffness he felt in his cock. Jay knew he was pathetic. He knew how degenerate, how desperate, how sick he was. Only a freak would dry hump their stepdaughter on the couch. He didn’t even last an entire week. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to fully care, let alone to stop. Jay ground his crotch into yours, pressing you deeper into the couch, and he groaned in your mouth. 

His hands were all over you now, stroking your back, your chest, your stomach, your thighs, and he was dimly aware of your own hands snaking up his shirt. 

Jay broke the kiss again, sweat dripping down his nose. “You can’t tell anyone,” Jay said frantically as he began to unbuckle his belt. “Got that? Not your friends, not your classmates, not your mom. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, but that wasn’t enough. “Do you understand me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you said hoarsely, your lips already swollen. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Jay tossed his belt to the side and tugged his jeans down. “Our little secret, right?”

You shimmied out of your shorts. “Our little secret.”

Jay slid your panties down your legs and parted your legs, pushing one up the couch and leaving the other to hang off of the side. He glanced at you as he worked his cock a few times. “Are you a virgin?”

You shook your head. 

“Good.”

“Why?”

“I’d never fuck a virgin the way I’m about to fuck you,” Jay said. Your eyes widened in apprehension, and Jay smiled.

He pushed himself inside of you roughly. As soon as he felt your pussy tighten around his cock, its warmth enveloping him, he swore. “Oh, fuck.” Jay kept your legs pushed open as he inches himself into you. At first, he shallowly thrusts into you with about half of his length. You’re already shuddering like a whore, whining and shaking, but you aren’t wet enough for his liking. Jay reached his hand down and stroked at the area above your vagina lips, eventually finding your clitoris. He rubbed it, just enough to get you nice and sopping wet. It didn’t take long, either; you must have been as pent-up as he had been, judging by the way you were gasping. Even just a few inches had you stuttering out some words that would make your mother blush.

He pulled out of you slightly, swirling his hips, before slamming his cock into you again. You moaned, a sound so gorgeous that he had to continue. Jay pounded your pussy mercilessly, his hands keeping your legs split open. His balls slapped against your thighs almost painfully as he kept up his pace. 

“Should have done this at the start,” Jay huffed. “Should have been inside you the second lockdown started.”

You opened your eyes. “Why didn’t you?”

Good question. Why hadn’t he just fucked you like this when you had come running to him for comfort? Why had he bothered waiting? For propriety? For politeness? None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered now was the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock. 

Jay smiled slightly as he imagined how your mother would react to this: her daughter splayed out on the couch, her tits bouncing up and down, her hand covering her mouth so her moans won’t echo all over the house, and her stepfather in between her legs, fucking her ruthlessly. The scary thing was, Jay didn’t think he could stop even if your mother had walked in. Your pussy felt too good, too tight, too warm, too inviting. 

You were so wet that Jay could hear it, his cock making obscene noises as it ravaged your hole. Jay pulled out of you, breathing heavily. He dragged you from the couch and laid you flat on the rug. 

“On all fours,” he said raggedly. “Now.”

You were weak, but you obeyed his instructions, displaying your red, aggravated pussy for him. Jay mounted you and fucked you like a dog, chasing his orgasm. His hands groped around your chest and he grabbed your tits while he pounded you. He leaned his head back and let out a primal moan.

Soon, your arms gave out and you collapsed onto the floor. Jay didn’t pull out of you, couldn’t pull out of you. He braced his arms on either side of you and slammed into you, pressing his entire body weight onto you. 

He felt his orgasm approaching, and he sped up, grunting and groaning. Jay felt like he would die if he didn’t cum, and he fucked into you mindlessly. When his orgasm hit, he let out a strangled scream. He could feel the pleasure from his cock all the way to his fingertips; his hairline tingled as he emptied himself out in your pussy. 

Jay didn’t know what he would do next. He didn’t know how you would act around each other. But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had to do this again and again with you.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Queen of the Night

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.5k (including lyrics)

Warnings: injured!dean, minor angst

Summary: Dean turns to you in a time of need despite the judgmental whispers from your friends. Dean has always been the love of your life, and you’re done trying to hide it.

Square Filled: queen of the night- hey violet (2020) for @spnsongchallengebingo

Author’s Note: this is based on the song Queen of the Night by Hey Violet

x

I've bandaged your bruises, you've held back my hair Who'd've known when this started that we'd end up here, here? But you reach out and touch me, say my name like a prayer All my friends say you're dangerous, but I don't fucking care

The rain splatters on the window hard, threatening to come inside with every shake of the house. The girls came over early in the evening so they were all here before the storm started. Your friends have transformed your living room from a minimalistic vibe to that of a fairytale. Lights on strings hang from the ceiling, two tents made of up blankets cover nearly every piece of furniture, the place smells of popcorn, and pillows cover the entire floor.

It’s perfect for movie night.

“Okay, here is the last bowl of popcorn. I am making no more,” Jessica claims.

“You’ve already made six bowls,” Monica snickers and shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

“What movie are we watching next?” you ask.

“You’ve Got Mail,” Stacy grins. “I made sure to bring over the director’s cut version, too.”

The girls groan but you know they don’t mind watching that version. Stacy always brings that movie, so it’s more about giving your thoughts than actually watching the movie. Someone rings on the doorbell, and you look at the app to track the food you ordered.

“That should be the pizza,” you say. “I’ll get it.”

You walk to the front door and pull down your shirt to cover your stomach. Your favorite shirt has been in the dryer so often that you believe it’s shrunk. You open the door expecting to see the pizza, but Dean stands there instead.

No, not standing. He’s leaning against the door frame, bloody from head to toe. He’s injured. He didn’t go to the hospital. He came to you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

He leans in closer but ends up falling into your arms. Jessica screams when she sees the bloody man, putting all your friends on alert. You struggle to keep him up but you manage to get him inside and out of the rain.

“Who is that?” Monica asks.

“Dean. I’ll be right back.” You practically drag Dean into the downstairs bathroom, and he sits on the closed toilet seat. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he whispers.

“Wait here.” You leave the bathroom and walk into your kitchen where the first aid kit is. All your friends are staring at you like you have two heads. “What?”

“Nothing,” Stacy mutters.

With a shake of your head, you walk back into the bathroom. Dean has his shirt off but keeps his pants on, and you stop yourself from drooling all over him. Yes, he looks good. Too good, in fact.

“Y/N,” he mumbles.

“I’m here, Dean.”

You unpack the first aid kit and start to clean his wounds. He should have gone to the hospital with claw marks like these ones. Where’s Sam? Why isn’t he able to do this? Is he just as bad? Dean hisses when you press the alcohol pad on his wounds but gives no other reaction. You’re not equipped to give him stitches so you do your best with what you have. Before you know it, there are two piles of bloody tissues on the ground.

“Okay, Dean, you need to go to the hospital. Some of these wounds need stitches.”

“Later,” he sighs.

“Okay, well, let’s get you into bed.”

He uses you as support as you walk him to the downstairs guest bedroom. He falls onto his back and you heave both legs onto the bed. He is already snoring before you can undress him. That task is a lot harder for you to do considering he weighs a ton, but you manage to get him stripped down to his briefs. You walk to the laundry room and throw his clothes into the wash so they’ll be clean for when he wakes up.

“Are you going to tell us who that is and why he’s all bloody?” Jessica asks when you return to the girls.

“I don’t know what happened to him.” That’s a lie. You know some monster got to him but the last thing you’re gonna do is tell the girls that. “He’s sleeping right now.”

“Who is he?” Monica asks.

“Dean Winchester.”

“Dean Winchester? Is that the same Dean who got in trouble with the law?”

“Is that the same Dean who has a knife and gun collection?” Stacy asks after Jessica.

“Yes.”

“Girl, you gotta get out. That man is dangerous.”

You hear what they’re saying but you honestly don’t give a fuck about their opinions and their advice. They don’t know him like you do, and the thought of cutting him out of your life is heartbreaking.

When the night goes quiet and we're up in your room And you're kissing my fingers, and I kiss your tattoos I could play in bed with you and talk shit forever-ever If this is all a dream, wake me up never, never, never Swear to God, cross my heart, no one does it better, better Boy I luh ya, always gonna

Dean is in town for a few days after going to the hospital to get stitched up, and he decides to spend it all with you. Your friends were apprehensive when you told them he was staying with you but you don’t care what they think.

The doctor told Dean to take it easy so you two are in bed watching a movie, but neither of you is paying attention to it. You snuggle up to his side and run your hand down the bandages on his chest. He reaches up and grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers with him. Whenever he is in the same town as you, he makes sure to spend time with you even if it’s only for a few hours.

“So, where is Sam?”

“Sick.”

“You went on a hunt solo?” He nods. “Why not give it to some other hunter?”

“Didn’t need to. I handled it.”

“You got hurt.”

“I had you to fix me,” he smiles.

“You’ll always have me to fix you,” you whisper. “I hate that you’re leaving me in a few days.” Dean doesn’t say anything about that because what is there to say? “You could take me with you, you know.”

“Your life is here.”

“My life is anywhere where you are.”

“Y/N,” he whispers. “I’m dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

“My life is full of monsters.”

“Mine isn’t? You’ve met my dad and brother,” you say in a low voice.

Dean deals with supernatural monsters while you had two human monsters living under the same roof as you.

“You’ll probably get killed.”

“Better by your side than alone, right?” Dean sighs but you don’t want to upset him further. You lean up and kiss him, and he accepts your touch. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

'Cause there's something about it that brings me to life Yeah, I know all the consequences, I don't mind This holy redemption tears us in two But I can't turn my back to you Wearing your t-shirt, I'm queen of the night One hand on the wheel, and one hand on my thigh And I know it sounds crazy, but, babe, I am too I just can't turn my back to you

Being with Dean is dangerous and it definitely shortens your lifespan by at least a decade, but you’d rather be by his side where you feel more free than you ever did. Sure, monsters are always a threat but the reward is worth the risk. You’re too in love with him to care about anything other than him.

Life has given you plenty of times to abandon him but you never did. You always came whenever he called, you always fixed him whenever he was broken, and you always made time for him. You two never had the “what are we?” conversation, but you two were exclusive. No other man in your life mattered more than him, and he never slept with another woman since claiming you were his.

It didn’t take much convincing on your part to let him take you with him. He had to get back to the Bunker, and he took you with him. You let Jessica sublet from your place with all the furniture. All you had to do was pack two bags and you were all set. Your friends weren't happy to see you go but Jessica knew you hadn’t been happy in a long time. She doesn’t like Dean but she knew being in the same city as your dad and brother would have gotten you killed eventually.

You’re sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala with the windows down, allowing the wind to knot your hair. Dean gave you one of his shirts to wear which is ten times more comfier than the shirts you own. He has one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh. He doesn’t move it but it sends shivers down your spine knowing he can.

You look at Dean and rest your head on the back of the seat, grinning when he looks over at you with a dazzling smirk.

x

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[stickyspeckledlight]

Tidal Cesspool [Yan!Chrollo x GN!Reader]

Chrollo brings up your favorite literary genre in a typical conversation.

WC: 3.6k

Tags: n0nc0n mention (chrollo hasn't done anything yet, but there's...there's just a VERY brief mention), potentially a bit OOC *sweat*, borderline crack at the end

Note: Ngl I think there's an ask which covers this crack scenario. However I can’t find it but this silly lil thought was still plaguing me so here we go. If I’m not hallucinating, then don’t fault me for the “plagiarism…on accident [which I will fix immediately]” (Somerton, 2020). IF anyone knows abt such an ask then pls put it in the reblogs. Anyways this wasn't necessary I just wanted to put in a plagiarism joke before the fic starts lel

Anyway here's chrollo being a pretentious shithead who should just go and die or something (ngl sometimes i can't help but think he's shalnark expect he tries to pretend to be a gentleman lol).

enjoy my yandere comedy piece <3 xoxoxoxoxo

There is something inane to the way you stare up at the ceiling. You're sprawled over the couch like a sea star, waiting for the tide to come take you.

However, the air continues to waft over you. Continues to prick at your skin, tangling your hair and stinging your eyes.

But you're stuck to your rock. You can't move from your tide pool to the nearshore, much less the deepest of depths, even if you wanted to.

It's not because of your own attachment to the rock walls, however. Rather...

"Deep in contemplation again, love?"

A hand keeps you pressed and trapped against it; a hand that currently runs down the leather spine of a book that you think he's been going through for about a week. Probably about this or that; but most likely, a word salad of pretentious philosophy he’ll use to justify his usual fatalism and/or the Troupe’s actions. Taking after his name (which you’re convinced he must’ve chosen for himself), he does play the devil’s advocate well; but you’d say his ability to twist words to suit his own needs is much, much more impressive. And annoying. But begrudgingly, impressive all the same.

You only wish you weren’t on the receiving end of it.

Chrollo regards you with a patient smile. Joy doesn’t reach his eyes—even if he was capable of such an emotion, he’s irritatingly good at concealing his emotions—but he can never fully mask the hunger that crinkles his eyes; crinkles, like a wolf’s snout, right before it tears into prey. It's the only reason you believe in his insistence that you're of some interest to him. You don't believe in that interest being 'love,' as he likes to say, but you're wholly assured in being a passing, if not intense, interest. Like being enamored with a new show, movie, or game. For a bit, it'll be all your life is defined by, etched into the sand, but eventually, the tide will come back and wash it away like it was never there in the first place. Only truly precious things can be engraved in rock.

For him, only the Troupe is engraved there. And you'd be a fool to think you would be there, too.

The couch shifts. Chrollo's closer to you, his hand barely a pace away from the edges of your hair. Though it tries to beckon, you only ever feel repulsed by it.

...That said, if you only try to delay the inevitable, the inevitable will become much, much worse. And if he gets in a bad enough mood, he might suction you to his chest come nightfall, rather than his usual trick of the room's temperature coincidentally dropping to where cozying up to his warm body would be nice, so why wouldn't you do so? Well, nice, if you disregard the fact that it's Chrollo's body, and not someone you actually like.

You roll over with a grimace, looking up at him from where you lay. You don't bother to sit with him eye to eye yet, and soon enough, you look straight ahead. All you see are his legs and the rest of the couch.

"And I thought you were deep into that book," you unenthusiastically respond, tracing patterns into the cushions.

“Quite,” he admits, “But few things match your level of salience.”

Salience? Really? “What’s with you and talking like a book? Talk like a person, please.”

“But you understood what I meant,” he breezily counters, “Seeing as you are my only present company, it follows that in this rhetorical situation, I need only ensure that you understand me, love. And in that, I have succeeded.”

You frown, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Not this again.” You would normally bury your face in your hands, but given your position, you bury it in the couches. Sure, he’s technically not wrong, but goddamnit if it doesn’t annoy you. You thought hearing stuff like that was far behind you, with the completion of your required writing and communication classes all the way back in college…

“You’re admonishing me, yet here you are taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Says the guy whose last name is a letter off from Lucifer. Shouldn’t you be alight with exuberance?” You suppress a sneer at your own mocking mimicry.

“I never claimed any moral superiority before, though. I’m only stating facts, love,” the book is set down on the couch, next to your head. His hand inches closer. It’s a sign for you to get up.

As you rise, he continues.

“If you have complaints about my language, then you should watch your own…that’s all I’m trying to say, love. I'm not contradicting myself.”

You grumble. “I’m only saying you should talk more…casually. More normally. Swearing is a part of that.”

“Ah, but I am speaking to you like that,” Chrollo tips his head, “Casual and normal are both subjective. No two people will have the same definition of them. My and your speech are wholly normal, both from our perspectives.”

“Not from my perspective. You've always been a weirdo.”

He challenges, “Even if I cared about what was ‘normal’ or not,” his fingers entwine with yours, despite everything, “I wouldn't call your situation...normal. Do you think 'normal' applies here?"

Now he's just deliberately pushing your buttons. Raving on from some weird, philosophical ledge, twisting out technicalities to craft arguments the average sociologist would drool over. Maybe you could appreciate it more if you were the academic type, but you were never really interested in that scene. Most of what those types talk about just seem too abstract, too pedantic (pretentious) to be of any use at all. Whenever you'd overheard some of the sociology majors (either kids with no idea about what they wanted to do, or kids with parents too rich to let them fail---though, that's not to discredit the kids with a loose screw or two. You actually like those kids, but those kids also talked normally), you'd end up scoffing to yourself and rolling your eyes. You swear that those kids were doing everything in their power to use as many big, weird nobody-could-find-anywhere-besides-the-annals-of-a-dictionary words as possible to describe something that could be more easily described as "power activate many monkeh brain, so monkeh fight."

It's exhausting, and you want him to stop. At least---at least stop pretending that there's some sort of deep meaning to be twisted from this, and not just what the situation really is: "an obsessive psychopath kidnapped and imprisoned you and is trying to make you obsessive for him too because he has no capacity for real love or care."

"Whatever," you mumble, already drained. It's not a response; your response would've been begrudging agreement, followed by you sulking and him preening (even though he never seems to have to try too hard to win an argument against you; but you think it's just because he likes the overwhelming power and 'superiority' he holds over you).

No, you just want him to shut up. In an ideal world, his mouth is either sewn shut, or its not there at all. Actually, the latter would be truly ideal, because if that were the case, he would've died from dehydration hours after leaving the womb.

But, that's wishful thinking. Even when he has you stuck against sharp rock, he never resists the urge to twist his palm, grinding you impossibly closer to it.

"So you don't care about what's normal or not after all?" Chrollo muses. You bristle as his grip firms up. As you feel sharp rock edge on puncturing your skin. "That's a curious change of heart."

You groan, "Chrollo---" you swear he glows "---it doesn't matter. You can talk like some sort of cult member or something for all I care. Just because I'm annoyed at your weird pretentious hoity toity thing doesn't mean you'll stop it, considering the circumstances." You feel even more heated, and take a deep breath to try and quell it. A bit of shame creeps up your cheeks regardless, though. You're getting worked up for the worst, useless reason. Even if Chrollo egged it on, even if you hate him, even if you're just lonely and want to di---you're getting worked up over so, so, so little. "Just...just chill out or something, man."

(Or is that just his manipulation creeping into your thoughts?)

"But it's indicative all the same," He hums. His smile has dropped, leaving behind the blank expression wholly characteristic of him (the only expression that looks like it belongs). Now, he did little to hide his observation. He prowls out in the open, right below the overhead sun. Perhaps it's a contradiction, given his profession, but you understand it as sheer, almost lackadaisical confidence. "If you're able to drop your conviction so easily, even for something as small as this," his hand raises so he can rest his chin on it, leaning forward in thought. He does not let go of your hand. "Then it stands to reason you could drop the conviction that has you refusing me."

You don't mention Chrollo's many, prior claims that you'd give into him, eventually. There's no need to, because from the look in his eyes, you're both thinking about those exact same claims. A futile pursuit, he called it.

And you know? It's true.

But if you've gone this far with futility, then there's no reason to not indulge in it for as long as you can.

"Just because I get annoyed with your conversational meandering doesn't mean I'll just suddenly get all kissy wissy with you," you snap.

"You're getting caught up on the macroscopic level. Today was just a microscopic display, no?"

Despite yourself, you feel heat returning to your cheeks. To your heart. Your whole body, really.

"As if. There's nothing redeemable about these circumstances."

He'll probably cheekily mention your use of room service, curling into the luxurious bedsheets---things like that. Expected things. Actually, things that have already happened, because he really likes mentioning that. It serves its purpose of pissing you off.

He doesn't say any of that, though.

"Are you sure?" he raises an eyebrow, "I was sure you’d enjoy this kind of situation."

Anger spikes in your heart. You realize in the back of your mind its bait, that he's trying to draw out this exact reaction, but emotion already courses through you. Maybe it's because you're so shocked that he didn't go the route you were expecting---or, or---

"Me? Enjoy?" You bitterly laugh, because what else can you do in front of such sheer audacity? "Wh-what," you sardonically chortle, "The kidnapping? Losing my friends, my family---my life?!" And oh, oh no, tears bead at the edges of your eyes--- "How you---how you force me to be with you, to---to kiss you---" the words are hissed, "just so you don't massacre the people I actually care about?! And---and even then," you swallow a lump, unpleasant scenes of sufferance and cruelty unwillingly passing through your mind, "You'll just kill other people anyway?! Steal, plunder, kill, massacre---" your mouth runs with words now; your mind feels too white, too raging hot to string together coherent sentences---

And Chrollo wears that patient fucking smile.

“Love,” he blinks languidly, fluttering his eyelashes, “Are you sure you aren’t lying to yourself?”

"Why would I be lying?!" You snap. Your hand now has a vice grip on Chrollo's, which he simply responds to by drawing circles on it with his thumb. It only incenses you more. "What, annoyed that I can't be your happy little doll of your fucking fantasies and, and---"

For the first time, a chuckle rumbles in his chest. Somehow, it makes you freeze. It sends a shudder up your spine, and though you still shake with unreleased anger, it's forcibly tempered. It shouldn't be. Chrollo laughs during your conversations often. Before everything went to hell, he'd laugh with and for you. After everything went to hell, he laughs at you. Nothing boastful, of course; Chrollo's a reserved man to the greatest extreme. But it's always small. A slight rumble through his chest, a huff accompanied by a smile, and a chuckle in his throat. They're much different than the laughs with or for you---sometimes they were chuckles with a smile ear-to-ear, or even boyish giggles---but they ARE the closest thing to 'genuine' you think you'll ever be able to get with him. You hate them, but you've developed some defense mechanisms against them. They don't happen often, but when they do, you tend to be able to largely ignore them.

But what's so different about this laugh? You don't know, but something about it feels meticulous and planned. It feels---

It reminds you of the day he took you. It reminds you of all the times you've unwittingly sprung a trap.

Now that you think about it, Chrollo's smiled more in this conversation then he has in entire weeks.

"You used to ask me what kinds of books I read," Chrollo calmly starts, lifting his head to raise his book up. You did, but ever since that fateful day a few weeks ago, you haven't bothered.

"And?" You spit.

"Aren't you still curious?" There's a twinkle in his eye. It tells you that there's no choice but to be curious.

You don't want to take it. You're not going to give him the clean segway he surely wants. If not, prefers.

"No," you sneer, "I've got no interest in what a murderer likes to read. Like I said, if you want some nice little doll, go somewhere else."

"If I wanted a doll, I'd have killed and displayed you somewhere," he flippantly replies. You don't think he's serious (you think maybe it's a joke, as cruel as it is), but you can't tell at all. "What I want is you."

"Oh, so then, the 'me' you want is one locked up and currently miserable?"

"You catch on quickly," he teases. He chuckles at the glower you give him.

You think you're bleeding from the sharp rock.

"Since we both understand this, then you should know I love nothing more than some conversation, darling," Chrollo sweetly says. Sweetly, as in a weird, perverted approximation of it. You would've fallen for it before, but you don't anymore. Can't, anymore. "You haven't engaged with my interests for a good while. It worries me about the state of our relationship. Don't you think so?"

He delivers the words lightly, like a soft spring breeze, but the subtle threat doesn't go unnoticed. You feel like you're being plunged into sharp rock directly, now. Like you're being placed on a series of pikes.

"Ok, ok, ok," you breathe---you still want to scream, but maybe Chrollo's patience has started to wear, and maybe if you don't play along with his stupid little game, maybe he'll do something to you you'll really, really hate. Even more than being spooned by him in your sleep. "What are you reading? ...Chrollo."

Chrollo regards the tome in his hands almost tenderly. Almost dearly. Like a treasure. A priceless one, even, and not just something to admire before pawning to the highest bidder.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" He offers it toward your bloody, pinned hands.

You gingerly accept it, and when you do, he finally lets go of your hand. The tide still hasn't come for you.

You start to read. But you quickly notice...perplexing things. The language seems too...too normal, too casual. Not the sort of thing you'd expect to be printed in this sort of fancy leather bound book. It's not bad, of course. The prose is solid, the imagery magical, and the dialogue vivid; but it's just so...understandable. And familiar, but you can't quite place your finger on it.

Then you come across a name, and you swear you've just lost a good 10 years of your life.

“What…” a cold sweat forms on your back. Should you laugh? Should you cry? Should you rage? What are you supposed to do but ask? What CAN you do but ask? When this whole conversation---when you've been put on edge over this fuc---

“Shal has a way of tracking down info even I can't match,” he explains, running his hand over the paper, “Before his help, I never would’ve thought…” his eyes lock onto yours with a devious grin, “You had this…interest. It was a pleasant surprise."

You want to scream. You'd love nothing more than to take his head and slam it into the ground over and over---you'd love nothing more than to scream into the couch and flail your arms and legs with revulsion---you'd love nothing more than to laugh until you're blue and choking.

"H-how," you choke, "The book. And just. This. How'd you---how'd?"

"I went to a bookbinder," he explains. "I'm quite happy with the results."

Your eyes are wide. "...How long? How long did you know?"

"Long enough."

You're too mortified to be properly offended by the non-answer.

The bastard went to a bookbinder so he could physically behold the copious amounts of yandere fanfiction you consumed.

You look over at him helplessly.

"It's a fairly niche genre," he explains, like you aren't currently going through the five stages of grief, "But above all, fascinating."

Someone should just kill you.

"You've been so resistant to loving me because I stole you away. Yet, for years, you've taken escapism in these narratives of the unwilling 'darling' and doting lover."

Doting lover? That's what Chrollo is using to describe the person who imprisons? Who quashes any semblance of individuality out of a person whose only crime was being loved by the wrong person?

The leans in. "Rather than being my fantasy, don't you think you're the one living out a fantasy? I certainly never fantasized about this; of being at the mercy of someone powerful who chooses you to covet." His eyes rake over behind you, where the spoils of his recent heist lay, "Well, I never fantasize for long. I take before I drown in escapism, as you so gladly chose to."

"N-no," you weakly defend.

"No?" He hums, "But there's everything. You, unsuspecting of a charming man, who eventually betrays your trust to whisk you away. And yes, you fight. But...you aren't truly threatened. You are surrounded by all manner of luxury---even if you say you don't like it. Deep down, you're happy you're away from the life that's been giving you all manner of grievances."

"Don't tell me you can't differentiate fiction from reality," you stammer. "Why the fuck do you think just because I read about it meant I actually wanted it?"

"I didn't," he admits, "How long do you think I've had this book anyway?"

...A week or so, you think. After he took you. But he could've read a ton beforehand and only had his favorites binded. You just glare up at him in lieu of an answer.

"It doesn't matter," you raise your hands and let them fall unceremoniously, "The fact that you've read all of this makes everything worse. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised given the whole murdering thief thing, but I'll never not be surprised at just how depraved a man you really are."

"Depraved?" He smirks. That's not a good sign. "Darling," he pointedly says, "I'm not sure how much more depraved I can be than someone who gets raped vicariously through transformative fiction."

Humiliation punches you in the gut.

You choke. "If---if you---" you feel heat rise to your eyes, "You don't let me even have silly little secrets," you helplessly breathe, unable to say anything but the first thing that came to your mind when you read that damning name, "You can't let me have anything of my own."

"Not necessarily. You possess a portion of my heart." A lesser half than the one belonging to the Spider, you'd bet.

"And I'd be happy to relinquish it."

"It really does put a lot of things in perspective," Chrollo ignores you, attention turning back to the accursed book you have half a mind to tear, "How, sometimes," his eyes become lidded, "There's a small part of you that wants to give into me."

"Bullshit," you spit, reflexive more than anything, "A bunch of stupid fanfiction doesn't tell you shit about me."

"Clothes maketh the man, as they say. I imagine a similar principle applies to fiction."

"Have you even heard of---" you bite your lip, "Well, sometimes really good people read stuff that isn't deemed good or vice versa. I hear there was an artist who painted lots of cottages, but was a horrid drunk in real life. My favored sorts of stories doesn't inform my desires, and with you, I desire to skedaddle and never see your face ever again."

"Your most common tag is Stockholm Syndrome." He hums. "Say what you will; about the barrier between fiction and reality, but it tells me that, at least, a small part of you is...receptive."

You groan. "You do realize you sound like some weirdo pearl clutcher with that line of logic, right?"

"I'm not speaking in absolutes, love," he preens, "Merely that it's not remiss to consider you have some semblance of an agreeable predisposition to all of this."

"You---you're just," you want to scream, you want to tear out your eyes and ears and--- "fucking delusional and I---"

You don't realize you're heaving until a hand is placed on your shoulder. The ice it sends down your spine is enough to freeze over the fire of rage, embarrassment, and humiliation fueling you.

"Often, when people read," he begins, "They envision themselves as the perspective character while they do so. They try to feel what they do, and think as they do. Given the genre's heavy use of the second-person perspective, it's safe to say you were able to do that with ease."

"So, if that's the case..." he doesn't smile, not anymore, because there's just no need,

"Why don't you start eroding that barrier, now that the real thing is in front of you?"

It's going to be a long time before the tide comes back, you think. Until it does, you've nowhere but this cesspool.

ㅤㅤ Works Cited

Hbomberguy. “Plagiarism and You(Tube).”

Youtube, 2 Dec. 2023, youtu.be/yDp3cB5fHXQ?si=KsUuykgb8Xswn_he. Accessed 26 Mar. 2025.

Somerton, James. “James Somerton Stream .”

Youtube, 11 Dec. 2022, cant.be/botheredto?si=findlinkonwaybackmachine.. (qtd. in. Hbomberguy, Plagiarism and You(Tube)) .

plagarism joke after the fic 🔥

(it'll be off on mobile i think RIP)

[f01009]

˙✧˖° Trouble Meets Perfection 𝄞 ⋆｡˚

pairing: troublemaker!riki x classprez!yn

synopsis: at decelis academy, Nishimura Riki is the name every single teacher sighs at—a relentless troublemaker with a smirk always plastered on his face. Y/N, the no-nonsense class president, is the complete opposite: disciplined, sharp-tongued, and utterly intolerant of Riki’s constant chaos. The two share one thing—an undeniable hatred for each other that electrifies every classroom they’re in together.

genre: enemies-to-lovers, angst if you squint hard, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff

warnings: mild language, mentions of stress/pressure, mentions of insecurity, use of petnames

word count: 2.7k

naomi’s note: kind of inspired by that song “not another song about love” by hollywood ending 😭 I DONT KNOW IF ANYONE ELSE IS FAMILAR W THAT SONG BUT it was pretty popular as a gacha song in like 2020 SHSKDH it gives off enemies to lovers and i feel that riki is perfect for that trope soo 😚😚 this is my first “long” fic so if it gets boring whoops

.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

The first bell rang with the usual obnoxious clang that echoed through the halls, signalling the start of another miserable day. You yawned tiredly, you had just stayed up quite late because you had a lot to do. You adjusted the sleeves of your blazer and for the millionth time, reminded yourself that today would be no different. Another day of leading your class, dealing with ridiculous drama, and most importantly, the chaos led by Nishimura Riki.

The thought alone was enough to make your head throb. It was always like you had to babysit him, that damn headache. You had enough on your plate—endless student council meetings, keeping your grades at the top of the class, making sure every single corner of Decelis was running smoothly, and you were currently planning for the end of the year gala. But Riki was a force that you simply couldn’t ignore.

A sigh escaped your lips as you entered your first class of the day. And there he was.

Nishimura Riki, lounging in the back of the classroom, feet resting on the table in front of him as if he owned the place. His messy hair fell over his eyes, but his smirk was clear as ever, and it was aimed right at you.

“Morning, Prez,” he called, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Good morning, Nishimura.” you replied, your tone stiff. You ignored the thing your stomach did at the sound of his voice (probably organ failure) You were not going to let him under your skin, not today. You were too tired.

You made your way to the front of the room and soon started taking attendance. When you called Riki’s name, he stood up and bowed sarcastically. You heard snickers across the room before you rolled your eyes faintly “Sit down, Riki.” you said firmly. He sighed in an exasperated manner before obeying and sitting down, putting his head down.

The teacher arrived soon after and class began, but it wasn’t long before his attention shifted back to you. He scribbled something in his notebook, ripped the page out, and, without warning, threw it at her desk toward her. It landed softly on your desk, a direct hit.

You didn’t flinch, already used to his antics. You picked the note up, unbothered, unfolded it, and read it out loud. “Nice hair. Hope it doesn’t get caught in your books”? A laugh spread across the room, though your expression remained the same. “Very funny, Riki. You’ve seriously outdone yourself this time.” you said unamused in a flat tone.

His eyes gleamed with mischief, clearly pleased by your reaction. “Maybe next time I’ll write you a poem. What do you think, Prez?”

“Maybe you should focus on your own grades before trying to write poetry for me.” You shot back, your voice sharp.

The class erupted into small giggles and chuckles. Riki’s smirked faltered just slightly, but only for a second before he responded. “Touché.”

You turned back to the front of the class, satisfied with even just that small falter. You ignored him the rest of the period, but as always, he wasn’t one to let things slide easily. Throughout the lesson, you could feel his eyes on you, glaring at you. The almost palpable tension between you buzzed in the air, thick and suffocating, like static before the storm.

Lunchtime soon came with its usual bustle of students flooding the cafeteria. You were in the lunch line, waiting to get your tray of food, but the chatter around you did nothing to calm your nerves.

And then, of course, he walked in.

Riki strode past you, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, his friends trailing behind him like little puppies. He leaned casually on the railing next to you, leaning closer, close enough for you to feel his breath faintly on your neck.

“You know, Prez,” he said, his voice low but loud enough for you to hear, “you need to loosen up a bit. Did you know that stress is bad for you?”

You refused to turn to look at him. “And you should spend less time bothering me and more time actually trying to pass your classes.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, clearly amused. “I pass enough.”

That tension was there again, that impossible-to-ignore electricity. You clenched your jaw slightly, muttering quietly under your breath “How are you even still in this school?”

He let out a low chuckle. “Guess I have my charm.” His fingers brushed against the edge of your shoulder, and for a split second, you didn’t know why, but your breath hitched. But you composed yourself and refused to let him get the satisfaction of seeing how much that affected you.

But Riki wasn’t done, of course.

“By the way,” he continued, his voice suddenly softer, more casual. “You’ve been looking exhausted and stressed lately. Maybe you need a break.” He leaned in even closer, his face hovering right next to yours, and whispered, “Let me know if you need a real distraction. A stress reliever, if you may call it.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his implication. You fought the urge to turn around and ki—no, slap the smirk right off of his face. Instead, you step away from him, glaring at him. “Do yourself a favor, Riki, and stay away from me. I have enough to deal with.” With that, you walked out the line, deciding to skip lunch and go straight to your next class.

He just watched you walk away, his smirk never fading. “Sure thing, Prez. But you’ll come around eventually!” he calls out.

The days that followed were filled with the same old back-and-forth insults, teasing, and that ever present tension. You stopped trying to understand why he kept pushing your buttons long ago. He wasn’t just a troublemaker, he was a literal maniac—and the fact that he seemed to enjoy the conflict between you only made it worse.

But, somewhere in the middle of all of the arguments, something started to shift. You couldn’t quite place your finger on it, but you began to notice the small things. How he would defend you when someone made a rude comment about you. How he would show up to general meetings on time if it actually mattered, even if it was just to prove he could. You found yourself thinking, just for a second—that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

After a particularly stressful day when you had decided to stay back late to finish up some work, you were walking to the classroom when you heard noises from around the corner.

Riki was there, leaning against the wall, his face shadowed by the dim lights of the hallway.

“Hey, Prez,” he said quietly, his usual bravado gone. “You look like you need a break. You’ve been working your ass off, huh?”

You blinked, confused by the tone in his voice. “Huh? What’s your deal?”

He scratched the back of his head, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I know you hate my guts, but I also know you’re under a lot of pressure. The expectations, everything. It sucks.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. It was hard enough to wrap your mind around the fact he was actually being serious. He was talking about pressure? The same boy who always acted like he didn’t have a care in the world?

But there it was—an honest, real moment. No games. No snark.

“Thanks, I guess,” you said, your voice softer than intended. “but I don’t need your need your sympathy, okay?” it sounded a bit harsh, but you pushed that thought back.

Riki’s lips curled into a small, faint smile. Though a genuine one. “Not sympathy, just a reminder. You aren’t alone. If you want to talk.. I’m here. I may not be the best at comforting, but I can listen. For you.”

Your demeanor softened slightly at his words, your guard lowering just a teensy bit. “You mean that?” you respond quietly. “Promise.” he replied.

From that day forward, things between you shifted, not completely, but they did. The teasing never stopped, but there was something different now. A level of understanding beneath your bickering, a softness buried in the snide remarks. Your dynamic wasn’t about fighting anymore—it was more about finding comfort in eachothers company.

As second semester slowlyyy drew to a close, you realized you no longer hated the sight of him. In fact, it was quite hard to imagine a day without his infuriating presence. Though, you still despise when he touches you. You like it so much, that you hate it. You would never outright admit that to him.

Every student at Decelis was running on empty, cramming for exams and surviving on a diet of caffeine and stress. You, however, had one extra responsibility that was both a blessing and a curse: the school’s end-of-the-year gala. The gala we’d been fundraising for since freshman year, and now we’re seniors.

As class president, you were in charge of organizing almost everything. From the venue, to the decorations, to making sure everyone was on their best behavior. It was a huge task, and you made it your personal mission to make this the most flawless gala yet. But as always, that meant hours upon hours of work.

You spent this entire afternoon in the student council room, trying to confirm with the venue, decorations, and all of that. It was getting pretty late, the clock hit 6pm, school had ended 4 hours ago.

A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. You looked up, expecting your advisor, but instead, Riki was there, leaning on the doorframe with a smirk.

“Well, well, Prez,” his tone light but teasing. “You’re still here? Thought you’d have passed out from all that work by now.”

You barely suppressed a sigh. “I know, I know. But I can’t just let this go, the gala’s coming up already next month and there’s still so much I’ve got to do.”

He pushed off the doorframe and walked towards the desk you were at with his usual confident demeanor. “You’re stressing out again. You know, for someone who’s supposed to be in charge, you sure let the little things bother you.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?” You shot back, only half-joking. “Why are you even here anyway?”

He paused for a moment, then shrugged casually. “I don’t know, I thought you could use some help.”

You blinked, a mix of surprise anf suspicion crossing your face. “You? Help?” Are you sure you know how to do anything other than causing chaos?”

His grin widened. “Well, I may not be the most.. academically inclined student, but I’ve got my strengths. Besides, you could use a little chaos in your life, Y/N. You’re always so uptight.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did a small flutter when he said your name. He always called you “Prez” so him saying your name was new. You couldn’t help the small smile that spread on your lips. “Fine,” you mutter, shoving a stack of papers in his hands. “You can help by making sure the decorations for the gala are on schedule.”

He grinned, snatching the papers and flipping through them. “Decorations, huh? Easy peasy.”

For a moment, it was quiet—just the two of them in the room, working side by side. He wasn’t the best at following instructions, but he had a way of making things more bearable. His constant teasing wasn’t as annoying as usual, and you actually found yourself laughing and giggling slightly at his antics, even when they made no sense at all.

For the next few weeks, he helped you.

One day, you guys were in the library together, and, you don’t know how, but you’re having a “heart-to-heart” right now.

“I’m not as bad as everyone thinks.” he mutters defensively. “You’re not dumb, Riki. You just.. don’t try.” He stared at you for a moment before letting out a small, dry laugh. “Yeah, well, sometimes it feels pointless to try. Doesn’t matter how hard I work, teachers still see me the same.”

You felt a small pang in your chest. “You know,” you began softly, “it’s not just about the grades. You just.. have to show people you’re much than that.”

He just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he looked back to the front while walking. “I guess you’re right. But that’s easy for you to say.” you raise a brow slightly “What do you mean?” you ask.

“What I mean is, teachers already love you. You’re class president, no? Everyone loves you.” your expression hardens just slightly, he seemed to notice and quickly spat out “Not in that way, but—“ you cut him off. “Not everyone loves me. There’s still people who talk behind my back, and I know it.” he sighs and mutters quietly “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean— I don’t know why I said that.”

he gently takes your hand, your heart skipping a beat. “I’m sorry. For.. assuming that.” you gulp slightly at his words. “H-Huh? What are you-“ he doesn’t know what came over him, but his lips somehow end up on yours. Your eyes widen, but you find yourself kissing him back. After a while, he pulls away.

You step back, unsure of what to do. “I- I need to go.” his heart drops, just a bit, was it a mistake to you? You quickly walk off. He mutters a curse under his breath. “..Fuck.”

For the next few days, you’d been avoiding him completely. You changed the classroom that you studied in, barely sparing him glances in classes you had together. It’s not like you hated the kiss. It’s the fact you enjoyed it so much, and you wanted more, that’s what you hated. You were scared, scared that you’d fall in too deep. That was a bad thing to you. Growing up, you watched people fall out of love. You were terrified of that happening to you.

The day of the gala came, the venue absolutely packed with people. Everything went accordingly.

That was until you saw him. You tried to avoid him, going opposite to where he was headed. But he eventually saw you and began to walk up to you. Just as you were going to walk away, he gently grabbed your wrist.

“Y/N, please. Let’s talk.” he says, his expression unreadable. You sigh softly and nod reluctantly. He then dragged you to a private corner, maintaining his distance. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I don’t know what came over—“ he was soon interrupted.

“Riki, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have avoided you like that, I should have talked to you about how I felt. The truth is, I like you. I really, really like you. Too much, even. I was just scared. I loved your touch so much, and I hated that. But I’ve thought it over and.. I think I want to be with you. I want us to be together.” you sputtered out quickly, avoiding eye contact.

His eyes widened momentarily once you said that, but it was soon replaced with a softer look. “You like me? You mean that?” you nodded quickly, still avoiding eye contact as you play with your dress slightly out of nervousness.

He noticed your nervousness, inwardly chuckling. He grasped your chin slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Can you repeat that? Say you like me.” you gulped slightly, your eyes looking up into his. You got distracted for a second before you responded. “I-I like you.”

He smiled and began to lean in, not too fast but not to slow, he gave you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in as well, kissing him. He quickly encircled your waist with his arms, pulling you closer than you already were. Your hands wrapped around his neck.

After a while, he pulled away, smiling. “Does this make us official?” he asks. “Yes, Riki. I’m yours, you’re mine.” he grins at your response, bringing you into another kiss as he whispers against your lips, “I’m so glad I can call you mine now, baby.”

It was then that you realized, maybe love wasn’t so bad when it was with the right person.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind the Lens | Joe's POV | Part One

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

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

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

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 24.7k

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

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

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility 

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

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

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

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

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

Then the assistant fumbled the football.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The camera clicked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting 

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

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

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

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he'd found one.

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

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

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's that?"

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

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

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

"Which ones?" Joe asked, genuinely interested.

"Which ones what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

November 22, 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

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

Then Ryan Kerrigan destroyed his leg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

He already knew who he wanted to do it.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heard you're documenting the comeback tour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 - Rehabilitation Center 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned. "Yeah?"

"You doing anything for Christmas?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was going to spend Christmas alone.

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

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

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

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

* * *

December 20, 2020 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

But he dialed anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see. And you mentioned Christmas delivery?"

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

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

Brief pause. "Two identical snow globes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, send them, Joe replied quickly.

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

Perfect. Go ahead with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

January 2021 - Rehabilitation Center 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Off the record," she said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You tore your ACL?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned back. "Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

April 2021 - Joe's Home 

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

Instead, Joe felt restless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You watching?

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

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

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

Predictions?

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

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

Smart. But off the record?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tell her thanks and hey back.

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

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

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

Like I said, LSU connections matter.

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

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

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

Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In ways that what?" Joe prompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The recognition felt dangerous. And increasingly unavoidable.

* * *

January 2022 - Post-AFC Championship Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early 2022 Season - Bengals Facility 

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

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

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

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

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

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Redistribute?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pulled out his phone.

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

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

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Appreciate that. See you at practice.

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

* * *

November 2023 - Baltimore Ravens Game 

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

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

Not again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect. See you next week.

* * *

February 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did you have in mind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry," Joe said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early March 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I ask you something?" Olivia said.

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

"Is there someone else?"

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

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

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

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

"But there is someone," she said.

Joe felt heat rise in his neck.

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

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

"Nothing has happened," Joe said immediately.

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

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

"How long have you known?" Joe asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it.

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe hit the call button before he could overthink it.

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

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

"It's Joe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

April 2024 - Local Cafe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Joe asked, settling back down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

May 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

What if he was wrong? What if Y/N's careful attention was just exceptional professionalism rather than hidden feelings? What if her knowledge of his preferences came from years of working together rather than personal investment?

Joe set his phone down and ran his hands through his hair.

The professional complications alone were staggering. Y/N was a key member of the Bengals organization, someone whose career could be affected by her relationship with players. If things went badly, would she feel pressured to transfer to another team? Would the organization question her judgment?

And what about the media attention? Joe's relationships had always been scrutinized, analyzed, turned into public entertainment. Y/N had spent years carefully maintaining her privacy, staying behind the camera. Dating him would thrust her into a spotlight she'd never sought, subject her to the kind of invasive attention that had contributed to the end of his relationship with Olivia.

Joe thought about Y/N at team events, how she moved efficiently through crowds without drawing attention to herself, how she'd perfected the art of being essential while remaining invisible. Being with him would end that anonymity forever.

But the professional and media complications weren't what kept him awake at night. The real terror was more personal.

Y/N saw him completely. Not just the public persona or the carefully managed image, but the person underneath—his vulnerabilities, his fears, his recovery struggles, his need for authentic connection in a world full of surface-level interactions. She'd witnessed him at his lowest points and never made him feel weak for having them.

That level of being known was intoxicating. It was also terrifying.

With Olivia, Joe had been able to maintain certain emotional boundaries, to keep parts of himself protected behind professional obligations and public responsibilities. Their relationship had been comfortable partly because it didn't require complete vulnerability.

Y/N already knew too much for him to hide behind those defenses. She'd seen him cry in frustration during rehabilitation, had witnessed his fears about never being the same player, had been present for moments of doubt he'd never shared with anyone else.

Being in a romantic relationship with Y/N would mean emotional nakedness in ways Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for. No professional boundaries to retreat behind, no public obligations to use as shields. Just him, completely exposed, with someone who already knew exactly where all his weak spots were.

The thought made his chest tighten with something between anticipation and panic.

And what if it didn't work? What if they tried to transition from professional collaboration to personal relationship and it ruined everything they'd built? Joe couldn't imagine navigating his career without Y/N's understanding and support. She'd become essential to how he managed his public image, his media obligations, his connection with fans and teammates.

Losing her as a romantic partner would be devastating. Losing her as a professional collaborator would be catastrophic.

Joe picked up his phone again, the draft message still waiting.

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

Such a simple question. Such enormous implications.

He thought about Y/N's smile during their recent lunches, the way she'd leaned forward when he was talking, the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him. The signs that suggested she might be interested in something beyond friendship.

But he also thought about her years of practiced professional distance, her careful maintenance of appropriate boundaries, her skill at protecting both his privacy and her own. Y/N was someone who thought strategically, who understood consequences, who wouldn't risk important relationships for uncertain outcomes.

Maybe she'd been maintaining professional boundaries not just because it was appropriate, but because she'd recognized all the same complications he was spiraling through now. Maybe she'd calculated the risks and decided their professional relationship was too valuable to jeopardize.

Maybe Y/N had been protecting both of them from exactly the kind of emotional chaos Joe was experiencing right now.

Joe deleted the message draft and set his phone aside, admitting defeat for the night. The rational part of his mind understood that every relationship involved risk, that meaningful connections required vulnerability, that staying safe often meant staying isolated.

But rational was being overpowered by fear. Fear of rejection, fear of complication, fear of losing something essential by trying to turn it into something more.

And underneath all the practical concerns was a deeper terror: Y/N mattered to him in ways that went far beyond professional collaboration or even romantic attraction. She'd become someone he couldn't imagine his life without, someone whose understanding and support had become fundamental to how he navigated challenges.

The stakes felt impossibly high. Not just the risk of romantic rejection, but the possibility of losing the person who knew him best, who'd been there for his worst moments and never made him feel inadequate for having them.

Joe had always prided himself on calculated risk-taking, on making strategic decisions under pressure. But when it came to Y/N, every option felt dangerous. Pursuing her risked everything they'd built together. Not pursuing her meant potentially missing the most meaningful connection of his life.

As he finally headed to bed, Joe realized he was trapped in analysis paralysis, cycling through the same fears and possibilities without reaching any conclusions.

Maybe the smart thing was to do nothing. To appreciate what they had without risking it for something that might not even be possible.

Maybe the safe choice was the right choice, even if it felt like cowardice.

But lying in bed, thinking about Y/N's laugh and her protective instincts and the way she'd made him feel seen and understood for years, Joe knew that safety wasn't the same as happiness.

The question was whether he was brave enough to choose happiness over security, vulnerability over protection, the possibility of everything over the guarantee of nothing changing.

* * *

July 2024 - Alo Sponsorship Event, Los Angeles 

The Alo event in Los Angeles was exactly the kind of obligation Joe typically endured rather than enjoyed—beautiful people in athletic wear pretending to care about mindfulness while networking and taking photos for social media. But it was part of his endorsement deal, so he smiled and posed for content and made conversation with influencers and executives who mattered to his business interests.

The West Coast fitness scene felt like a different world from Cincinnati, full of people who understood personal branding as naturally as breathing. Joe moved through the outdoor event space with practiced ease, fulfilling his obligations while mentally counting down until he could escape back to his hotel.

"Excuse me, are you Joe Burrow?"

Joe turned to find a young woman approaching with the kind of confident smile that suggested she was used to getting positive responses when she introduced herself to strangers.

"That's me," Joe replied, automatically shifting into public interaction mode.

"I'm Ellie James," she said, extending her hand. "I just wanted to say I've been following your comeback story. Really inspiring stuff."

Joe nodded politely, recognizing the slight positioning that suggested Ellie had her own social media presence. She had that polished look of someone who spent considerable time crafting her image—perfect makeup, strategically casual athletic wear that was expensive but designed to look effortless.

"Thanks," Joe said. "Are you from LA?"

"New York originally, but I'm based here now," Ellie said. "I do content creation—fashion, lifestyle stuff, some modeling."

Joe nodded. She definitely had that polished LA influencer look down.

"LA seems like the place for that," Joe said.

"It really is," Ellie replied. "The energy here is incredible. So much more chill than New York."

There was something refreshing about Ellie's directness, her lack of complicated history or predetermined expectations. She was beautiful in an obvious way—young, blonde, with the kind of curated perfection that photographed well and drew attention without effort. But more than that, she seemed genuinely interested in the conversation they were having.

"How long have you been out here?" Joe asked, noting how other guests kept glancing their way as they talked.

"About two years now," Ellie said, tucking a strand of perfectly styled hair behind her ear. "It took a while to build my following here, but the collaborations are incredible. Everyone's so focused on wellness and authenticity—well, their version of it anyway."

As the evening progressed, Joe found himself returning to conversations with Ellie between his required interactions with sponsors and executives. She was easy to talk to in a way that required no emotional investment, no careful navigation of professional boundaries, no awareness of complicated history.

With Ellie, Joe could just be charming and interested without the weight of years of suppressed attraction and professional collaboration. There was no risk of devastating consequences if the interaction went badly, no possibility of losing something essential if he misread signals.

"I should probably mingle a bit more," Ellie said during one of their conversations, glancing around the room at other networking opportunities. "But this has been really nice. I don't get to meet many people outside the influencer bubble."

The comment felt like an opening, and Joe found himself responding before fully considering the implications.

"Maybe we could grab dinner sometime when I'm back in LA," he offered. "If you're interested."

"I'd really like that," Ellie smiled, and Joe could tell she meant it. The interest was clear but not presumptuous, straightforward in a way that felt refreshing after months of analyzing every interaction for hidden meaning.

They exchanged numbers with the kind of casual efficiency that felt entirely different from the careful professional boundaries that defined his relationship with Y/N.

As Joe flew back to Cincinnati the next day, he found himself thinking about the contrast between his easy interaction with Ellie and his complicated feelings about Y/N. With Ellie, everything felt simple, clear. She was beautiful, interesting, available, and interested—everything should be straightforward.

But simple felt like settling.

Joe thought about Y/N's protective instincts, her intimate knowledge of his needs, the way she'd been present for his most vulnerable moments without making him feel weak for having them. The depth of understanding that had developed between them over years of collaboration and careful trust-building.

Ellie represented safety. No risk of professional complications, no possibility of losing something essential, no requirement for emotional vulnerability that Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for.

Y/N represented everything Joe actually wanted but was terrified to pursue.

When Ellie texted the next morning—a casual message about the Alo event and a funny observation about LA wellness culture—Joe responded quickly, committing to a relationship that felt manageable rather than meaningful.

It was cowardice disguised as pragmatism. But it was also self-preservation in the face of feelings that felt too big and too risky to pursue.

For the first time in his career, Joe Burrow was choosing the safe play over the one that might actually win the game. And he knew, even as he made the choice, that he would probably regret it.

* * *

July 2024 - Training Camp 

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with familiar chaos—players returning, rookies getting hazed, schedules compressed into brutal efficiency. But this year felt different, weighted with complications Joe had created for himself during a weekend in LA that now felt like a mistake disguised as a solution.

Three weeks into whatever was happening with Ellie, and Joe was discovering that choosing the "safe" option didn't eliminate emotional complexity—it just redirected it.

On the field, everything clicked. His wrist held up under pressure, throws had their old precision, timing with receivers falling into place like muscle memory. This was the part of his life that still made sense.

Y/N moved through the chaos with her characteristic efficiency, camera over her shoulder, coordinating her team while tracking the key moments that would become the story of another season. Joe found himself hyperaware of her presence in ways that felt both familiar and newly complicated.

"Wrists looking a lot better," she called as he passed during a water break.

"Good," Joe said, rolling his shoulder.

"Wrist's holding up better than expected."

"Keep it that way," Y/N said.

He grinned despite himself, and for a moment it felt like spring again—when they'd been texting about random things, meeting for lunch, when everything between them had felt easy and full of possibility. Before he'd panicked and chosen emotional safety over authentic connection.

But Joe caught himself, the smile fading as he remembered the distance he'd been carefully maintaining since returning from California. It wasn't fair to Y/N, this withdrawal without explanation, but he didn't know how else to handle the guilt of being with someone else while still wanting to be around her.

The truth was, he'd been pulling back deliberately. Their lunches had stopped. His texts had become less frequent, more focused on work. He still sought her out during media obligations—old habits were hard to break—but the familiar rhythm between them had changed.

Y/N had noticed, of course. She was too observant not to pick up on his withdrawal, too professional to call him out directly, but he caught the questions in her glances, the careful way she'd started approaching their interactions.

Joe told himself it was necessary. Camp was intense, demanding tunnel vision. But even he didn't believe his own rationalization. The distance was about Ellie, about the guilt of developing something with someone else while still thinking about Y/N constantly.

Days blurred together in the familiar grind—practice, meetings, film study, recovery. Joe threw himself into preparation with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, using football as refuge from thoughts he didn't want to examine. His phone buzzed throughout each day with messages from Ellie—photos from LA, updates about her work, casual observations that felt designed for social media as much as personal connection.

Most evenings, Joe stayed late in the facility, reviewing film until his brain finally quieted enough to sleep. It was during one of these sessions that Y/N found him, alone in the film room with game footage frozen on the screen.

"Don't you ever take a break?" she asked from the doorway.

Joe looked over, offering a tired half-smile. "Not this time of year."

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him with the easy familiarity that had defined their relationship for years. "Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off."

"Says the woman who's been here since dawn," Joe replied, nodding toward her camera bag.

"Touché."

They sat in comfortable silence, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen. For a moment, Joe allowed himself to simply enjoy her presence without the weight of guilt. This was what he'd been missing—not just Y/N's company, but the ease of being around someone who understood his world completely.

"You've been kind of MIA lately," Y/N said lightly. "Everything good?"

The question was carefully neutral, but Joe heard the real concern underneath. Y/N had noticed his withdrawal and was giving him space to explain without demanding answers he couldn't give.

Joe didn't answer right away, his eyes staying on the paused film. "Yeah. Just... camp mode. Lot to lock in."

Y/N nodded, accepting his non-answer. "If you need a break from all this, I'm around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football."

The offer hit Joe like a physical blow. Y/N was extending exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving, the easy companionship that had made their spring lunches the highlight of his weeks. But accepting would mean spending time with her while secretly involved with someone else.

"I'd like that," Joe heard himself saying, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. "Maybe next week? When it slows down."

"Deal," Y/N said, standing and grabbing her bag. "Don't stay too late."

As she walked away, Joe remained in the film room, staring at the frozen screen. Y/N had noticed his distance, had reached out anyway, had offered exactly what he wanted but felt guilty accepting.

The mess was entirely of his own making. He'd chosen Ellie to avoid the complications of pursuing Y/N, but instead of simplifying his life, he'd created a situation where he was being dishonest with everyone—Ellie about the depth of his feelings, Y/N about why he'd pulled away, himself about what he actually wanted.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from Ellie, something light from her day in LA. He read it without responding, then set the phone aside and returned his attention to the film, using football analysis as distraction from the recognition that he'd made the wrong choice and was too much of a coward to admit it.

Y/N was giving him space to figure out whatever was happening with him, even though his withdrawal was probably hurting her in ways she'd never express directly.

* * *

November 2024 - Team Flight Back from Dallas 

Joe was trying to sleep on the team flight when his phone started buzzing incessantly. First one call, then another, then texts flooding in faster than he could read them. The victory over Dallas should have felt satisfying—another step toward the playoffs—but the sudden barrage of notifications sent ice through his veins.

The first missed call was from his security company. The second from his neighbor. The third from Ellie, timestamped twenty minutes ago.

Security breach at residence. Police dispatched. Contact immediately.

Joe's heart stopped. Ellie was supposed to be at his house—she'd flown in to see him and was waiting for his return from Dallas. But something had gone terribly wrong.

His phone rang again. Ellie's name on the screen.

"What happened?" Joe answered, keeping his voice low to avoid waking teammates nearby.

"I'm so sorry," Ellie's voice was shaky, clearly rattled. "I got to your house and found the window broken, things missing. Someone broke in before I got there. I called the police immediately."

Joe felt relief that Ellie was safe and anger that someone had violated his home. But that was immediately replaced by a different kind of panic as the implications hit him.

"Are you hurt? Did you see anyone?"

"I'm fine, just scared. I got here after it happened. The police are taking statements, trying to figure out what was taken. But Joe..." Ellie hesitated. "There are photographers outside now. Someone must have heard the police scanner. They're asking questions about why I was here, what my relationship to you is."

The blood drained from Joe's face. "What did you tell them?"

"I tried to say I was just a friend, but they're not buying it. They can see I have a key, that I was expected here. The police needed to know my relationship to you for their report."

Joe closed his eyes, already imagining the headlines, the speculation, the invasive analysis that would follow. Worse than that, he thought about Y/N finding out this way—not from him, but from police reports and social media investigation.

"I didn't know what else to tell them," Ellie continued. "I had to be honest with the police about why I was here, that we're... together. But now it's going to be everywhere, isn't it?"

It wouldn't matter how vague she'd been. The internet was relentless when it came to connecting dots, especially when it involved celebrities and attractive women. Within hours, someone would identify Ellie, trace their connection, piece together a timeline that would make their relationship public knowledge.

"I should have called you first," Ellie said, her voice small. "But I was scared, and the police were asking questions, and I didn't know what else to do."

"Don't go back to your place tonight," Joe said, his mind already working through logistics. "I'll get you a hotel room. Somewhere nice, away from all this. Text me when the police are done and I'll send you the details."

"Are you sure? I could just fly back to LA—"

"No," Joe said firmly. "I want to see you, make sure you're okay. We'll figure this out together when I land."

After hanging up, Joe stared at his phone, watching notifications multiply as the story spread across social media platforms. Someone had already posted photos of police cars outside his house, of Ellie talking to officers, of the broken window that had started this entire mess.

His relationship with Ellie, which he'd kept carefully private for months, was about to become public in the worst possible way. Not through a planned announcement or gradual revelation, but through crisis and speculation and invasive coverage of what should have been a simple break-in.

But worse than the media attention was the thought of Y/N learning about Ellie this way. After months of working closely together, of sharing professional intimacy and careful friendship, of the growing distance he'd created without explanation—Y/N was going to discover the reason for his withdrawal through tabloid coverage and social media detective work.

Joe thought about their conversation in the film room just months ago, when Y/N had offered dinner and he'd deflected with promises of "maybe next week." He thought about all the times she'd noticed his distraction, his emotional distance, his reluctance to maintain the easy connection they'd developed. She'd been too professional to push for explanations.

Now she'd get those answers whether he was ready or not.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent, then his publicist, then team management. Everyone wanted to know what was happening, how to handle the situation. But Joe found himself thinking about one person who probably wouldn't reach out directly, who would handle this news with the same professional composure she brought to every crisis.

Y/N would see the headlines, piece together the timeline, understand why he'd pulled away from their friendship. She'd realize that while she'd been wondering what had changed between them, he'd been building a secret relationship with someone else.

The team plane began its descent into Cincinnati, and Joe's phone continued buzzing with calls he didn't want to answer. Outside the small aircraft window, the city lights looked the same as always, but Joe knew that by morning, everything would be different.

His carefully maintained privacy was about to be shattered. His relationship with Ellie would become public knowledge through the worst possible circumstances. And Y/N—the person whose opinion mattered most, whose friendship he'd been too cowardly to protect and too scared to pursue—was going to learn about his emotional betrayal through internet speculation and crisis management.

As the plane touched down, Joe realized that in trying to avoid complicated conversations and difficult choices, he'd created a situation far worse than any of the scenarios he'd been trying to prevent.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility 

Joe hadn't slept. After meeting Ellie at the hotel, after holding her while she cried about the break-in, after dealing with police reports and security companies and insurance claims, he'd spent the remaining hours staring at the ceiling and dreading this moment.

Walking into the Bengals facility at 9:30 AM felt like entering a war zone. Staff members looked up as he passed, their expressions carefully neutral but eyes full of questions. Everyone knew. The story had exploded overnight exactly as he'd feared.

But worse than the general scrutiny was the thought of facing Y/N. She would have seen the headlines, pieced together the timeline, understood why he'd pulled away from their friendship without explanation.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from his agent, his publicist, his family. Everyone wanted to know how to handle this. But the only conversation he was dreading was the one with Y/N.

He knocked on the press prep room door at exactly 10:15, steeling himself for whatever he might see in her expression. When Y/N looked up from her notes, her face was perfectly professional, but Joe caught the brief flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—before she smoothed it away.

"Hey," he said, the inadequacy of the greeting obvious even to him.

"Hey," Y/N replied, her tone carefully neutral. "You okay?"

The simple question hit harder than it should have. Y/N was still looking out for him, still prioritizing his wellbeing even after discovering his betrayal of their friendship.

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking the seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed, and Joe noted how she didn't acknowledge the personal impact, didn't ask the questions she had every right to ask. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her face for any sign of what she was really thinking. But Y/N had perfected the art of professional distance.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, genuinely wanting her perspective but also hoping to gauge her emotional state.

Y/N took a deep breath, and Joe watched her deliberately push aside whatever personal feelings she might have.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

The immediate protective response was pure Y/N—even hurt and blindsided, her first instinct was to shield him from further violation. Joe felt his chest tighten with gratitude and guilt.

"That's what I figured you'd say," he said, meaning it as recognition of how well she understood him.

Y/N continued outlining strategy with the same competence she brought to every crisis, giving him tools to maintain his boundaries while managing public pressure. But Joe found himself studying her face, looking for cracks in the professional facade.

"Thank you," Joe said when she finished. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Something flickered across Y/N's expression at that—a flash of pain quickly suppressed. Joe realized too late that his gratitude for her professional distance might sound like relief that she wasn't demanding explanations he didn't want to give.

"That's my job," Y/N said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

The response was perfectly professional and completely devastating. Y/N was retreating behind job descriptions, creating distance that felt like punishment even though Joe knew he deserved it.

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing strategy, but Joe felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Y/N was helping him protect his privacy while probably wondering why he'd never trusted her with the truth.

As they finished, Joe found himself desperate to bridge the growing gap between them.

"You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

It was true, but as soon as he said it, Joe realized how it might sound to someone who had just discovered he'd been hiding a relationship from her for months.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed, her voice carefully controlled. "Even you."

Something in her tone—resignation, maybe, or hurt acknowledgment—made Joe want to explain everything. But before he could find the words, it was time for the press conference.

* * *

The Press Conference

Standing at the podium, looking out at the room full of reporters waiting to dissect his personal life, Joe felt a familiar calm settle over him. This was the part he could control—his response, his boundaries, his narrative.

He caught sight of Y/N in the back of the room, her expression focused and professional as she monitored his performance. Knowing she was there gave him the confidence to speak from the heart rather than from their prepared talking points.

"I know there's been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours," Joe began, his voice steady and clear. "Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I'm going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"I'm here to talk about football. That's what I'll be answering questions about today."

The boundary was clear and non-negotiable. Joe held firm as reporters tried various angles to return to the personal story, calmly redirecting every question back to football. When it was over, he looked toward the back of the room, catching Y/N's eye for just a moment—a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

* * *

Later That Day - Y/N's Office

Joe stood outside Y/N's office for several minutes before knocking, trying to find the right words for a conversation he should have had months ago. When he finally entered, Y/N looked up with that same professional composure, but Joe caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Y/N replied, though something in her tone suggested this was the last conversation she wanted to have.

Joe closed the door and sat across from her desk, studying her face and finding nothing but polite professional attention. The easy warmth that had characterized their friendship was gone, replaced by careful distance.

"I went off script," he said, testing the waters.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe felt a brief moment of satisfaction that she approved, followed immediately by sadness that they were discussing his press conference performance rather than the personal earthquake that had brought them to this point.

"I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning," he continued. "Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N just shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

The silence that followed felt loaded with everything they weren't saying. Joe could sense Y/N's hurt beneath her professional composure, could feel her pulling away even as she maintained perfect courtesy.

"The coverage should die down soon," Y/N said, gesturing to her monitor with the kind of efficient subject change that indicated the personal portion of their conversation was over. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

But Joe wasn't ready to retreat to safe professional ground. Not when he could feel Y/N slipping away.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, and Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing that suggested his attempt at honesty was causing her pain. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe struggled to find words. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. Joe watched Y/N's face as he said the word, noting the slight flinch she couldn't quite hide. It wasn't the right word for what they'd been to each other, but it was the only safe word he had.

"It's really okay, Joe," Y/N said, her voice carefully modulated. "I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face, looking for any opening to explain that his relationship with Ellie wasn't what the media was making it seem, that it had been a mistake born of fear rather than genuine connection.

"It's complicated," he said finally. "More complicated than what people are assuming."

Something flickered in Y/N's expression—curiosity, maybe, or hope—before she deliberately suppressed it.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

The response was perfectly appropriate and completely devastating. Y/N was giving him space to explain while making it clear she didn't expect his explanations. She was protecting herself while still protecting him.

Joe felt desperate to bridge the gap between them, to return to the easy connection they'd shared before he'd ruined everything.

"I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon," he said, the invitation spilling out before he could stop it. "Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The offer hung between them, and Joe watched Y/N's face carefully, looking for any sign that she might accept.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," Y/N replied, her tone neutral but her message clear. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

It was a gentle rejection, professionally worded but final nonetheless. Y/N was drawing boundaries, protecting herself from the kind of emotional confusion Joe had created.

"Sure," Joe said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "Just let me know."

As he stood to leave, Joe realized he'd lost more than just Y/N's friendship. He'd lost her trust, her easy companionship, the person who understood him better than anyone else in his professional life. His attempt to avoid complications by choosing Ellie had created far worse complications.

Walking back through the facility, Joe's phone buzzed with messages from teammates, family, media contacts. Everyone wanted to know about Ellie, about the relationship that had been exposed.

But the only person whose understanding he actually wanted was the one he'd already lost through his own emotional cowardice. And the text he most wanted to send—explaining everything, apologizing for the secrecy, asking for another chance—felt impossible to write.

* * *

Game Day Scene

Joe spotted Y/N on the sidelines during warm-ups, camera in hand, moving with that focused efficiency he'd watched for four years. But something was off about her positioning—she was deliberately staying in areas where their paths wouldn't cross, keeping her lens trained on everyone except him.

She was avoiding him. Not just the awkward small talk or professional distance—she was actively managing her movements to minimize contact.

He jogged over during a break in drills, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Avoiding me?" The words came out more direct than he'd intended.

Y/N turned, and for just a split second he saw something raw cross her face before the professional mask slid back into place. "Of course not. Just focusing on the content plan."

Bullshit. Joe had been reading Y/N's expressions for four years. He knew the difference between her being busy and her being careful.

"You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Her composure never wavered, but he caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

The diplomatic response rankled more than anger would have. This was what she did with difficult players, with media members she didn't trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around a steel wall.

"Right," he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game." She cut him off, her tone gentle but firm. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

The dismissal stung, but she was right about the timing. His head needed to be in the game, not on whatever this distance was about. Still, he couldn't let it go completely.

"We're talking about this later."

He started to turn away, then heard her voice.

"Joe?"

He looked back, hoping for something—an opening, a crack in that professional armor.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted despite his frustration. Even when she was pulling away, she couldn't help caring about his performance. It was so fundamentally Y/N that it made his chest tight.

"Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

As he jogged back to the quarterback group, Joe tried to shake off the conversation and focus on the game plan. But part of his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's careful positioning, the way she'd deflected every attempt at real connection.

During the game, he found himself glancing toward the sideline more than usual, tracking her movement between plays. She was doing her job with the same excellence she always brought—capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating content that would bring fans closer to the action.

But there was something different in her body language. More contained. Like she was holding herself apart from the energy of the game in a way she never had before.

When he threw the touchdown pass in the third quarter, his automatic reaction was to look for her reaction. But Y/N was already turning away, camera focused on the celebration around him instead of him directly.

The post-game interview felt hollow without her usual follow-up questions or the brief eye contact that had become their private ritual. She was there, professional as always, but the easy connection they'd built over four years felt severed.

Back in the locker room, Joe's frustration finally boiled over. He pulled out his phone and typed without overthinking it.

We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

He watched the three dots appear and disappear several times before her response came.

I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

The deflection was so obviously a delay tactic that it would have been insulting if it wasn't so unlike her. Y/N didn't run from difficult conversations. She met them head-on with the same directness she brought to everything else.

Which meant this wasn't about professional boundaries or busy schedules. This was about him.

If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

The response took longer this time.

We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Joe stared at the message, recognizing the careful balance between acknowledgment and distance. She was giving him credit for his performance while firmly maintaining the boundary she'd established.

As he drove home that night, Joe replayed every interaction they'd had since the break-in. The way she'd handled the crisis meeting with perfect professionalism. The careful preparation for the press conference. Her composed reaction when he'd tried to explain things in her office.

He'd been so focused on managing the situation, on containing the damage to his public image, that he'd missed what was happening right in front of him. Y/N hadn't just been doing her job during those conversations. She'd been protecting herself.

From him.

[sepublic]

Dana Terrace Q&A at Weebcon 2025!!!

            Since I don’t see anyone else posting it (despite not being the only person recording, I noticed at least two others), I may as well show my recording of the Dana Terrace Q&A from Weebcon 2025! I actually got to ask Dana a question myself, more on that a bit; But as for the rundown:

            If she was transported to the Boiling Isles, the person to teach her magic would of course be Eda; Dana sheepishly hesitated as she said it because it was so obvious, but at the same time what other answer would there be, besides maybe Bump??? She joked that Eda would probably get her killed, but still!

            Out of the voice cast, Wendie Malick as Eda really stuck out to Dana, being a professional who knew exactly what to do, and a pretty well-known one at that; It was Dana’s first time as a showrunner so she was inexperienced in guiding the VAs, but Wendie helped encourage Dana to offer her input.

            If asked what track she’d be in, Dana acknowledged her self-insert and acknowledged they were an Oracle, and also Beastkeeping, though noted it’d been two years, so she had trouble remembering; Indeed, IIRC she said in a Post-Hoot after the finale that her self-insert was supposed to be in Construction? Or maybe I’m just making that connection because back during the 2020 Reddit AMA, Dana brought up Construction due to being a more artsy coven.

      ��     Dana was excited how she, JBO, and Zach now had the opportunity to do all of the grosser, tense, emotionally intense things they wanted to do with The Owl House in Knights of Guinevere. KoG was actually developed towards the end of TOH’s run, in fact; During Dana’s freetime, she’d keep herself from going insane by working on this project, and eventually pitched it to her fellow head writers, who helped Dana develop the idea further. Eventually they pitched KoG to Glitch a year later. Dana described it as “messy” and “experimental” but also “fun.”

            I find this revelation interesting, because given how long production in animation takes, it always amazed me how quickly Dana was able to get another show running, after TOH ended! So learning it was technically in the works since before TOH ended fits things nicely into a timeline here; Dana didn’t simply take a surprisingly short showrunning hiatus and then come up with this, it was being formulated as TOH was wrapping up!

            No surprise, Disney and Glitch are “Night and day” in their treatment of artists and showrunners, with Dana mentioning she feels taken care of by Glitch, treated nicely.

            If Dana had the opportunity to voice one of her characters, she said –if she was suddenly good at voice acting- King, due to his “explosive range” while mentioning a KoG character who has yet to debut.

            Pitching a show is starting an idea, working on it from months to year; TOH only took a couple months before Dana pitched it to Disney, because she needed to do this, to try and see if it got any traction. She brought it a room of 2-3 people who pretended to be interested, because they’d heard a bunch of other pitches that day, so when Dana stood out, it felt nice. It takes three months for executives to decide if they want to move forward on it, and then another 3-6 months, etc.

            Dana got be involved with the voice actors as much as she wanted to and could, with seasons 1-2, she was there for almost every performance. With S2B and S3, Dana could trust Eden Riegel to direct in her place as she was more involved with writing at the time. Dana was mostly involved in writing, in figuring out the scripts and working with the weird curveballs Disney threw them; Some solutions were successful, others not as much. There were many limitations in S1.

            Every performance of Hooty by Alex in the booth was hilarious; He’d often start riffing in Hooty’s voice and going a full minute longer than his actual two lines to say. They were able to use a couple of Hooty lines, but most were unused.

            This was the part where us fans were invited to line up and ask questions!!!

            If Dana could change one thing about the show (other than the cancellation) she admitted to wanting to rewrite Once Upon a Swap LMAAAAOOOOOOOOO-

            To come up with the concept of TOH’s universe, Dana started off with the initial concept that she disliked a lot of fantasy novels and stories. So when she created, it came from a place of cynicism and negativity (not always great, in her words), and she liked to challenge herself to take something she disliked and found frustrating, and figure out a version of it she could love. So Dana turned this fantasy world into something more gruesome, scary. She put a horror spin, gave everything teeth and claws; Make it fun for her!

            Five years ago, the character Dana related to the most was Luz because of plenty of her stories, esp in regard to her father’s death at a young age and not fitting in. But now that Dana’s thirty-four, she relates to Eda a lot; She finds herself becoming more isolated and against the world. At some point she might start wearing solely red dresses.

            When creating the concept of the Collector, Dana’s thought process was wanting to create someone very ethereal and childish, and had this thought of a child flying through space, who never understood death, and liked to create chaos and destruction in his wake. She doesn’t really know why. The thought process and the galactic aesthetic of someone like that was very interesting to Dana; The Collector ended up being one of her favorite characters.

            (I find this info very vindicating, as I’ve seen people speculate that the Collector not knowing of death was a contradictory retcon done in S3 to make them more sympathetic; No, that was always the idea, since the very beginning! Since they rewrote the Collector prior to S2B, mind you; Before that, Dana confirmed during her Gallery Nucleus that they originally had a different personality and direction as seen in 2A, which is likely why that depiction was made into a separate character, an Archivist. But by Elsewhere and Elsewhen, a Collector oblivious to death was always the goal. We’re getting Ship of Theseus here about characters during the development process.)

            Onto my question!!! I asked about the Watching and Dreaming storyboard in which Odalia would’ve been there alongside the Hexsquad, watching the horizon after Belos’ defeat, and how Rebecca Bozza confirmed there was a cut confrontation between Camila and Odalia in the Archives.

            Dana mused that if Camila ever met Odalia, it probably wouldn’t be a pretty situation; There’d be a lot of glares. But there’s no canonical confrontation, so Dana could only pretend that Camila would’ve smacked her.

            I think Dana may have misheard my question? And/or she didn’t recall what they had planned for the finale (I was too shy to clarify, press her about it); It makes me wonder if the idea had been too shortlived, and the writers juggling so much (in addition to Dana handling KoG, as we’ve just discovered), that it’s since slipped her mind after two years. This does make me wonder if it was, in some part, a fluke by the storyboard artist; After all, Clouds on the Horizon had storyboards in which Amity wore the portal key necklace while confronting her mother within the Abomaton bubble.

            Of all the TOH scenes Dana wrote, her favorite was the whole third act of King’s Tide; She co-wrote it with Zach Marcus. Dana handled a lot of how it paced out, the way the dialogue came out. Sometimes Dana writes a script and it’s the most painful, struggling experience for her; So difficult to perfect and get out, requiring a thousand changes. But for King’s Tide, there it was! And she’s very proud of it. Dana has a hard time looking back at the show, because it’s like an old sketchbook for her; She’s always wishing she could’ve done something better. But King’s Tide is one of the few episodes she can say she nailed that one.

            (God I feel that. Personal aside, I think something a lot of writers take for granted is their ability to always look back and edit and revise at their own leisure, even after posting, whenever they want, until the end of time. But writers for shows don’t exactly get that luxury, especially when a script needs to be finalized so animation and everything else, its own beast, can follow suit. Can’t easily update a script –esp at the last second- without demanding the rest follow!)

            Two questions about KoG; What was the moment when Dana worked with Glitch that made her realize the difference between it and Disney? Dana was very cautious going into Glitch, and as she told some there, that she was going in like a stray cat who didn’t trust anyone, like she was left out in the cold. But slowly, over the course of the year, Dana realized Glitch actually treated their artists with respect; If someone says something isn’t working and offers another way, Glitch actually listens and changes! Wild! They’re a company (she’d rather say “group of people”) that seem very determined to learn and grow and make sure everyone’s doing right. Glitch is a far cry from Disney.

            The other question was what was the process of Glitch doing 2D animation for KoG instead of its usual 3D; Did Dana have to convince them, or were they open from the start? Dana thought Glitch was always excited to do 2D, and one of the things she was able to offer was her experience in doing a 2D show and how production for it would look. It was an arrangement that worked out for everyone, where Dana got to create her own pipeline for the show which has been working very well this far. There’s no odd restrictions from Glitch’s management, it’s been very nice.

            In regards to cosplays she’d like to see of her characters, or which stood out to her, Dana once saw a 7-foot tall (before the horns!!!) Belos cosplay that was size-accurate via giant platform boots underneath the cloak; It was awesome. Dana always loves seeing King costumes because they’re essentially giant furry suits, but she speculates it’s also why she doesn’t see many of them, because furry suits can be very intense to make. But Dana was very excited to see any KoG cosplays in the future.

            This part intrigued me, because the day prior, a fan dressed as the princess from KoG had shown up to meet Dana Terrace and I’d come across them, exchanged info, and clarified that the schedule for Dana had updated since it was announced back near the end of February; At first she was going to be there for all three days of Weebcon, but could only be there for two (On her Bluesky account, she did allude to some trouble occurring to her that Friday, which may have been the reason for this change). I’d reassured the cosplayer they hadn’t missed Dana or done anything wrong…

            And lo and behold, the person who asked the question had also met this cosplayer, and brought it up to Dana! Dana was excited and wished she could’ve seen, and asked for anyone with a photo of the cosplay to tag her on Twitter or any other social media.

            What Dana listens to when doing art is True Crime podcasts, which sucked her in during the pandemic. Other than that, she listens to classical music, as it fires certain neurons within her brain that get her very focused; She has a hard time watching anything when drawing. Sometimes Dana goes into psycho mode, pure silence; Earplugs in, nothing but the beat of her own heart, and pure focus. Locked-in, takes a certain insane mood for sure.

            A fellow Raine cosplayer asked Dana what she was most excited for in regard to KoG, and she said Episode 4!!! There’s lots of stuff Dana and co. are planning; Obviously the pilot’s not finished right now, but the things they’re thinking about are very exciting and she’s excited for everyone to see the character designs and stunning animation. Dana lamented that if she kept going, she’d end up saying something she wasn’t supposed to. She’s so quiet posting online, because otherwise she’d just be posting KoG and inevitably slip up. Overall, she’s excited.

            If Dana got to do Owl House with no restrictions, Dana absolutely would’ve leaned more into the horror theme; She initially pitched it as PG-13 and leaning more into horror, though this doesn’t mean they would’ve taken away any of the heart or sweetness between the characters (Which I’ve suspected and really appreciate to hear; Always good to have the heart beneath it all). All this means is that the intense scenes would’ve been more intense, and the tension between characters more intense.

            Overall the art direction might’ve been grittier; But during development, executives kept suggesting the crew round out the characters to make them more appealing, and at some point Dana was frustrated because her personal art style has a lot of straight lines. She would’ve liked to have leaned more into horror and the original vision, BUT she’s still very happy with how it came out.

            Someone I met and talked to earlier about Isabelle Rosalini’s role in the show, and the enormity of the feat, also brought it up again with their question about whether there was a TOH design where Dana had a specific actor in mind to play them.

            The interviewer, at that point, had the perfect segue to bring in none other than Zeno Robinson himself, who I’d just found out was going to be at Weebcon the first day I attended, and even got a signed print from him! I’d wondered if he was going to be there at Dana’s QnA and forgot to ask him about it, but of course he was. There was no way he wasn’t going to be.

            Going back to the question, Dana decided she’d want everyone to be voiced by Zeno. But in all seriousness, Dana said she wasn’t allowed to answer that question.

            If Dana hadn’t made TOH through Disney, was there a specific plotline she wanted in the show that couldn’t be added or was axed because of “the rat”? Dana would’ve loved to explore the Bat Queen’s arc (talk about good timing with the prior question mentioning Rosalini, which Dana acknowledged) and had a whole thing planned, it was going to be very sweet and somber. Dana loves drawing the Bat Queen. But when they had to cut down plotlines, BQ unfortunately had to be cut.

            Dana’s reaction to the internet’s reaction to various TOH developments wasn’t a specific one; Her stomach was always in a knot whenever an episode dropped, and she and some of the crew would watch the comment section on the sides of livestreams. It was always stressful, even if overwhelmingly positive; Zeno could relate.

           Zeno mentioned how when an artist gives so much of themselves, the art is never finished in their eyes; They could’ve always done this, or added this thing. (“It was like 90% there” Dana concurred). It’s the most presentable version within the time constraint they’re given, but sometimes it’s never like that 100% finished product one wished they had, so it’s tough as an artist to look at something objectively because you just don’t get why everyone likes it. Zeno sometimes re-listens to his Hunter audition, which Dana found so good, and wonder how he got cast. Dana clarified it was the part where Zeno freaked out.

            (Can I say how much we take for granted as fans that we can always, at our leisure, go back to update and improve our own works? Or take as long as we need to create the best version of something, without any deadlines to meet?)

            If there was a full S3, Dana confirmed to Zeno he would’ve voiced every single hypothetical Grimwalker, and that they would’ve alluded more to Darius’ mentor, talked about it more plainly for sure. Dana joked about doing it in a S4, but also clarified that would never be in the cards… Supplementary materials on the other hand!!!

           Zeno mentioned wanting to see an exploration into the past of Hunter and the prior Golden Guards, and their connection to Caleb and Belos; Like a single graphic novel, Dana concurred, as there’s so many storylines in TOH that would make awesome TOH one-shot comics. She joked to Zeno about it being time to pitch spin-offs, with Zeno replying it’s been enough time.

            When coming up with the magic system for TOH and how it contributed to the characters, and what her inspirations were, Dana explained it all stemmed from the basic idea that Luz herself can’t do it; Everyone else around her can do it so easily, with a literal flick of their wrist. Luz has to work extra-hard in drawing the complicated designs each time and remembering them, learning how to combine them in different ways, and the worst part, finding them in the first place, which Luz didn’t even know she had to do at first.

            So it might not have been the most elegant place to begin building a magic system, in Dana’s words (if she could go back and redo it, she’d have some better solutions to some walls they ran into), but for her any kind of system, be it worldbuilding or magic, has to start with how it affects the main character, why it affects the main character, what’s the purpose of the system in the first place.

            In regard to the (leaked!!!!) pitch bible, which Dana was chill about, there are a lot of things she wished she’d kept from it; The main thing she learned as a first-time showrunner was that she needed to stick to her gut more. She had to trust her instincts more, because if she didn’t like what she’s doing or the suggestions being made, then she’s going to have a miserable time for the next four years.

            One of the changes Dana did like was Lilith going from Hexside’s principal to head of the Emperor’s Coven; Being a principal just wasn’t as exciting as being behind enemy lines. Plus we got to see her fall from grace, which was really funny for Dana (same here for me). It’s tough; One needs to learn to stick to what they love, but also learn not to be precious(?) at the same time, because new and better ideas come all the time, and one needs to learn to let go of old things to embrace the new and cool things. At the same time! You need to learn how to see what’s unnecessary, and stick to an older idea; It’s a balance.

            (I feel this one a lot with GEverse.)

            Dana can’t clarify on how many KoG episodes there will be, just that the pilot is in production.

           Dana has taken inspiration from artists such as Tatsuyuki Tanaka, who she’d murder to draw like; She was just looking at some of his works before arriving to Weebcon. Hieronymous Bosch was a huge inspiration for TOH, though she doesn’t necessarily want to draw like him; She still derives from him. She loves Naoki Urasawa, and Dana and Zeno love his Pluto, which makes Dana cry everytime she reads it; She admires Urasawa so much as an artist and storyteller. He’s one of her top favorites ever.

           What’s the deal with Hooty and the Titan? It was a symbiotic relationship. Worms are a type of parasite.

            Dana would’ve loved to put a scene in S3 (it was one of her original ideas for it!) building off of how Belos tried to manipulate Luz in King’s Tide on the basis of her being human like him and so he’s trying to “help” her; She wanted to make that moment so much more longer and manipulative by setting a scene in an autumnal forest, where the leaves are falling, it’s quiet and serene and creepy, and Luz and Belos are speaking about their experiences with death.

            With Luz it was her father Manny, with Belos it’s his brother Caleb; Obviously, it’s very different circumstances, with Luz pointing out her father died. Belos killed Caleb. Them having a very intense conversation was something Dana always wanted to do, and she’s so sad she never got to do it.

            (To go on a tangent, I find this fascinating for obvious reasons, and I think the writers managed to somewhat adapt the concept into the final episode? There’s the parallels in Belos bringing up their similarities as “witch hunters” in order to gaslight Luz, as well as his Woe Is Me schtick about Caleb, only for Luz to shut it down with the very blatant point that Belos murdered Caleb, he brought that entire situation upon himself!

           In general, the parallels still manage to speak for themselves, so you can feel them shadow that canon callout by Luz. So even if the exact idea didn’t go through, I think the spirit of the contrast between these two deaths that motivate Hero and Villain in opposite ways, because of opposite roles they played, culminates in Luz having every right to call out Belos’ hypocrisy, as the theme of Death asserts itself before the Collector learns later on.)

            If TOH was given a PG-13 rating and Dana could insert one F-bomb, she deliberated on either Hooty or Eda saying it; It would take her so long to figure out where in the show. Perhaps if Hooty met Belos, he’d say it there.

            The final question: How much does an actor know about a character when coming into an audition, and how long have they known that information prior to the audition? According to Zeno, usually there’s a description and a bit of what the character is about, maybe there’s a bit on their arc. Sometimes productions are incredibly detailed, or just detailed enough. Sometimes he gets a basic idea of a character’s trajectory, their traits and inspirations, other times it’s just the main personality traits and what they like; You usually know what you need to know, and not much more than that.

            For example, Zeno didn’t know Hunter’s real name when he auditioned; He was just the Golden Guard, with Dana explaining they were being very cagey about his name, not sure of how much they could put out about him. Zeno saw his face and five lines, but one can infer things from lines; It can provide more insight into personality than the description itself.

           All in all, it's surreal to not only be in one of these Q&As, but to have recorded it myself, rewatch my own recording as I transcribe, summarize, and analyze as I normally do, and even get to ask a question myself! It was difficult figuring out which question to ask, though it appears some got away with two, but alas I was shy about appearing greedy. I suppose I overthought it, and in the end everyone who lined up got to say theirs! I guess one could say I didn't actually get my question answered after all; But if I get the fortune of another chance, I'll try something different, both as a question and potentially a drawing request! If fate deems it so.

[clawsdevour]

fogged up

wc: 1.9k content warning: smut, post-time skip, established relationship, shower sex, small mention of slapping, oral (m!receiving), reader x kiyoomi sakusa, oneshot, not proofread

note: to be honest. this plot and like little scenario has BEEN simmering in my mind since like 2020 LMFAO i jsut never started writing until this summer..

ꕮ * ׂ.﹑

It was currently 7:33 PM, and the other day you invited your boyfriend, Kiyoomi Sakusa, to sleep over at your place for the night since he’s got volleyball practice near where you resided. He’s supposed to arrive around eight which is usually the time he gets out. 

Twenty-seven minutes.. Good amount of time for an everything shower before he gets here, you thought to yourself. You’re grabbing the cute pjs you saved to wear for the night you invited him over, along with a pair of some lacy panties to add with your sleepwear if things get a bit intimate. 

The cold bathroom air hits your face when you twist open the knob and set your clothes on the marble counter. Turning on the water, as you wait for it to get warmer you start stripping yourself naked before hopping in and closing the glass door. 

You do the usual routine starting with double shampooing, a nice and hydrating hair mask, wash it off before letting your condition sit in your hair. Despite hearing all of the water shooting down onto you and the hitting the tiles, you heard something else from another part of your house. The front door. Someone got into your house. Fuck.. Is this gonna end up like that one movie where that girl dies in the bathroom?? Keep in mind, you lived alone. The door creaked to a close when you heard a heavy thud and footsteps heading towards the noise you created in the bathroom. 

You were just halfway into your everything shower when you saw the doorknob move side to side through the glass walls of your shower. The clunk of your handle slowly twisted the door open, from outside you’re staring at an eye that pierced back at you to which you knew who it was. Oh thank god, It’s just Kiyoomi!! Sighing in relief before you realized you’re completely left exposed, vulnerable and completely wet, trying to hastily cover up with just your hands.

“O-Oh.. I’m sorry” his husky voices mutters out, realizing you’re helpless naked and showering while he slams the door shut in awkwardness, still standing right outside. Both of you were in a bit of shock at the sudden interaction, the tension rose to its high even though you were separated by the door. 

“Wait Omi! Do you… wanna join me? You just got back from practice so you must be feeling really sweaty and gross right now!” peering your head out of the glass door to stare back at the blank wall that’s dividing you two. His head hung back up to ask through the walls if it was okay, to which you obliged. 

He creaks back open a sliver while asking you to excuse him for his intrusion. His tall muscular body walks in, dark eyes wide open, face slightly flushed and tried their hardest to resist seeing your bare figure covered with the sheen layer of water that glistened with every movement.

Kiyoomi brought in his clothing and set it aside next to yours as he began to undress in front of you, to which you watched from the corner of your eye while he strips his articles of clothing one by one. His lean long torso, and toned arms left you salivating. Especially when he slid down his boxers to reveal that he already had an erection that coiled out, a large and tall one at that, leaving you in shock while he’s a bit ashamed.

“I can’t help myself.” He’s standing face to face with you with the glass shower somewhat opened, looking down at you and your perky, shiny breasts. You let out a subtle giggle as you grabbed his hand to lead him in the shower with you. His deep black curls, saturated and drooped down as the water catches onto his thick hair.

Turning around to face the showerhead as you wash out the conditioner that was in your hair for a while, you felt Kiyoomi’s large hands hover around your slick waist. His head, in the crook of your neck planting a soft peck on your jaw. You felt his bare cock press and increase in size along the curve of your ass.

“Did you miss me at practice, Omi?” you could feel his mouth form into a small grin along your neck. He’s gradually sliding his dick up and down on the crevice of your ass, as he nods into you. One of his hands let go from your waist and slide up to your boob, feeling it up and flicking around your nipple as you let out small whines from his cheeky antics.

“How’d you know?” he’s moving his hand up from your nipple to your chin to position you for a kiss on the lips as you gaze back at his eyes that’re filled to the brim with lust and desire. The tapping sounds coming from the water hitting onto you two and the floor made it inaudible when you and Kiyoomi started to full on make out in the shower.

His hand on your waist eventually slid down to your slippery clit, rubbing it in slow sensational circles while you continue to receive his loving, sloppy kisses that enhanced your experience. You were the first to pull away from him to catch your breath while you turned around and kneeled in front of him to face his raging boner. He’s flushed to a rosy pink hue as you started to stroke his cock aggressively since the water made it easier to slide your fingers around his dick.

“Shit.. if you do that, I don’t know what I’m gonna end up doing with you.” His thumb reaches down once more, but to open your mouth while your undivided attention was set on him as he’s toying with your warm tongue that swirls around his calloused digit. When he took out his thumb from your slobbering mouth was when you started going down on his length. 

The warmth your mouth provided him was overwhelming, his hot breathless puffs ringing in the little heated glass room and mixed with the humidity. The amount of slick your cunt produced kept getting washed down by the water, but sucking him off made you feral and crave him even more as you bobbed your head repeatedly on it. His long fingers were buried in your sopping wet hair as he held your head to use your mouth like his own personal flesh toy.

His dick twitched like crazy in your mouth from the unbearable pleasure that he had to pull out before he came in your mouth. But you absolutely refused, you wanted all of his release in your mouth.

“Ha.. you’re kidding me…” he snickered whilst holding eye contact with you, your eyes penetrated his while he pumped his warm gooey cum into your mouth before taking it out while he watched you swallow it all down. Sticking your tongue out to playfully taunt him, he can’t help but snicker at how you just took it all like that down your throat.

“Put it in please, I can’t wait any longer Omi.. it’s been so long since you’ve been back” stepping closer to the glass wall of the shower, your hands spread across the glass that fogged, ass sticking out with the water shimmering as it runs down your back, your head is turnt to peep at him with eyes that begged with sin. 

“You’ll get what you want.” Kiyoomi splashed behind you as he closes in between the gap, his hands gripping your hips to get closer to his. You watch impatiently from behind as he’s lining up his tip with your slick entrance, the water making it a bit slippery before you felt your hole widen as his head presses into you, letting out an immense moan that rippled along the walls. 

“O-Omi..!” Moaning out his name as he starts to thrust his size into you, creating banging sounds that recoiled with the water that hits from above.

The side of your face pressed against the shower to watch him at work drilling into your pussy with all the wet squelching that echoed and mixed with sounds of the downpour. Your tits were pressed against the glass and moved whenever he pounded into you, creating foggy looking silhouettes around you. The shadows and your nipples squished around, as you’re able to watch this all go down in the mirror across from you.

His tightening grip was bruising, but you loved it. You also loved whenever he lands a finishing strike across your ass that stings a bright red on your cheek as if your ass was a volleyball that he spiked. Your whimpers and that lewd look on your face powers him further to fuck you even harder. Whenever you call out for him, he can’t help himself but pick up the pace to pleasure you even further.

Kiyoomi’s watching you get pounded by him in the mirror, enjoying every second of it. His soaking wet hair brushes against your skin whenever he peppers kisses along your back, while he smells the scent of clean soap wash off your body the more he pounds into you.

“You feel so fucking good you know that?” You babble out words that you couldn’t even make out the moment your slurred speech comes out of your mouth. Your hand reaches down for your clit to stimulate you further to get closer to your release which he noticed. Kiyoomi’s quick to grab ahold of your hand and keep it pressed against the glass as he continues to groan into your ear, saying you don’t need to do that when you’ve got him.

“M’not letting you cum alone.” Kiyoomi pauses for a brief moment before taking out his cock from your gaping hole, causing you to whimper from feeling so empty without him being in you.

When you turn around to face him with a slight pout on your face, he picks you up and slams you against the cold glass. Awoken from the mind numbing pleasure, your headspace is in for a slight shock when his slightly swollen lips meet yours for another long kiss as if he were a starved animal.

He’s backing away to slip back in his throbbing cock into your dripping entrance as he’s pressing your back further onto the glass walls of your shower. Kiyoomi’s holding onto you so tight, not letting you go anywhere as he continues to fuck you brainless, feeling all the sensations when your bodies continue to rub up against each other.

His twitching dick and your throbbing cunt, the lust in the atmosphere, the sounds that echo off your wet bodies as the shower runs, Kiyoomi’s almost at his end point. Both of you are sore and stimulated to the max as he releases his white cum into you, coating your plush gummy walls with his white paint. You’re both still, trying to pick back up your unmatched breathing.

“I’m sorry.. I got carried away,” he’s panting while pulling out, kissing your forehead as a gesture to ask for your forgiveness as you continue to cling onto his broad shoulders.

His essence seeps out of you and drips onto the bathroom tiles as it gets washed away due to the warm running water. You’re trying to regain your composure as he continues to hold you in his arms, Kiyoomi’s fingers moving away the stray wet hairs that clung onto your forehead while looking into your starry, but droopy eyes peer back into his while you mumble out an it’s okay. 

“You’re too beautiful” he whispers to you before setting you down to help finish washing you up before bed.

masterlist here

[traegorn]

Couple of takeaways from the notes of my recent political posts.

One, someone called me boring, which no one has ever done before in my 44 years on this Earth. That's not really important, but my ego has been dealt a mortal blow that it may never recover from. 😆

Two, there are really people arguing out there that the 2016 election interference wasn't real and/or that it wasn't that big of a deal. I have thoughts on that, but mostly I'm just exhausted on that bit.

Three, and this is the important one, a lot of people seem to really be negative about having to vote for Harris. Now, I'm not arguing with them because they're allowed to have a different opinion than I do, and in the end we're on the same side in this fight. We're voting the same way to try to keep Trump out of the White House.

So this next part isn't for them. If that's you? We're good. You can keep scrolling. This comment is for people who aren't reluctant in their choice to vote for Harris. This is for the people that want to vote for her.

You're allowed to be excited to vote for Kamala Harris.

Don't feel guilty about that if you do. If we win she'll become the first woman president. She'll be only the second person of color to hold the office. She'll be the second black president, and the first South Asian American president. It's a big deal.

Also, as I've said many times before, she's the most left presidential candidate we've seen in my lifetime. Presidential candidates will always be more centrist bits of the party (especially when the Republicans are running someone so far to the right), but she has some good bona fides! Is she my ideal candidate? No - but she's the best I've gotten a chance to vote for.

And people need to remember you can like someone or something and still be critical of it. Hell, in politics it's practically required.

I was really negative on Biden in 2020, but I voted for him anyway because at heart I'm a pragmatist. He pleasantly surprised me though. And Harris is better than Biden.

So, yeah, if you're voting for Harris -- great. We don't need to argue about your reasons. But if you're happy to? Don't feel ashamed of that.

We're in this one together.

...something something gimli/legolas dot gif

[seinahirai]

『 You Like It When I Ride It 』(Bada Lee x Reader)

summary: you have a wet dream and wake up to find yourself accidentally grinding against your girlfriend’s thigh. good thing she doesn’t mind, though.

word count: 1.1k

contents: smut, somnophilia, dom!bada, sub!reader, thigh riding, praising, slight degradation, porn without plot, slight fluff at the end, no use of “y/n”

authors note: this is the first time i’m posting one of my works publicly since like 2020, please be kind! this wasn’t supposed to be my first post, but the bada writing community has been a little dry lately so i wanted to help a bit. (also, i quite literally acted out these positions with my pillow to make sure i describe them correctly 😭 enjoy)

you woke up late at night to a wet feeling in between your legs. you were cuddled up on top of bada, your head laying on her chest. your legs were parted, your right leg resting next to hers while the other was spread over bada’s waist.

you only realize the position you’re in when you feel a firm feeling pressing on your clit through your thin pajama pants.

you suck in a breath, looking down at your bottom half, and just like you assumed, you had been grinding against bada’s knee in your sleep.

you try to think for a second, wondering what could have happened in your sleep to prompt you to start grinding on your girlfriend’s knee, but your thoughts are cut short when bada begins to shift around in her sleep, her knee briefly brushing against your clit once more, and you let out a moan mixed with shock and pleasure.

that’s when you realize, you’re dripping wet.

the thin material of your shorts have done nothing to prevent your wetness from soaking through and onto bada’s sweatpants.

you try to look up at bada, but you are unable to due to the hand she has on your head, holding you in place firmly, even in her sleep.

“fuck.” you breath out, gulping as you lightly tap your girlfriend’s side.

“baby?” you call out softly, your voice just above a whisper. all you could hear was steady breathing in response.

you were about to call to her a little louder, when you feel her stir a bit more, her knee pushing up a little higher and rubbing on your clit a little rougher.

“fuck,” you curse, whining softly as you instinctively grind against bada’s knee, riding it as gently as you could as to not wake your sleeping girlfriend.

you continue to rock your hips back and forth, spreading your arousal across bada’s knee.

with your head still faced down, you could narrowly make out the stain you had left on her sweatpants, which only turned you on as much as it embarrassed you.

you kept your pace steady for a while, letting out small whimpers and moans. you try to keep the noise to a minimum, but as your orgasm began approaching, you couldn’t help but grind faster and harder, your volume increasing.

only then did your girlfriend start to wake up, the arm she had around your waist moving slightly. you immediately halted your movements, looking up at her without moving your head.

“mmh, baby…” bada groaned, slowly becoming more and more aware of the situation.

“baby?” she muttered again, a little louder and less hazy. you slowly look up at her, seeing her initial look of confusion turn into a smug smirk.

“yeah?” you whisper, voice a bit shaky.

“are you using my knee to get off?” she asked slowly, a hint of cockiness shining through her groggy, tired voice.

“…yeah.”

you stay silent after that, your breathing unsteady. you can just barely make out the smirk on her face growing wider through the darkness.

“well, why'd you stop?” she pouts, slowly propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look of your messy state.

“you feel so good against me,” she says, her hand moving down to your ass. you breathe in sharply, shaky and unstable.

“i didn’t…want to wake you.”

“nonsense, babe. in fact, if i could wake up everyday to my beautiful, sexy girlfriend fucking herself on me, i’d be the happiest woman alive.”

you blush at her words, which have seem to gone straight to your pussy since you feel more of your arousal pool at bada’s knee.

she seems to have felt it too, because she brings a hand to your hips, pushing down a bit as a gesture for you to keep going.

“go on, baby. i wanna see you ride my thigh.”

you swallow hard, nodding softly as you push yourself up onto your knees, adjusting your legs so that bada’s thigh was between your legs, just barely pressing against your sensitive pussy.

bada rests herself against the pillows propped up against the bed frame, her eyes dark and full of lust and desire as she watches your every move.

you begin riding bada’s thigh, too focused on the pleasure to care about how loud you were being — not that bada minded.

as you continue grinding your clit against bada’s thigh, your whimpers turning into desperate moans and your hips beginning to stutter as you get the familiar feeling of your orgasm approaching for the second time tonight.

“that’s right, sweet girl, just a little more for me. you’re doing so good, baby. using my thigh so well…” she says, rubbing your back in encouragement.

bada licks her lips as her eyes scan through your body, watching as your tits bounce through the thin material of your tank top, one of the straps trailing off your shoulder.

“you’re so fucking sexy, baby.”

her praises only make you even more desperate to cum as you whine pathetically, the movement of your hips becoming sloppier.

“poor baby, needed to get yourself off, so you started fucking yourself on my thigh. it’s okay though, i love feeling your pretty little pussy grinding on me like a little slut.”

that was all it took you.

you let out stuttered moans and gasps, high pitched and breathless. you stop your movements, the pleasure of your orgasm getting too overwhelming.

suddenly, bada places her hands on your hips, encouraging you to continue your grinding on her thigh.

“come on baby, ride it out for me.”

you whine loudly, but obey nonetheless as you continue to ride her thigh through your orgasm, your moans loud and pornographic.

you bring a hand to bada’s shoulder for support as your orgasm rides out, holding on to her tightly as she brings your other hand into hers and coaxes you through the aftershocks.

once your breathing was back to normal and you stopped shaking, you relaxed, sighing softly in contentment as you snuggle closer to her chest.

bada holds you close to her, kissing your forehead as she giggles softly.

“so pretty, baby~” she coos, cupping your cheeks and pressing kisses all over your face, causing you to giggle as well.

“I love you, my sweet girl.”

“I love you more, baby.”

bada smiles and presses one final kiss to your lips before pulling your head to her chest, gently running her fingers through your hair.

“you tired, baby?” bada asks, caressing your cheek.

“no, not anymore.” you reply absentmindedly, enjoying the warmth of your girlfriend.

“good, because watching you ride me has got me pretty worked up. round 2 in the shower?”

[cffeelia]

divine, divine | k. namjoon

“you are my pain divine, divine.”

summary: your long time boyfriend is the leader of the biggest band in the world. you’d imagine he would have some more time for you now that the group was temporarily disbanded, but he’s still busy with an album, leaving you to feel unwanted and lonely. it’s only a matter of time before he leaves for the military and all you want is to see him do anything but fall asleep in his studio.

kind of angsty but pinky promise it ends on a good note 🙏🙏

2022

bts has become apart of your life as much as it’s apart of your boyfriend’s, seeing as he’s the leader of the group. for the past 4 years, youve grown closer to the boys, growing a special relationship with each of them. from sitting backstage on tour, to placing blankets over them as they slept in their studio. you’ve seen all of their highs and lows, seeing as their moods basically determined your boyfriends.

namjoon lives vicariously through his band mates, if they were upset, so was he. 2020 was a rough patch for everyone, but namjoon took it so harshly. that was the first time you’d ever seen him sob, hands running through his bleached hair as he fell to his knees in your shared apartment.

“what am i even good for if it’s not music? and i can’t even get anything out in this time where everyone needs me. ____, why am i even here?”

all you could do was tuck his head into your chest, your mouth lightly parted as tears fell silently while he cried into your shirt. he’s never crashed this hard before, you needed to say something, anything.

you managed to calm him down after about ten minutes, the night ended with him wrapped in your arms, eyes puffed from his sobs.

thankfully, that year never repeated. you learned a lot about namjoon, his moods, how to comfort him. he wasn’t always a touchy guy, opting for words of affirmation both to you and to receive, but this year taught him how much he loved to be held by you. he would never take that for granted.

things went back to normal after about two years, and bangtan was excited to perform again for their permission to dance tour, though it wasn’t to the scale of the one they originally planned. however, the tour was successful, and definitely memorable for not just you, but your boyfriend and his band mates as well. you can still recall the night they closed off the tour, ‘mikrokosmos’ always would hold a special place in your heart, this group really loved their fans, it’s so admirable to see an artist hold that much love for people simply because they enjoy their music.

nothing good lasted forever, though.

june 14, 2022, during 2022 festa, bangtan officially announced their hiatus. you knew this news was coming since january of that year, but this wasn’t the bad part. if anything, you were excited to spend more 1-on-1 time with the love of your life, and for his close friends to get a break from the spotlight, but it wasn’t what you thought it was.

immediately after this announcement, namjoon was working like crazy on more music. their repackaged album was already out, and the busan concert went well, so why was he still calling you from his studio to tell you he wouldn’t make it for dinner again? that’s how you ended up in your car, trying not to violate traffic laws as you angrily drove to the hybe building.

“mr namjoon, someones here for you.”

the studio door opened to reveal a staff member, namjoon got up groggily from his seat, a little pissed of that his flow was interrupted.

taking the elevator to the first floor, he imagined it was probably some producer offering their beats again. why wasn’t security listening when he said he knew what he was doing for this album?

he wasn’t expecting you, hair braided out of your bare face. you wore his white tshirt and loose fitting jeans, clearly you rushed out of the house.

“hey baby. what’s up?” he slowly made his way to you.

“don’t ‘hey baby’ me, are you seriously doing this again?” you took his hand, dragging him back to his studio.

“what do you mean?” he struggled to keep up as you paced into the elevator, jamming the floor seven button

“____, hey, what’s going on? are you ok?” he cupped your face, dark circles hung along your eyes, your eyelashes poking straight out instead of their usual curled position. were you crying?

“no namjoon, im not! i thought you were done working on music, i want you to come home!” dramatically flinging your hands around, you looked longingly up to your boyfriends eyes, his hand still caressing your cheek.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t tell you. i’m preparing another album before i have to go to the military this december.” he smiled softly to you, but you didn’t return it. your face lost all emotion, turning back to the buttons on the elevator.

“i’m going home then, goodnight.”

“what? hun, what’s wrong? i’ll come home this wholeeee week. i promise, i just got a late start today babe.”

he grabbed your hand to stop your from pressing the lobby button.

“baby, look at me.” turning your head towards his smiling face, you knew you were in for it now. you planned to tell him off, and get him to come home. now you felt bad for interrupting his music process, and couldn’t keep up your angry girlfriend act any longer.

“just let me wrap up, ok? you can come with, there’s still some takeout in my office. give me thirty minutes i promise.” your eyes fell to his pinky, sticking out for you to interlock yours with and seal his promise.

you pecked his lips, looking away embarassed that he sweet talked the anger out of you.

“i love you, you’re real cute.” he whispered as he lead you into his studio.

2023

so much for the stupid fucking pinky promise, once again you were left alone in your bed. namjoon was surprisingly here tonight, but he had barely said a word, his exhaustion took him over, and he almost fell asleep in the shower if it weren’t for you coming in to brush your teeth.

now he was sleeping at your side, head skimming your shoulder as you sat, propped up on your pillows, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. it was supposed to distract you, but your for you page wanted you to remember everything that you were missing out on. you know this is a hard time for bangtan, but what about you? namjoon was overworking himself as if he didn’t have ten whole months before he would have to enlist.

you wanted to feel bad for him, it’s so selfish to tell him to abandon his work to come spend time with you. but seriously, what the fuck? you didn’t even get to kiss him on new years, he spent it with jhope, in their stupid fucking studio.

your phone flashed all colors of purple and white, the tiktok video was from an army recounting their concert memories from 2019 during the lysy tour. you remember that night, hearing thousands of english speaking armys defy the boundaries of language to sing in korean for bts. it made you cry too, but this video inflicted both frustration and sadness in you now.

you turned your phone off, tossing it to the side and climbing into your sheets, head facing namjoons as he slept. you let a tear roll silently down your cheek, you wish he could care as much as he used to. he unconsciously grabbed your arm, barely awake as he interlocked arms with you, and shuffled higher on the pillows. he basically was inviting you into his arms. hesitantly, you scooted until you were in his chest, you arms naturally reaching up to his neck.

that one tear became two, then three, then you lost count. hopefully he wouldn’t notice how soaked his shirt was, you sniffled lightly, careful not to wake him. you had almost drifted to sleep, exhausted from your heavy breathing while you let your emotions fall from your heavy lids. namjoon pulled you into his chest tighter, feeling the wet stain of your tears startled him awake.

he gasped lightly and groggily sprung up from bed

“what? what’s wrong?” you asked, flipping a lamp on, your voice hoarse as you tried to wipe your tears discreetly.

“what, what, is this you?” he pointed to the dark circle staining his loose shirt.

this only earned a sniffle from you, everything fell out all at once, snapping joon out of his sleepy trance, he listened as close as he could, extremely sleep deprived and barely even awake.

“i miss you so much joonie, it’s- it’s- like, not the same anymore!” you sniffled “all i want is to just enjoy waking up with you and going out to cute cafes again without music being behind it! please,” your hands slapped into your eyes, “please joonie can you just, just come back to me once in a while? why am i competing with your music? shouldn’t you prioritize me? i feel so unimportant.” your voice died down, namjoon wasted no time in tucking you back into bed, he let you roll onto his chest.

“hun, you should’ve spoke up. i broke our promise, i know i did, i should’ve apologized princess.” he kissed your temple. “i’m so sorry, ____, i’ll spend more time with you baby. it’s been so hard huh?” he tilted his head back to see your relaxed face, still leaking tears onto his shirt.

“yes, i just wanted you to come home, i feel like i’m loosing it, i haven’t even showered for the past three days, i didn’t wash my face joonie everything’s just a fucking task right now.” you let out another sniffle before looking back into his eyes. “when will you just be how you used to again?”

he felt himself recharge as he looks into your beautiful eyes, though half lidded. he felt like he could sleep in your eyes, they were truly heaven. so much so he forgot to reply, “i know baby. it’s ok, you’re ok, i’ll find a way to stay home more often, that sound good?”

you nodded, puckering your lips lightly, he kissed you once, then again, and again, then your cheek, ear, neck, then back to your lips.

it pained him so much to see you hurt over him, especially when he knows you’ve been innocently waiting like the perfect girl you are for him to say something to you.

after a while, the two of you fell asleep, arms crossed around each other as he caught up on some much needed rest. neither of you woke up until 2pm, joon replaced himself with a pillow, letting you sleep some more while he walked to the living room. his guitar sat in the corner of the room, where it had been collecting dust for two years now.

he rushed back into the room to quietly grab his laptop, also stealing a soft kiss on your lips, before he sat down on your shared couch. he knew what he wanted this song to sound like, he just needed lyrics and now, he finally found them.

copying your words, he began to play quietly. it took a while, but he got the premise of the song eventually, deciding to put the guitar down to cook the two of you some breakfast. he turned the stove on, getting to work making pancakes.

the smell woke you up, even though the food had been made, your boyfriend knew it could be reheated. if you weren’t ready to wake up, he wouldn’t come get you. so, he settled back down with his guitar, playing his untitled song.

it was the sound that lulled you out of bed. despite what you’d said last night, you loved to hear namjoon singing. you stumbled into the living room, sitting down beside namjoon as he continued his song, eyes skimming over you. the smile in his voice was audible. you layed your head on his shoulder, letting the vibrations of his voice relax you.

this was exactly what you missed, just quality time with the light of your life. you had never felt better than at that exact moment, it was the peak of your relationship.

just like his lyrics, it was divine, divine.

i have ideas for a part two if anyone’s interested 😽😽 lmk!!

[dietpitt]

💚🎃Green Is Definitely Your Color🎃💚

Stan Pines x AFAB!Reader Explicit | 2.8k words Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader, Reader wears a dress, Halloween Costumes, Trick-or-Treating, Sexual Roleplay, Cunnilingus, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, Stan is a Leg Man, Body Worship, Marking Kink, Reader Plays Bride of Frankenstein

In which body paint and Stan's mouth save the day (but ruin a perfectly good costume).

{Read on AO3}

Author's Note: Originally posted 2020 on AO3, but I wanted to give it a proper tumblr post. I'm very proud of this one except I didn't know how to end it and it shows lol

Thankfully, there are only a few things you and your boyfriend don’t see eye-to-eye on. Stan takes his coffee black (old habit from the days of shoddy motels and a life on the run), while your own brew of choice is iced (lasts longer and doesn’t get cold since it already is). He thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to scare a baby every now and then, and proceed to laugh in their pudgy little tear-streaked face. You? You told him he’d be the one bawling if you ever caught him pulling that in your periphery again.

Tonight, though? Tonight is the perfect example of just how good you two are together. Because tonight, you weren’t scaring babies. Tonight, on Halloween, you were scaring kids. And that was worlds apart from wreaking havoc in the grocery store, which happened the majority of the remaining 363 days of the year.

Sure, Stan always goes all-out for his beloved Summerween, but October 31st is when his freak flag really flies. It makes sense--  Fall brings less tourists than usual, and shorter daylight hours means fewer parents letting their kids come out to the woods to trick or treat, making every opportunity for a scare count.

With the Mystery Shack trading its typical kitsch for spooky ephemera-- fully decked out in giant spiderwebs, ghoulish figures, and angry jack-o-lanterns-- it’ll truly be a dramatic sight to behold.

But, for all the elaborate planning, special effects to make the eyes pop out of his skull and the bolts on his neck to spark and smoke, Stan still manages to miss a few spots needing body paint. 

“Alright, alright, I think y’got it,” Franken-Stan fake-grumbles up at you from his seat in front of the full-length mirror.

“Will you relax? You’re gonna sweat, and I’ll have to do your makeup all over again,” you scold, though your painted lips curl into a fond grin despite yourself.

Though the kids will start coming any minute, you’re set on completing the finishing touches, if for no other reason than to keep Stan from further grumbling later.

… And most certainly not because you also love the opportunity to dote, holding him close in ways he’d otherwise be too shy about. Not at all.

“Are you going to wear your glasses?” You ask, getting his ears nice and green with the sponge brush.

He gives it some thought. “As much as it hurts the spook factor, I can’t really scare anybody if I fall on my face.”

Another, final once-over at your work and you’re satisfied, stepping back and raising your arms in the air triumphantly to steal yourself for your best mad-scientist cackle. “My creation! It’s aliiiive!” 

Stan laughs, quickly standing and caging you with his arms against the wall. “Damn right. Alive as ever.”

You shoo both him and the remark away, looking over your white “dress” (old sheet) to check for any green that may have made its way onto your costume. “I thought you were in a hurry, hmm? There’s no time for a touch-up. Now, be a good ‘husband’ and carry the train.”

Stan’s eyes roll as he lifts the gown, following your lead downstairs. “Yes, honey.”

Trying very carefully not to trip, Stan helps you down the stairs. “I still think it’s dumb that The Bride of Frankenstein doesn’t get a name, though. Sure, she’s in it for all of three minutes, but she gets the movie named after her and doesn’t even get a line?”

“Nah, she just screams,” Stan laughs, dropping your dress as you meet the front door. “Like it hurts to exist.” He swings the door open and the both of you speak in unison.

“She gets it.”

You share a small laughing fit at that, making your way outside into the crisp autumn air, giddy to begin the festivities. A few to last-minute adjustments and tech checks, and The Shack will be ready.

“Seriously though-- why can’t she be, like, Victoria or something?”

Over by the skeleton crawling out from under the porch, Stan snorts. “Victoria? Why?”

You shrug. “Why not?”

“Touche.”

It’s finally the tail-end of the second hour, and you’re in position behind the semi-trapdoor mechanism on the porch, hidden behind a dark and stormy castle standee. You’re high on the energy so far, after making some kids scream-squeal in delight. Although, you did manage to terrify a toddler on accident without even trying-- the poor thing burst into tears at the mere sight of you walking out normally from the porch.

Maybe it was the semi-realistic stitches on your flesh? Who knows. All that’s clear is you felt awful, but Stan was very clearly amused-- and jealous, you’d wager.

But now that it’s past bedtime for most little ones, it’s time to up the ante with some added special effects-- and the fast-approaching gaggle of baby teens seem to be the first that’ll enjoy them.

Always on top of it, Stan lets out a Frankenstein-like groan, marching further from the end of the porch, arms raised in cheesy classic style. The kids stop in their tracks as he clears his throat roughly to give the spiel he’s practiced all night, an extra ~spooky~ lilt to his otherwise mostly-normal voice:

“Foolish humans! You daaaare demand gifts, when your hubris created me from cursed flesh, and your hatred ensured my demise?!” He’s truly in his element as his neck bolts flicker for emphasis, making most of the middle schoolers jump and gasp.

The one at the front of the pack though, doesn’t budge, instead holding their pumpkin bucket out with an overall look of disinterest. “Yeah, duh. Trick-or-treat, old man. Hand over the candy.”

“Rude little shit,” you frown, not even needing to see Stan’s face to know he’s going to enjoy this particular scare very much.

“Hold it, kid, ” Stan sneers, continuing his introduction, “if you want anything good to eat, you’ll need to ask the most blood-curdling-- ”

You flip the switch for the fog machine, and bellows of grey creep in around the Shack--

“--The most SPINE-TINGLING, repulsive monster of us all--!”

You quickly step on the nearby button, and lightning flashes across the house as thunder sounds--

“ --MY WIFE! ”

At his signal, your spring forward, eyes crazed as a horrendous banshee screech leaves your throat and white tendrils wave in the wind.

The rude kid screams-- and while Stan bursts out laughing and you smile evilly, you miss them reflexively reach into their bucket, pull something out, and chuck it right at you before scampering away.

With a dull thud, the projectile lands on your head with a muffled thud, sending you off balance and toppling off the platform in a second. You hear Stan’s barks at the hoodlum, but soon he’s up the porch at your side, just as surprised as you are.

“The hell-- you alright, babe?”

Stan helps you up as you glance around for the offending object that’s left your head and the arm that broke your fall aching. “I-- what the fuck was that?!”

A large, off-white sphere rolls along a groove in the deck, moved by your shifted weight. It hits the edge of your shoe, and you pick it up to find it’s…

A popcorn ball.

A really fucking heavy, rock-hard popcorn ball.

With a splotch of white from your forehead smeared across it.

Stan’s bursts out laughing, though he doesn’t let his supposedly helpful grip on your waist go. “Who the hell gave that thing out?? They must’ve been saving it for last century-- ”

It’s funny. Like, really funny. Comedy freaking gold.

But your head hurts and you fell, and shit, your wig’s messed up…

Your own laughter breaks suddenly, and before you even know it you’re tearing up.

Franken-Stan blanches the soon as it hits him. “H-hey, sweetheart, I’m sorry-- are you alright?”

The comforting hands on your shoulder, the concern in his voice breaks the dam, tears spilling out despite your mind knowing better, and wanting to continue laughing it off like you should-- like you want to.

“I’m fine Stan, I’m fine, I-- I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying, I really don’t,” you laugh, dabbing at your eyes with a bandage-covered hand. “That was too perfect.”

“Don’t apologize, that kid’s an asshole.”

“An asshole with a hell of a pitch,” You laugh, finally meeting Stan’s eye. 

“Wanna go inside? It’s gettin’ late anyway,”

“No! No, are you kidding? We just got started with the lightning! I’m fine, I promise--”

He raise an eyebrow skeptically.

“Really, I am. I’m the most horrifying creature of them all, right?”

“Hah! Sure are, sweet thing, sure are.”

“Then let’s get back to scaring. I’ll be ready to duck this time.” You laugh, elbowing Stan before getting back into place, and Stan follows.

11:27pm

There hasn’t been a kid in nearly 30 minutes, and with another hour under your belt, the pair of you are content to turn in for the night for some movies and the Halloween goodie bags left behind by scared trick-or-treaters.

Flopping down on the bed, your tired body practically sings. “Goddd, that kid really got me good.” The hands on your face muffle your words, but Stan gets the idea.

Taking pity on you, he pulls up the nearby chair and starts unlacing one of your boots for you. “Happens in the line of duty sometimes. Shoulda seen what one fairy princess threw at me one year-- actually, I don’t even wanna know what it was.” He jokes(?), tossing the shoe aside and beginning on the other.

“Knocked me down at the top of my game…” you mutter, twiddling with the end of a splayed-out strip of your garment.

“Hey,” Stan drops the other boot to the floor with a thud, quickly peeling off the striped sock that lay underneath. “Don’t forget, you scared the absolute shit out of that brat.”

You let out a hum, then chuckle. “Triggered his fight and flight.”

"Exactly,” he replies definitely, sling-shotting the second sock in the air. It lands on your chest, but you quickly toss it over to nowhere in particular.

“I don’t know if I can even get back up. Just let me die here,” you groan, only half-joking as the strenuous activities of the day catch up to you. “I’ll be a corpse for next Halloween.”

“Well, yer already halfway there in that getup,” Stan shrugs off the jacket of his costume and lets it fall on the chair. A glance across your form reminds him of the “bolts” attached to his neck, which he peels off with a wince. “And I’m not far behind ya.”

“I’ll be lucky if I look this good when I’m dead,” you laugh, adjusting to get more comfortable and fully prepared to just pass out, wig and all.

Stan’s eye catches on the bare skin of your leg that’s revealed when you shift, the stark white of your gown falling to the side as it bends at the knee and the other still hangs off the bed uselessly. He hums, appreciative of the sensual view of you before him: limbs draped out, black eye makeup smudged...

Your eyes fly open at the feeling of Stan’s large hand on your knee, and you’re met with a familiar mischievous grin on Stan’s still-green face. “Mmm, you’re already bewitching, babe.” 

That look always manages to send a pang through your gut. “Oh, stop it…”

This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined the night ending, but don’t mind all that much if it’s headed where you think it’s headed.

“‘M serious,” Stan chuckles. “Yer right about The Bride too… never appreciated enough,” His thumb rubs a circle on the soft flesh on the inside of your knee, and you can’t help but sigh at the nice pressure. 

Your stomach nearly flips when he slides to his own knees, grip moving down your calf and lifting your leg to place a playful kiss to your ankle. His name falls from your lips in a whine, equal parts warning and pleading, for exactly what you can’t decide. You’re answered nonetheless by another peck just above the previous, then another with the slightest bit of teeth that makes you gasp and prop up onto your elbows.

The sight is absolutely ridiculous -- Frankenstein’s monster himself between your legs, smiling dumbly as he nips at the neglected one before he pushes excessive fabric up and off to reveal more of your form. “Stan, we-- oh my god--”

It’s when he pulls you forward on the bed that you see it: the splotches of deep green coloring the trail Stan is continuing up your thigh with a knowing look.

You laugh at first, starting to push him away so you can properly remove your dress, but he tuts, gripping your hips instead and curling an arm around your thigh, slinging it over his shoulder with an in-character groan: "You go nowhere.

You’re torn between teasing him about the fact that he’s really roleplaying as fucking Frankenstein right now, and the shudder that rolls through you as Stan noses your center through the cotton, saying: “Mine .”

“Oh,” is all you manage to say when his mouth meets between your thighs, teasing your folds through the fabric with a brazen tongue. You let yourself go then, leaning into the anticipation as after a moment Stan tugs the garment down and off, though it catches on your foot and is left dangling there uselessly.

“You’ll be screamin’ for me, don’t you worry,” he says, breath ghosting over your core before fully tucking in.

There’s no energy left in you to scream, but the needy whimpers and moans that escape as he ushers you up towards pleasure are melodic, a siren song that urges Stan to keep delving into your cunt, to hold your thighs open with a possessive grip.

“F-fuck,” you cry, reaching down and threading your fingers through his mop of black-sprayed hair between your legs. He groans mid-lap at your clit, and you gasp as his hands join in on the ministrations, caressing and petting from your hips to your stomach.

It’s when he starts sucking that you start to really writhe, tugging roughly at his locks to push him deeper. He slurps your arousal right up, the sound mortifying yet helping thrust you closer to the fast-approaching peak.

“C’mon, honey,” Stan says, thumb maintaining a rhythm on your clit. “Come for me, darling.”

The foreign pet name does it, sending a rolling orgasm that hits you in waves, crying out Stan’s name and other sweet nothings before going limp.

After a moment he sits back, more than proud as he wipes his mouth and watches you twitch and moan through the lingering pulses.

“Wow-- what was that all about?” You manage to pant out, made curious again as Stan stands suddenly, walking over to the mirror on the far-side of the room.

“Check it out,” he says, bringing the mirror to the edge of the bed and leaning against it with a self-satisfied grin.

Sitting up, your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and glowing-- with a prominent mess of green smeared along your skin, practically outlining each and every touch that made you come undone. A few complete hand prints are even visible, on the backs of your knees, on your hip-- even a comically clear outline against the stark white of your covered chest.

Your face burns hot as you can’t help but laugh in disbelief, both at what you see and the unexpected thrill of it; it’s delightful, and silly, and sexy, and overall just an image you think won’t leave your head for a while.

Stan chuckles at your reaction, pleased. “S’a good look on ya-- damn near electrifyin’ , some might say.”

“Come here,” you ask, arms out to beckon him forward. He does, and you don’t miss the prominent bulge in his trousers as he walks over.

Pulling him down by his shirt, you lock him into an appreciative kiss, raking your nails across his scalp and practically pulling him on top of you to continue the makeout, bed size be damned.

Needing air, you finally break away, glancing back at the mirror to see green now decorating your mouth and cheeks. “You’d missed a spot,” you inform Stan, pointing to the new addition to your face.

He hums, ducking down to nip at your neck and clavicle, painting them just the same. “Could think of a few more spots needin’ a touch-up,” he growls, rolling his hips.

Snaking your hand into the band of his pants, Stan lets out another groan at your touch and when you say lightly into his ear:

“Looks like you could use some white with that green, hmm?”

Happy Spooky Season!! 🎃💚🎃

[Masterlist]

dividers by @strangergraphics and @firefly-graphics

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Grace

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k (including lyrics)

Warnings: angst, implied smut

Summary: You like Dean. You like how he treats you. He’s one of the best boyfriends you’ve ever had. The problem isn’t with him. It’s you. You don’t know how much more of this you can take.

Square Filled: grace- bebe rexha (2020) for @spnsongchallengebingo

Author’s Note: this is based on the song Grace by Bebe Rexha

x

I knew from the moment that I met you this wasn't right But I couldn't leave you 'cause you treated me so damn right There was nothing wrong with you The truth is you’re a damn good guy But I knew from the moment that I met you this wasn't right

You bounce your leg up and down nervously while you wait for your boyfriend. You pick the remaining flecks of nail polish off your nails wondering if should do what you’re thinking of doing. Dean asked to meet at a park while he has some free time from hunting, but you’ve been waiting for at least thirty minutes.

“I’m here. Hey,” Dean says as he jogs up to you.

“Hi.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a smushed bouquet of flowers. You take them with a small smile on your face. “Thank you, Dean.”

It makes what you want to do so much harder. You like Dean a lot, but you don’t think you like him enough to keep this relationship going. You’re not cut out for this. This is one of the rare cases where it’s not him, it’s you. He is such a sweetheart and treats you really well.

He buys you flowers whenever he can, he pays for everything you eat, he always calls you every night regardless of whether he is stuck in the mountains or just lounging at the Bunker, and he makes you feel like the only woman in the world. He’s truly one of the best boyfriends you could have asked for.

That’s why the problem is with you, not with him.

Dean is a hunter who hunts monsters with his brother. He is constantly on the road, always getting himself into trouble. He is constantly riding the very thin line between life and death. He’s very good at what he does and almost always comes home in one piece. At first, you thought you could put aside the fact that he won’t always come home to you at the end of the day, but it really hit you only a few weeks ago.

You want him to be home with you. You want to come home after a long day and see him waiting for you. You want to be able to snuggle up next to him every night and wake up to his face every morning. You want someone whose life isn't threatened every day.

You don’t want to worry about whether or not he’s alive or when he’s coming home or if you’re safe.

“Sam can hold the fort for a few hours, so I was thinking we could go to that restaurant you’ve always wanted to try,” he smiles.

You open your mouth to end this relationship but something entirely different comes out.

“Sounds great, Dean.”

And you had money and cars, looked like a star You loved me so good, I could cry Brought me roses and rings, such beautiful things But I was taught never to lie

Dean grabs a table by the window knowing you love looking out to people watch while you eat. He knows you so well that he orders for you when the waitress comes, and you watch with a pained expression on your face. You try to cover it up by fake smiling but if he truly knows you, then he’d see that something is wrong.

“So, how long are you in town for?” you ask once she leaves.

Hope blossoms in your chest. Maybe he’ll say something different this time. Maybe he’ll tell you that he’s done with this life and he chooses you this time. Though, you know that won’t happen.

“Just the weekend.” There it is. The hope fizzles out. “I gotta leave on Monday.”

“Right,” you whisper.

Dean hates the look on your face. You’re disappointed. He hates doing this to you, but Sam needs him. They’re in the middle of a war between the demons and the angels, and he needs to be back home to aid. If it were up to him, he’d stay but the entire world is counting on him and Sam to fix this.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s fine.”

He knows it’s not, but there is nothing he can say that would make this better. He knows what you want to hear but he can’t say it. You look at your napkin and rip the ends off in tiny pieces. If you look at him, you’ll break down in tears and you don’t want to ruin your makeup. This only confirms that you need to get out of this relationship before you end up killing every part of yourself for him.

He’s trying, you can see it, so you’re not sure how you can do this without breaking his heart.

I knew from the moment that I left you, you'd be alright You're gonna find another lover, one who doesn't waste your time But every time you look at me, my body says one last night I swear I wouldn't leave with you But I just came to say goodbye

With Dean back in Kansas, you have a clear head. You know what you have to do. It’s not going to be easy but you have to do it. It’s shitty to do this over the phone whether that be by call or text, so you decided it’s best if you go to the Bunker in person. You write down everything you want to say on note cards. You’ve memorized every single word but you hold onto the cards in case you take one look into his big green eyes and forget everything.

It takes almost an entire day to get to the Bunker by car, but you make it without issue. You park outside the Bunker and turn off the car. You quickly skim your cards to make sure you have everything you need to say before getting out of the car. You can do this. All you need to do is tell him how you’re feeling. If he loves you, he’ll let you go. He’ll understand.

That doesn’t bring you comfort.

You knock on the metal door and wait for it to open. You put the cards in your back pocket thinking you can do this on your own, but that’s not the case. The door opens and you look into Dean’s impossible bright green eyes. Fanfiction green eyes as the fans call it.

“What are you doing here?” he smiles and pulls you in for a hug.

His arms are so strong and warm, and you find yourself melting into his embrace. That’s your first mistake.

“I just needed to see you. I hope this is a good time.”

“Yeah, we’re not busy. Come in.” Your second mistake is following him inside the Bunker. “Sam is out right now getting food.”

“Good. I kind of wanted to talk to you.”

Dean leans against the war table and pulls you into his arms. He slides his hands down your back to cup your ass through your jeans.

“I’ve missed you.”

He leans in and kisses you, making you forget a single word you wanted to say to him. It’s a damn good thing you brought the cards with you. You slide your hands up his chest to push him away from you, but you bypass his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He feels too good to let him go. He’s intoxicating, poisoning your life, and making you want more.

“What about Sam?” you whisper against his lips.

“Fuck Sam. I want you as my meal,” he grins.

He lifts you up by your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist. Your third mistake is letting him bring you to his bedroom. Note cards are forgotten. Maybe you can give him one more night.

I hate to see the look on your face I wish I could make myself stay But our hearts don't live in the same space So tell me how to break yours with grace

You really shouldn’t have given him one more night. You need to do this now or else you’ll never do it. You’ve been up for the past hour trying to find the words while Dean sleeps soundlessly next to you. He shifts and presses his lips on your bare shoulder. You easily slip out of bed and start gathering your clothes, and Dean sits up in bed. The blanket falls, exposing his bare chest.

“Where are you going? Come back to bed.”

“Dean, we need to talk,” you say with your back to him.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

It’s cowardly but you can’t do this while looking at him. “Listen, I don’t think we should continue seeing each other. It’s not you, I promise.” There’s no easy way to say this. It’s gonna hurt him even though you wish it didn’t. “I admire what you do, but I can’t keep wondering if and when you’ll come home. I deserve someone who will be home every night. I deserve not to fear for your life. I like you a lot, but I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

“Are you going to look at me?”

Your body feels like cement but you turn to face him. The tears start rolling when you see the look on his face. He can’t be mad at you for wanting what he can’t give you, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less. You hate the look he gives you.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“So, is this goodbye?”

“I don’t see any other way for us.” Dean nods but doesn’t say anything else. You finish getting dressed and grasp the door knob. “I really am sorry, Dean.”

“Me, too.”

You swallow down your sob and leave his room. You’re not going to be okay for a long time, but you know this is for the best.

x

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[s-ublimewrites]

xanax (melissa schemmenti x f!reader)

synopsis: melissa needs a push to make a much-needed change in her life

words: 2.9k

warnings: swearing, mild angst (mel & reader argue), gary bashing, republicanism mention

note: i wrote part of this, didn't touch it for eight months, picked it back up, and now here we are: another fic where nothing actually happens between mel & r, but also everything happens. enjoy!

“Don’t go in there yet,” Janine stops you before you can enter the teacher’s lounge. 

“Uh, why not?” You prepare to step around her and she blocks your path. 

“Y/n, it’s tense in there right now,” she insists. She’s stress sweating, you notice. 

Your brow furrows. “Janine, it’s the first day. It’s…” you check your watch, “7:04am. How is it already tense?”

Janine checks over her shoulder and lowers her voice slightly. “So, you know Gary? Melissa’s vending machine guy?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Yeah, you know Gary. You are, in fact, acutely aware of Gary’s presence in Melissa’s life. Listen, you’re super happy for Melissa - she seems to like him, they just spent the summer in Jersey Shore together. You just think it’s kind of weird how he relates everything to vending machines. And you’re kinda wary of asking Melissa who he voted for in 2016. And 2020. And, okay, maybe seeing him kiss her goodbye in the break room makes you want to puke. Whatever. 

“I’m familiar,” you say to Janine.  

Her eyes flick to the cameras, then back to you. “Okay. Well. On the last day of their Jersey Shore trip, something happened. Melissa is pissed and Barbara totally knows why and I think they’re maybe mad at each other about it? Anyway it’s basically a war zone in there and you need to tread very carefully, Y/n.”

There’s genuine fear in Janine’s voice. Poor girl has definitely suffered the wrath of Melissa Schemmenti this morning. 

“Do you know what happened?” you ask. 

Janine shakes her head. “No, but Barb keeps shaking her head all disapprovingly and saying ‘Melissa Ann Schemmenti, just you wait until Y/n gets here,’ so…” 

Her Barb impression is… pretty bad. You don’t comment on it. 

“Ah,” you say, “so I’m the bomb-defusing robot you’re sending in so Melissa will stop being mean to everyone. I see.” 

Somewhere during your time at Abbott, grumpy Melissa has become your responsibility. Not that you mind very much. You like being the only one that can get through to her when she’s like this; you like that everyone knows it, too. 

“If rugs are Xanax for second graders,” Janine says, “you’re Xanax for Melissa. Good luck!” 

Janine scurries off and you take a deep breath. Here goes nothing, you suppose. 

It’s just Barb and Melissa in the lounge — you figure the palpable tension that hangs between them has scared everyone else off. They sit at different tables, decidedly not talking. Melissa’s face is buried in her phone, glasses on the end of her nose, and Barb stares at the yogurt that she’s stirring but not eating. 

“Good morning,” you offer softly as you step into the room, trying to give an air of ‘I’m perfectly normal and don’t know anything about your potentially-failing relationship.’

Melissa’s eyes flick up from her phone, landing briefly on you before she returns to whatever is on her screen. Barb, though, snatches up her bag and her yogurt and is on her feet moving toward you. 

“Maybe you can talk some sense into this one,” Barb says to you furiously. She keeps walking, heading right past you, and slams her yogurt into the trash before exiting the room. Somewhere in this time, the camera crew has the good sense to scram.

You look at Melissa. She looks back at you. 

“What?” she all but spits - angry, sure, but also upset. Hurt by something. Someone. Your hatred for the vending machine guy is set in stone. 

“C’mon, you don’t get to be mad at me - I literally just got here,” you remind Melissa and drop into the seat next to hers. 

Melissa doesn’t say anything, but she looks at you with less loathing. It’s a good first step. 

“You traumatized Janine,” you reattempt. 

“A strong gust of wind could traumatize Janine,” Melissa mutters. She puts down her phone and finally looks at you, moving her glasses to sit atop her head. “Why? What’d she say t’ya?” 

You remember Janine’s words — tread carefully. “Not much. Something about things being tense with you and Barb… Something about Gary.”

Melissa’s jaw sets and she looks at her lap and she doesn’t say anything. 

“Did you fight?” your voice is gentle.  

Melissa plays with her fingers and shakes her head. “No. Well, I don’t know. Kind of? I don’t know. Maybe.” 

You stay quiet while she thinks about this (you didn’t intend for it to be such a difficult question, but you don’t say that).

“Not yet, I guess,” Melissa finally decides. “We haven’t fought yet.” 

You nod, beginning to understand. “Does Gary know that you’re potentially going to be fighting?” 

She shrugs. “Dunno if I wanna make it a thing.” 

“So, there’s two things going on here? You’re mad at Gary for something, and Barb is mad at you?”

She nods. You nod. She suddenly becomes interested in her cuticles.

“Okay,” you retry, “which do you want to tackle first?”

“Neither.”

“Melissa.” 

“Why dontcha just drop it?” Melissa snaps. 

You don’t back down; rather, you give her a pointed look, and she sighs heavily — her international sign of realizing she was mean to you.

You try again. “So, Barb is mad at you.”

“Mhm.”

“Because of the Gary thing?”

“Mhm.”

“Did you fuck up, or did he?”

Melissa goes quiet again and you kick her under the table. 

“Hey, I don’t care either way. You know I support women’s wrongs,” you do your best to keep your tone light.

This draws a half-smile out of her. “Him. Mostly. Then, kinda me… Kinda.”

It’s your turn to stare at her, because what the hell are you supposed to do with that?

She huffs out a sigh, averts her eyes, and her words come out in a rush: “He fucked up and did some stuff and Barb is mad that I haven’t dumped him yet, okay?”

You nod, trying to piece the information together. “So, you wanna give him another chance, but Barb doesn’t? That’s… not usually how this goes.”

“I’m old, alright?” Melissa breathes out, any trace of venom having left her words. Now, she just sounds exhausted. 

“Hang on,” you hold up a hand to halt her train of thought, “what? First off, no you’re not. Second, what does your age have to do with anything?”

She looks at her lap. “I found someone who wants to settle down with me. I got divorced and wrote off love then found it again and I can’t afford to be throwin’ it away.”

Every once in a while, Melissa will let you see her frayed edges like this. They’re ragged and raw and tender and she trusts you to not probe more than necessary. It makes you feel… something. Something deep and warm that burns inside you like brandy and makes your hands tremble. 

“But?” you coax gently, and she runs a hand down her face in something akin to defeat.

Melissa’s eyes flick to the door, and you know she’s making sure there’s no camera crew and no Janine.

“But somehow we got this far in without talkin’ about politics. I mean, I talk about it. All the time. And he nods, so I thought we were on the same page, but…”

Christ alive, I was right about the elections, you think, and clamp your mouth shut (it is so not the time for an I Told You So).

For the umpteenth time this morning, you choose your words with care. “I’ve never known Melissa Schemmenti to compromise her beliefs for anybody.”

And, well, there it is. You’ve said the thing that both Melissa and Barb knew you’d say, and she wouldn’t be able to fight you on it, because it’s you. Her Xanax. 

She spends a moment chewing on her bottom lip, and her voice is low when she says, “I don’t wanna hav’ta start all over again.”

It occurs to you that this woman is deeply scared that she’s never going to be loved again. 

You don’t know how to reassure her that you’re not going to let that happen. 

Instead, you just say, “Yeah,” because what else is there to say?

After a beat, you add, “You also don’t wanna hav’ta date someone who thinks they’re putting litter boxes in classrooms for all the kids who identify as cats.” 

Melissa huffs out a somewhat incredulous laugh and blinks away the tears that you weren’t planning on pointing out. She shakes her head like she’s clearing out cobwebs. 

“I was hoping we could just ignore it. That it would be one of those things we don’t talk about,” Melissa tells you. 

You look at her pointedly. “Right. Until he tries to tell you that unions strip you of your individual voice and makes you watch NewsMax after dinner every night. Melissa, you’d murder the man.”

The glare you receive in return only confirms what you both know: once again, Melissa is incapable of arguing with you, and she’s kinda peeved about it. 

“Why d’ya gotta to be so…” she fishes for the appropriate word, “…right? It’s obnoxious.”

“It’s obnoxious that I know you?” You suppress a smirk. 

“Yeah.”

“So you want me to let you keep dating a republican?”

Melissa crosses her arms over her chest. “Shut up.” 

“You gotta dump him, babe. Before there’s a questionable campaign sign in your front lawn,” you stress, and she groans. 

“Then who’s gonna take me to Ocean City and haul me back to the hotel room when I’m eight Manhattans deep and three g’s in the red?” She pouts. 

Your eyebrow quirks up. “Is that your only qualifying factor? I can do that.”

The pout gives way to a small smirk. “So, I dump Gary and you take me to Ocean City? Is that the deal?” 

You pause. Or… maybe ‘freeze’ is a more accurate word. 

“I… guess?” you manage to get out.

Melissa considers this for a moment, head cocked to the side. “Not a bad incentive.”

How did we get here? you briefly wonder, and you push the thought aside. 

“So you’re gonna leave him, then?” you try to keep your tone light, hoping to urge her back toward your main objective. 

Melissa huffs, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You wanna be my knight in shining armor. You’re not gettin’ me to Ocean City that easy, kid.” She smirks, but it’s tight. Almost forced. 

“Hey, I’m just saying that if all it takes is some drinks on the boardwalk, I’m your gal,” you laugh softly, and she cracks a smile back. 

For a brief moment you feel like you’ve successfully dodged the bullet; Melissa’s more relaxed now, some of the tension having left her shoulders. You just have to coax her a little bit further. 

“I’m serious, Melissa. You deserve way better than a guy who…” is politically vomit-worthy “… doesn’t share your values, y’know? You don’t have to settle.”

That’s when something changes in the way she’s looking at you. The smirk disappears, her eyes narrow, and when she speaks her voice has cooled significantly. 

“Settle?” Melissa repeats. “Who’s settlin’?”

It’s like the air thickens around the two of you. You try to backpedal, to shove the words back in your mouth and swallow them, but it’s too late. Melissa is putting those walls right back up. 

“I don’t need you to swoop in and save me, Y/n,” her voice is sharp, intentionally chosen to carve out space between the two of you. “I’ve stuck it out through way worse than this, alright?”

You sit back in your chair a little and do your best to keep your voice even. “That doesn’t mean you have to-“

“I don’t have to do anything.” Melissa is already shaking her head, voice firm. “I didn’t ask for advice.”

Ouch. Okay, so, she’s kinda pissed. Usually your talks go a lot better than this, and you’re both laughing by now. Then again, usually the talks are about Ava’s inadequacies as a principal or some annoying parent. Not Melissa’s love life and sense of self-worth. 

“Melissa,” you try to control the damage, “I’m not trying to-“

“I’m not some delicate little flower who can’t handle a little trouble. You know me,” Melissa leans forward. “I’ve dealt with way harder stuff than Gary screwin’ up a little. You don’t know half of what I’ve gone through, so don’t sit there and try to pretend that you do.”

Her words hit you square in the chest. You didn’t know what to expect coming back to work after not seeing Melissa all summer, but you didn’t imagine it would be like this. 

Not that you imagined it often. Definitely not. 

You had hoped nothing would be different between you, but she’s evidently putting you at arm’s length now. 

“Melissa, I’m just saying,” you take a breath and try to regroup, “you deserve better than him.”

“Better than what?” Melissa shoots back, arms crossed securely in front of her chest. “Than a guy who wants to settle down with me? Yeah, he’s got some rough edges. So what? Who doesn’t?”

You make a mental note to unpack that sometime down the road. 

“Rough edges?” your eyebrow raises. “Melissa, I’m just trying to make sure you’re happy and not… settling.”

You’re hyper-aware of your use of that word again, and so is she. 

Melissa looks at the table and her jaw clenches. “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t get to decide what settlin’ looks like for me. We’re not on the same page with this, alright?”

In the tense beat of silence that passes between you both, you can feel her withdrawing further from you. The months you’ve spent apart have made it all too raw, too soon. She leans back, arms still crossed, face set in a stubborn scowl. 

“I’ve been fine without your opinion all summer and I’ll be fine without it now.”

You sit back in your chair and try to not let the sigh you let out sound too irritated (or too hurt). This isn’t your first rodeo with Melissa, but still… Ouch. 

“All I’m saying,” you start gingerly, “is that just because you can get through something, it doesn’t mean you should.”

Melissa’s eyes narrow again, but they’re softer this time. She’s listening — even if she doesn’t want to be. 

“I know better than to try to tell you what you can or can’t do,” you continue, keeping your tone casual like you’re discussing the weather. “But I know you, Melissa. You don’t accept less than what you deserve. So if you’re ’sticking it out’ with Gary, there’s a reason, but I don’t think it’s the reason you think it is.”

Melissa doesn’t speak right away, just… stares, with this thoughtful expression. You let the silence hang between you, allowing your words to sink in. 

“You dunno everything about me, Y/n,” she finally says, looking away from you, and her voice has lost some of its edge. 

You offer a small smile. “I never said I did.” 

Another beat of silence. You can see her chewing on your words, probably fighting the urge to make it an argument again. This is always the hardest part — getting her to let go of the fight without feeling like she’s losing. 

“I just… I think you’re worth more than whatever this is,” you say carefully, making sure to keep your voice low. “And maybe it’s time you stop sticking it out just because you’re scared of what comes next.”

That does it. You see Melissa flinch, just barely, but it’s enough to know you’re getting through to her. 

“I’m not scared,” she mutters, but it lacks any real conviction. 

You don’t argue with her, just nod. “Yeah. I know.”

Melissa shifts in her chair, arms still crossed, but she’s less tense. She’s still mad, sure, and maybe she’s even still mad at you, but the fire behind it is dying down. 

“You always gotta be so damn calm, dontcha?” she grumbles. 

“One of us has to be,” you chuckle softly. 

Melissa finally cracks the tiniest smile, her boot nudging you under the table. “Good. You’ll need that calm at the craps table.”

“You’re totally gonna hold me to Ocean City, aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “Gotta have somethin’ to look forward to since you’re makin’ me dump my usual company.”

“Hey, I’m not making you-“ you pause. “Oh. So… you’re gonna do it, then?”

“Yeah,” Melissa nods with a sigh. “I guess I am.”

You just nod, and it seems like Melissa is really absorbing the fact that she’s about to be single again. She looks at the clock like it’s a ticking bomb. 

“Guess I’ve got some time to figure out how I wanna do this,” she says, and you know she’s going to be an anxious mess until 3:30 rolls around. 

“One thing at a time,” you offer a small, supportive smile, and she nods. 

She chuckles softly, more tired than amused. “Right. Should probably focus on my thirty second- and third-graders first.”

Right. Teaching. The thing you’re here to do. You both stand up and start gathering your things. She doesn’t make for the door when you do, and you stop. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Melissa,” you reassure her. “And you know where to find me if you need me.”

Melissa nods and takes a steadying breath. “We’ll talk later?” She sounds almost… hopeful. 

“Of course,” you smile. “If I recall, we’ve got an Ocean City trip to plan.”

Melissa huffs out a small laugh and gives another nod. The tension seems to leave her frame slightly as she finally heads for the door. You follow behind her, knowing the hardest part of the day is yet to come. But maybe, you think, everything will turn out just fine.