#you can make things equal without making things the same

[bifs]

raunchyrandy69 and all of you can smd

i am not defending the crystal clear evidence of problematic behaviour and atypical teenage edginess however i feel like all of this is not to spread genuine awareness but to feel like you’ve won or that you’re some kind of fandom saviour. you’ve been here like a year at best. if you cared about the wellbeing of literally anyone at all just ignore them and block them and leave it at that

we all know they’ve done bad stuff, and maybe its just cuz i’m a good person, but i can’t look at a young teenage girl doing edgy things and not think to myself, maybe something has happened and they need support, or someone to talk to, especially considering the copious amounts of death threats and other equally awful things said to these TEENAGERS. you guys are BULLIES pretending to care about things you simply don’t. you see offensive things and an easy to beat down crowd and think you’re a messiah. i am so serious when i say you’re all just as bad as them, especially those who have taken it upon themselves to harass these guys without any reason but self gratification- some of you guys will literally make stuff up to vilify these young girls as much as possible. after i made my first whiny bitch post aubrey reached out to me personally, and obviously, instead of screaming pedo and nazi i took the time to listen to her and talk to her like a normal person!! and guess what?? she cooperated!! teenagers who spend lots of time online literally absorb their environment like sponges, a little mercy would do wonders for you people. she’s done nothing but express regret and shame bc believe it or not she’s able to realise when she’s done something wrong

since you’re all in droves i doubt that’s going to happen but i think you all should realise you’re all little joseph mccarthys. i am so glad i took the time to slow down my thought process and do some thinking before i sent a little “kill yourself” to a 14 year old. maybe it’s because you’re all the same age (doubt) but you celebrating running aubrey off the internet is not the flex you think it is. you bullied a TEENAGER off of a SAFE SPACE for her, and you’re trying to run all her friends off as well. some self reflection for all parties involved would be a good thing, i think. maybe we all just block who we don’t like, or, if you WANT to save our fandom, KINDLY EDUCATE THEM 😭😭 YOU CAN BE KIND😭 YOURE ALLOWED

i am not trying to undermine the severity of any of that groups actions but guys cmon the median age of the “nazi clique” is like 15–you’re howling at 15 year olds. i too had my only introduction to aubrey through word of mouth and call-out posts but i need you to slow down for a second and think before you extend the drama. because its not as if they’re still going with the problematic stuff? you guys will join servers, pretend to be their friends, and then turn on THESE TEENAGERS to seem like you just did something altruistic. they just respond when screamed at? maybe stop screaming? stop harassing MINORSS😭

i have more art coming i’ll stop being insufferable for a month or so i so promise

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

"our first year at NRC" do you see us getting more years at nrc? it always seemed interesting to me that twst made the choice of having the fourth year be off the campus. why? it sort of caps off the potential of us getting another year at nrc, because all those in third year are going to disappear from the centre of action, the place where most interactions between characters take place. i remember also in the earlier years the speculation that we might meet those studying in fourth year later; cool upperclassmen introduced as the story develops. clearly the latter isn't actually in the cards. however, it is equally interesting to me that they ultimately decided to age the characters. perhaps we might be getting more than just one year? what do you think?

[Referencing this post!]

I don’t know where Twst intends to go moving forward but the fact that they decided to commit to age people up + the main story takes place over the course of a school year makes me think we’ll eventually progress into a second year, third year, etc. The themes of book 7 also align with this forward momentum; there’s a clear focus about having to accept “the end” to a story, even if it means saying good-bye to loved ones. Of course, within book 7, this refers to Lilia��but it also works on a meta-narrative level, referring to how us, the players, do not wish to see the current third years moving onto internships or see Yuu return to their ordinary world.

The idea of the fourth years having off-campus internships also contributes to this idea of ongoing growth. After all, haven’t like… the OB boys been developing off-screen anyway, outside of the purview of Yuu/the player?? Don’t many vignettes and event stories play out just fine without Yuu’s involvement?? Epel and Deuce bonded on the beach without Yuu being there to facilitate it, right?? I definitely think we don’t have to be present in order for there to be interesting interactions or conflicts. The Twst world and its characters can work and run on its own without us being physically present to witness every little thing that happens.

I don’t think this necessarily means we’ll never hear from the third years again, but this does offer a new interesting frame of reference. Because the boys are being sent all over Twisted Wonderland, we could perhaps have opportunities to catch up with them and receive expanded lore on the fields of expertise or locations they’re interning in. This would be quick and easy to do with mirror travel! Maybe we’ll even get to see conflicts going down at their internship spots? (I really feel like this opens the possibilities, not limits them; if anything, the same old school environment and population at NRC sort of stifles things.) This also, of course, opens spots back at NRC for new freshmen to enter and interact with the now second and third years.

I want to see these kinds of things! Everyone slowly maturing, becoming mentors and senpai to new students, shaping their careers, forming friendships, learning from their past(s) and trauma… maybe even the first years succeeding their previous dorm leaders and carrying on that torch 😭

With the fourth years being off-campus for most of the year and returning only for special occasions (like the cultural festival and graduation), it seems like we won’t get to know the current ones that well… It’s a waste if you ask me, because why even mention them returning for the fair and such if you don’t do anything with it??? And if they’re coming back just to graduate, then there’s literally no time to familiarize ourselves with them 😔 It’s okay, I’m fine with not knowing the fourth years as long as we can follow the third years and the others that follow them on their journies… 🧍‍♂️

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Joe's POV | Part Three

📸 Catch up on Behind the Lens — in case you're behind 👀

📝 Read all my stories on the Masterlist

✨ Join the taglist so you never miss a story ✨

💌 It’s Friday night, I’m up late — let’s talkkkkkkkkkkkkk

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 21.4k

📩 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: And just like that… Joe’s POV is done.

This one pushed me in ways I didn’t totally expect. Writing it alongside Y/N’s POV, trying to keep everything aligned emotionally and logistically, was honestly kind of a beast. Especially with how long my chapters are—every scene had so much to carry. But I’m really proud of how it turned out. My biggest goal was to stay true to Joe’s internal voice while keeping the emotional beats consistent with what we already saw from Y/N. That meant rereading a lot, reworking scenes to make sure they still hit from his perspective, and sitting with some hard silences that I think needed to be felt instead of filled. Thank you for your patience while I figured this out. Truly. I hope the payoff feels worth it. And as always—I’d love to hear what landed for you, what made you feel things, or just your favorite lines. You know I’m in the comments all night.

Let’s talk. I’m up for a while. 💬

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

Tuesday Morning - 6:23 AM

Joe stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, the same position he'd been in for the past hour. Sleep had become impossible since that night in the edit bay. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there—Y/N's hands in his hair, the way she'd kissed him back with equal desperation, the taste of everything they'd held back for five years finally given permission. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark and silent. He'd drafted seventeen different messages to Y/N over the past three days, deleting each one before he could send it.

Are you okay?

Delete.

Can we talk about what happened?

Delete.

I meant every word I said.

Delete.

The problem was that everything felt either too much or too little. Too casual for something that had fundamentally shifted his entire understanding of what he wanted. Too intense for a woman who'd asked for space to think clearly.

* * *

Tuesday - Facility Encounters

Joe arrived at the facility with a strategy. Act normal. Give Y/N space. Don't push for conversations she wasn't ready to have. Be the same professional, controlled Joe Burrow he'd been for five years. The strategy lasted exactly twenty-three minutes.

He spotted her in the hallway near the media offices, files clutched against her chest like armor, that focused expression she wore when she was managing multiple priorities. The sight of her made everything else fade—not because she looked different, but because she looked exactly the same while everything inside him had changed.

Their eyes met across the corridor. For a fraction of a second, Joe saw something flicker in her expression—surprise, warmth, maybe recognition of the man who'd kissed her like his life depended on it three days ago. Then the professional mask slid back into place.

"Morning, Joe," she said as they passed, her tone pleasant but distant. The same tone she'd use with any other player.

"Morning," he replied, matching her formality even as every instinct screamed at him to stop her, to ask about the kiss, to demand to know if she'd felt what he'd felt. But she was already moving past him, disappearing into her office without looking back. Joe stood in the empty hallway, feeling like he'd just failed a test he didn't know he was taking.

* * *

Tuesday Evening - 07:47 PM

Joe couldn't focus on the film in front of him. The defensive formations blurred together as his mind kept drifting to how Y/N had treated him that morning—like he was just another player, like nothing had changed. The silence between them was killing him. Three days of careful distance, of pretending that kiss had never happened, of watching her retreat behind walls he'd finally managed to break down.

Finally, he typed: Are you okay?

Simple. Direct. Giving her an out if she needed one, but letting her know he was thinking about her. That he'd been thinking about her constantly since Sunday night. He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately regretted it. Too simple. Too safe. After everything he'd said in that edit bay, after the way she'd kissed him back, "are you okay?" felt like he was hiding behind politeness.

The message showed as delivered. Then read. Joe stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots that would indicate she was typing back.

Nothing.

He set the phone aside, running his hands through his hair. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she didn't know how to respond either. Maybe she was regretting the entire thing and trying to figure out how to let him down gently. His phone buzzed at 11:52 PM.

Y/N: I'm fine. Just processing. Thank you for asking.

Polite. Professional. She could have been responding to anyone. Joe read the message three times, looking for any trace of the woman who'd kissed him like she'd been waiting years to do it.

Nothing.

* * *

Later Tuesday Evening - Ja'Marr's Reality Check

Joe was sprawled on his couch that evening, mindlessly flipping through game film when his phone rang. Ja'Marr's name on the screen.

"What's up?" Joe answered, pausing the video.

"Bro, you sound like shit. What's going on? You've been weird all week."

Joe considered deflecting, making some excuse about playoff preparation or off-season planning. But the weight of carrying this alone was becoming too much.

"I kissed Y/N," he said simply.

Ja'Marr's eyebrows shot up. "Finally. When?"

"The other night. In the edit bay."

"And?"

"And now she's back to treating me like any other player. Polite, professional, completely fucking unreachable."

"She kissed you back?"

"Yeah. God, yeah. Like she'd been waiting as long as I had."

"Then what's the problem?"

Joe laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The Giants want her. You know that man. VP position in New York. She has to decide by Friday."

"Shit, you're right." Ja'Marr was quiet for a moment. "So you kissed her right before she has to choose between staying and leaving?"

"The timing wasn't exactly planned."

"Jesus, Joe. You've been in love with this woman for years, and you choose the week she might leave to finally make a move?"

The blunt assessment hit Joe like a physical blow. "I wasn't—"

"Don't," Ja'Marr interrupted. "Man, I've watched you for five years. You always want her filming your stuff, you look for her after every game, and you've been acting weird as hell whenever she backs off. You've been gone over this girl since day one."

Joe stared into his beer, unable to argue with the truth. "Maybe. Yeah. Probably."

"Definitely. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know. I told her I'd respect whatever decision she makes. That we'd figure it out."

"That's dumb as hell," Ja'Marr said. "You want her to stay."

"Of course I want her to stay. But I can't ask her to give up her dream job for someone who took five years to figure out his own feelings."

"Why not?"

Joe looked up, surprised by the question. "Because that's selfish. Because she's worked her ass off for this opportunity. Because I don't have the right to ask her to choose me over her career."

"Says who?"

"Says—" Joe stopped, realizing he didn't have a good answer. "Says me, I guess."

"I'm not saying manipulate her or nothing. But damn, Joe, you can at least tell her how you feel. Let her know what she's walking away from."

Joe felt the weight he'd been carrying since that night in the editing bay night start to shift—not gone, but not crushing him anymore.

"What if she chooses New York anyway?"

"Then at least she knows what she's choosing," Ja'Marr said. "Right now you're deciding for her by not telling her shit."

* * *

Wednesday Morning - The Conference Room

Joe spotted Y/N the moment he entered the facility. She was moving quickly, eyes fixed straight ahead, clearly not looking for conversation. He couldn't take another day of this. Couldn't watch her pretend that other night hadn't happened, that five years of building toward that moment could be reduced to a mistake to be managed.

"Morning," he said when their paths crossed near the media suite.

"Morning," she replied, her voice giving nothing away.

Joe pushed off the wall, taking a step toward her. "Do you have a minute?"

The request clearly caught her off guard. She glanced at her watch—a gesture he recognized as buying time rather than actually checking the time.

"I have a meeting with Kayla at nine."

"This won't take long," Joe said, nodding toward an empty conference room.

Something in his tone must have conveyed that this wasn't optional, because Y/N followed him into the room without further protest. Joe closed the door behind them, the soft click seeming unnaturally loud.

He turned to face her, hands in his pockets partly to appear casual and partly to keep from reaching for her. Y/N stood near the conference table, posture guarded, watching him with the same wary attention she'd give a wild animal.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, deciding on directness over diplomacy.

Y/N set her files down, the gesture buying her time. "I've been busy. The Giants deadline—"

"I know about the deadline." Joe kept his voice calm, conversational. "Friday, right?"

She nodded, and he caught the flicker of surprise that he'd been keeping track.

"Three days," he continued, taking a step closer. "That's what you have left to decide."

"Yes."

Joe studied her face, cataloguing the details he'd memorized over five years—the way her eyebrows drew together when she was thinking, the slight tightening around her eyes that meant she was holding something back, the particular stillness she adopted when she was trying not to react to something.

"Have you made up your mind?"

Y/N shook her head, her gaze dropping. "I'm still weighing options."

Joe heard what she wasn't saying.

"Including what happened between us?"

Her eyes snapped back to his, sharp and defensive. "That's not a factor in a career decision."

Joe felt that barely-there smile tug at his mouth despite the seriousness of the conversation. Classic Y/N—trying to compartmentalize when her feelings were clearly written all over her face.

"Isn't it?" he asked. "Because it seems like you've been avoiding me specifically to keep it from being a factor."

He watched her carefully, saw the moment his words hit home. Her breath hitched slightly, her grip on the edge of the table tightening.

"I can't make a life-changing decision based on one kiss," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"It wasn't just one kiss," Joe replied, letting his voice drop. "And you know it."

The air between them shifted, charged with the same electricity that had sparked in the edit bay. Joe felt the pull toward her, the same magnetic force that had been drawing him for years but which he'd finally stopped fighting.

"What do you want from me, Joe?" Y/N asked, the question carrying the weight of five years of careful distance.

Joe didn't hesitate. This was why he'd asked for this conversation—to stop dancing around the truth.

"I want you to be honest. With me, and with yourself."

"About what?"

"About whether you're running to New York or away from Cincinnati." He took another step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, to catch the faint scent of her perfume. "Away from whatever this is between us."

Y/N's pulse was visible at her throat, her professional composure cracking under the weight of his direct attention. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," Joe agreed, surprising himself with the admission. "The timing, especially. But I've spent too long not saying things I should have said. Not acknowledging what's been happening."

"Which is what, exactly?"

Joe met her eyes directly, no hesitation, no careful deflection. Time for complete honesty.

"That there's always been something between us. Something I didn't understand at first. Something I couldn't act on for a long time. But something real."

The words felt like a release, like finally saying what he'd been carrying for years. Y/N's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something more vulnerable.

Joe chose his next words carefully, knowing they would matter. "I loved Olivia. What we had was real and important. But even then, there was always... this connection with you that I couldn't explain. I told myself it was just respect, or friendship, or that you just got me in a way other people didn't."

His jaw tightened as he pushed through the harder admission. "After Olivia, when I started seeing Ellie, I think I was still trying to figure things out. To move forward. But the whole time, you were there, and that connection never went away."

Y/N's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she blinked them back with the same stubborn control she'd shown for five years.

"Why now, Joe? Why when I'm finally being offered everything I've worked for?"

The hurt in her voice made everything clear. She thought this was about timing, about him finally wanting her only when he might lose her. She didn't understand that losing her had simply forced him to confront feelings he'd been suppressing for years.

"Because I'm finally clear about what I want," he said simply. "And because the thought of you leaving made me realize I can't keep pretending I don't feel what I feel."

He stepped closer, close enough to touch her but keeping his hands carefully at his sides. "But I'm not asking you to stay for me. That wouldn't be fair to either of us."

"Then what are you asking?"

Joe considered his words, knowing this might be his only chance to say them. "I'm asking you to consider that maybe what you've built here isn't finished yet. That maybe your story in Cincinnati isn't over." His voice softened. "And I'm asking you to believe that whatever you decide, I'll respect it. We'll figure it out."

The door behind them opened suddenly, Kayla's voice cutting through the intimate bubble they'd created. "Y/N, I was looking for—oh." She stopped, clearly reading the tension in the room. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"We were just finishing," Y/N said quickly, her professional mask sliding back into place as she gathered her files.

Joe watched her collect herself, watched the walls rebuild in real time. Part of him wanted to ask Kayla to leave, to finish this conversation, to push until Y/N gave him a real answer. But he'd said what he needed to say. The rest was up to her.

"I have to go," Y/N said, her voice steadier than her hands.

Joe nodded, stepping aside to give her space. "That's okay. I said what I needed to say."

As she moved toward the door, Joe felt compelled to offer one final thought. "Just remember, I asked you to be honest with yourself. Not with me. Whatever you decide... make it about what you want, Y/N. Not what you think you should want."

Y/N paused at the door, her back to him, and Joe thought for a moment she might turn around, might say something that would give him hope. Instead, she walked out, leaving him standing alone in the conference room with the weight of everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

* * *

Wednesday Evening - The Wait

Joe sat in his car in the facility parking lot that evening, staring at his phone. Y/N's car was still there, which meant she was working late—probably trying to avoid him, or maybe trying to make sense of the decision she had to make by Friday.

He wanted to go back inside, to find her, to continue the conversation that had been interrupted. But Ja'Marr's words echoed in his mind: Let her make an informed decision.

He'd given her the information. The rest was up to her.

Joe started his car and drove home, carrying the weight of two days until Friday, two days to learn whether five years of building toward something had been worth the wait, or whether he'd finally found the courage to reach for something only to watch it slip away.

But for the first time since Sunday night, Joe felt like he'd done something right. He'd been honest. He'd been direct. He'd given Y/N the truth she deserved, even if it meant risking everything.

Now all he could do was wait, and hope that the woman who'd thrown him a perfect spiral on his first day would choose to stay and see what else they could build together.

* * *

Thursday Evening - November 2025

Joe sat in his living room, staring at game film that he wasn't actually processing. His laptop screen showed defensive formations from the Steelers, but his mind was replaying the conference room conversation from the day before. Y/N's voice echoing: "What do you want from me, Joe?"

One day. She had one day left to decide about New York, and he'd laid everything on the line. Now all he could do was wait and hope that five years of building trust meant something when weighed against a VP title and a fresh start three states away.

His phone sat silent on the coffee table. No messages from Y/N since their conversation. No indication of what she was thinking, what she was feeling, whether his confession had changed anything or just complicated an already impossible decision.

Joe picked up his phone, thumb hovering over her contact. He wanted to text her, to ask how she was processing everything, to remind her that he meant every word he'd said. But Y/N had asked for space to think clearly, and the last thing he wanted was to pressure her into a decision that should be entirely her own.

Instead, he found himself scrolling through their text history—five years of professional exchanges punctuated by moments of genuine connection. Late-night messages during his recovery. Quick check-ins during stressful media days. The gradual evolution from formal communication to something that felt like friendship, then something deeper neither of them had been willing to name.

The cursor blinked in the empty message field. Joe set the phone aside without typing anything.

* * *

Friday Morning - Facility Silence

Joe arrived at the facility early, hoping to catch Y/N in the parking lot or hallway—not to pressure her, just to gauge her mood, to see if their conversation had shifted anything between them. But her car wasn't in its usual spot, and a quick check of the media schedule showed she was working remotely.

Avoiding him, or avoiding the building entirely while she made her decision. Joe couldn't blame her either way.

"You look worse than yesterday," Ja'Marr said, dropping onto the bench beside Joe's locker. "Did you talk to her?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"She's deciding between me and New York."

"Damn." Ja'Marr was quiet for a moment. "When's she gotta choose?"

"Today."

"And you're just sitting here?"

"What else am I supposed to do? I said what you told me to say. Now I wait."

"Man, I didn't tell you to give one speech and disappear. You could at least check in, see how she's doing."

Joe shook his head. "I've said everything I can say. The rest is up to her."

Practice was a disaster. Joe's timing was off, his reads slow, his accuracy inconsistent. He kept checking the facility windows, looking for any sign that Y/N had come in, that she was somewhere in the building making her final calculations.

Coach Taylor pulled him aside after the third incomplete pass in a row.

"Where's your head today, Joe?"

"Sorry, Coach. Just distracted."

"By what? We've got the Ravens in two weeks. I need you locked in."

Joe nodded, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Football had always been his refuge, the one place where external complications couldn't touch him. But today, even that sanctuary felt compromised by the weight of what Y/N might be deciding.

* * *

Friday Evening - The Deadline

By 5 PM, Joe was staring at his phone, wondering if Y/N had made the call to New York, if she was somewhere packing boxes or booking flights or having conversations that would take her halfway across the country.

He forced himself to stay home, to resist the urge to text or call or do anything that might influence a choice that had to be entirely hers.

His phone stayed silent all evening.

* * *

Weekend - Radio Silence

Saturday morning brought no word from Y/N. Joe threw himself into his workout routine with punishing intensity, trying to exhaust himself enough that he couldn't think about what her silence might mean.

Ja'Marr texted around noon: Any word?

Nothing, Joe replied. Radio silence.

Maybe that's good? Maybe she's still deciding?

Or maybe she's already decided and doesn't know how to tell me.

Joe's phone stayed silent all weekend. By Sunday evening, he was convinced that Y/N had taken the Giants job and was either already in New York or preparing to leave Cincinnati behind. The silence felt like an answer in itself.

* * *

Monday Morning - The Practice Window

Joe arrived at the facility Monday morning with a knot in his stomach. If Y/N had taken the New York job, today might be one of the last times he'd see her. There would be transition meetings, handover conversations, maybe a goodbye that would have to be professional and polite while his heart was breaking.

He changed into practice gear mechanically, going through the motions of preparation while his mind raced through possibilities. Maybe she'd already given her notice. Maybe she was upstairs right now, cleaning out her office, preparing to leave everything they'd built together behind.

Practice felt surreal. Joe moved through drills on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him through formations while his attention kept drifting to the facility windows. Looking for any sign of her, any indication that she was still here, still part of this world they'd shared for five years.

Halfway through practice, during a water break, Joe glanced toward the building again. And there she was.

Y/N stood at the windows overlooking the practice field, watching them run drills. Even at a distance, Joe could see her clearly—the way she held herself, the familiar silhouette he'd memorized over five years of working together.

She was here. She hadn't left.

Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The other players, the coaches calling plays, the general noise of practice—all of it disappeared until it was just Joe and Y/N, looking at each other through glass and possibility.

Then Y/N gave him a small nod. Subtle, but deliberate. A communication that said everything without words.

I'm staying.

Joe felt the tension he'd been carrying suddenly snap—relief so profound it was almost painful. She was staying. She'd chosen Cincinnati. She'd chosen to see what might happen between them.

He nodded back, the corner of his mouth lifting in that barely-there smile she knew so well. Neither of them moved to break the moment. It felt significant, this quiet acknowledgment across the distance. She was staying. He knew she was staying. What that meant for them remained unspoken, unresolved, but suddenly full of possibility.

A coach's whistle finally broke the spell, and Joe's attention returned to practice as players reorganized for the next drill. But the relief flooding through his system made everything feel different. Lighter. Full of potential he'd been afraid to hope for.

Y/N lingered at the window for another moment, and Joe caught her eye once more before she turned away. Something passed between them—understanding, maybe even anticipation.

* * *

Monday Afternoon - The Text

Joe showered and changed after practice with more energy than he'd felt all weekend. Y/N was staying, which meant they had time to figure out what came next. Time to explore what they'd started without the pressure of an imminent deadline.

But he also knew they needed to talk. The nod through the window had communicated her decision, but they still had everything else to work through—what this meant for them, how they wanted to handle things professionally, what came next.

Joe pulled out his phone and typed carefully:

Joe: Can we talk? No pressure, just clarity.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately wondered if he should have waited, given her more time to settle into her decision before asking for anything.

Her response came quickly:

Y/N: When?

Joe: Tonight? I know a place. Quiet. Private.

Y/N: Where?

Joe thought for a moment, then typed: Ever been to Hermitage Brewing? They have a back room. Owner's a friend. We can talk without interruption.

It was perfect—Danny would give them privacy, the atmosphere was relaxed, and it was removed from both the facility and the upscale places where Joe might be recognized. Neutral ground where they could be honest without performance or pretense.

Y/N: 8 PM?

Joe: I'll be there. Thank you.

Joe pocketed his phone, feeling something like excitement mix with the relief. Y/N was staying, and tonight they'd finally talk about what that meant for both of them.

For the first time in days, Joe felt like the future was full of possibility instead of dread. She'd chosen to stay, and now they could figure out everything else together.

* * *

Monday Evening - Anticipation

Joe arrived at Hermitage Brewing twenty minutes early, nerves humming with anticipation. Danny set them up in the back room without questions, just a knowing smile and two IPAs—he'd remembered Y/N's preference from Joe's description.

As 8 PM approached, Joe found himself checking his phone, adjusting his position in the chair, running through possible conversation starters. This wasn't a date, exactly, but it felt more significant than any date he'd ever been on. This was about five years of careful distance finally becoming something honest and real.

When Y/N appeared in the doorway at exactly 8 PM, Joe felt his breath catch. She looked nervous but determined, wearing dark jeans and a sweater—casual but thoughtful. Like she'd considered this conversation as carefully as he had.

"This is perfect," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "How did you find this place?"

As Joe explained his connection to Danny, he watched Y/N relax into the space, appreciating the privacy and authenticity of the setting. She understood immediately why he'd chosen it—somewhere they could be real with each other without worrying about cameras or curious observers.

"So," Joe said finally, when they'd both settled with their beers and the small talk had run its course. "You're staying."

"I'm staying," Y/N confirmed, meeting his gaze directly.

And Joe smiled, feeling lighter than he had in months. The conversation they'd been building toward for five years was finally about to begin, and for the first time, they had all the time in the world to figure out what came next.

* * *

Late November 2025 - 6:23 AM

Joe stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. He'd been awake for twenty minutes, trying to figure out how to ask her for coffee without it sounding like work or some kind of follow-up to their brewery conversation.

Three days since they'd talked. Three days of being careful around each other at the facility, keeping things polite and professional. But he was tired of overthinking every word, every look, every interaction.

Y/N had told him to be real with her, to stop performing. And here he was, planning out a text message like it was a game script.

Joe typed quickly, before he could second-guess himself:

Coffee before work? Not facility coffee. The good stuff.

Simple. No overthinking it. If she wanted to see who he really was, this was it—direct, no games, no careful politeness.

Her response came almost immediately:

Where?

He remembered something she'd mentioned months ago during one of their content planning sessions—a throwaway comment about needing to escape to "that little bookstore cafe where nobody cares about sports." He'd filed it away at the time, the way he filed away most details about Y/N, not knowing why they might be important but unable to forget them.

You know that bookstore cafe you mentioned? East side? Thought I'd see what the fuss was about.

It was perfect for what he needed—somewhere Y/N felt comfortable, somewhere he wouldn't be recognized, somewhere they could have a normal conversation without the weight of his public persona intruding.

Collective Grounds. 7:30?

See you there.

Joe set his phone aside, feeling nervous in a way he hadn't since high school. Their brewery conversation had been about figuring out where they stood. This was different. This was him trying to be normal around her—just Joe, not the quarterback.

The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure who that person was anymore.

* * *

7:15 AM - Collective Grounds

Joe parked on the street outside Collective Grounds, taking a moment to assess the space before going inside. The converted bookstore looked exactly like the kind of place Y/N would love—eclectic, intellectual, unpretentious. Through the windows, he could see mismatched furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the kind of customers who looked more interested in their laptops and newspapers than in spotting celebrities.

Perfect.

He entered the bookstore section first, navigating narrow aisles between towering shelves, taking in the organized chaos of used books and hand-written recommendation cards. The cafe occupied the back corner, separated from the main bookstore by a low barrier but sharing the same warm, lived-in atmosphere.

Joe ordered coffee—black, the same way he'd been drinking it since college—and scanned the space for Y/N. He found her at a corner table near the poetry section, laptop open, already settled into the environment like she belonged there.

She looked up as he approached, and Joe felt that familiar flutter of recognition—not just seeing Y/N, but seeing her in her element, relaxed and unguarded in a way she rarely was at the facility.

"This place makes sense for you," he said, settling into the chair across from her.

No "good morning" or "thanks for meeting me." Just an immediate observation, the kind of direct communication that felt natural with Y/N.

"How so?"

Joe glanced around, cataloguing details the way he read defensive formations. "Quiet. No distractions. Good for thinking." His eyes returned to her. "Also no one here cares about football."

It was true. In the fifteen minutes he'd been here, no one had given him a second glance. The graduate student at the next table was absorbed in what looked like a dissertation. The artist near the window was sketching in a journal. The older man by the biography section was deep in conversation with someone who was clearly a regular.

"That obvious?"

"I haven't been recognized once since walking in." Joe felt his mouth curve slightly. "Novelty experience."

Y/N's smile was genuine, amused. "Poor you, having to be just another customer."

"It's not terrible," Joe replied, keeping his tone deadpan. Then, more seriously: "You come here often?"

The question was deliberate. Y/N had challenged him to show her who he was beyond football, but that meant learning who she was beyond their professional relationship. He knew Y/N the media coordinator, Y/N the strategic thinker, Y/N the crisis manager. He was only beginning to understand Y/N the person.

"When I need to think. Or when I want to read something that has nothing to do with sports."

Joe nodded, filing away another piece of information. "What kind of books?"

Y/N studied his face, and Joe had the distinct impression she was trying to determine whether his interest was genuine or polite conversation. "Fiction, mostly. Some poetry. Whatever catches my attention." She paused. "What about you? Do you read?"

The question caught Joe slightly off guard. Most people assumed athletes didn't read, or if they did, it was limited to sports-related material or whatever their PR team recommended.

"Physics, mostly. Some astronomy. I've been working through this book on string theory." He gestured toward the science section, then realized how that might sound. "Probably sounds boring."

"Not boring. Surprising, maybe."

Joe's eyebrows lifted. "Why surprising?"

"Most people don't read string theory for fun."

Joe considered this, recognizing the opening to share something real about how his mind worked. "It's interesting how everything connects. The way small forces can create massive changes." He felt his composure slip slightly as he engaged with the topic. "Plus it helps with pattern recognition."

"Pattern recognition?"

"Everything has patterns. Physics, football, people." He paused, realizing he was about to reveal more about his analytical approach to relationships than he'd intended. "I like understanding how things work."

Y/N's expression shifted, something like fascination flickering in her eyes. Joe felt a small surge of satisfaction—this was what he'd hoped for. Not Y/N being politely interested in his hobbies, but Y/N being genuinely curious about how he thought.

"And you think relationships follow patterns too?"

The question was direct, challenging. Joe met her gaze steadily, recognizing the moment to be completely honest.

"Most of them. People playing roles, following expected behaviors, responding to predictable stimuli." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "But not all of them."

He watched Y/N's cheeks flush slightly, saw the moment she understood the implication. This—whatever was developing between them—didn't follow the usual patterns. It was more complex, more honest, more real than the careful performances he'd grown accustomed to.

"What makes the difference?"

Joe leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. "When both people stop performing. When what they want from each other is just... truth."

The word felt significant as he said it. Not romance, not attraction, not chemistry—though all of those were present. Truth. The thing he'd been avoiding for five years, the thing Y/N had been challenging him to offer.

"Is that what this is?" Y/N asked. "Truth?"

"That's what I'm hoping for," Joe replied. "From both of us."

The silence that followed felt comfortable rather than awkward. Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw something shift in her expression—not surprise, exactly, but recognition. Like she was seeing him clearly for the first time.

"So what happens now?" she asked.

Joe leaned back, letting his natural confidence settle over him. This was familiar territory—problem-solving, strategic thinking, managing variables toward a desired outcome.

"Now we figure out what we want from each other. Without all the professional complications and timing issues and excuses we've been using."

"Just like that?"

Joe's eyes held hers, acknowledging the complexity while refusing to be intimidated by it. "Why make it complicated? We're both adults. We're both interested. We're both capable of handling whatever challenges come up."

He could see Y/N fighting a smile, could practically hear her thinking that his assessment was both completely logical and completely insufficient for the emotional reality they were navigating.

"You make it sound simple."

"The feelings part is simple," Joe said, his voice dropping slightly. "I know what I want. I think you do too. Everything else is just logistics."

"Logistics like my brand-new promotion and workplace dynamics and the fact that we see each other every day?"

"Logistics," Joe confirmed, unruffled by her list of complications. "Things to be managed, not barriers to be overcome."

Y/N shook her head, and Joe caught the mix of amusement and admiration in her expression. He was being clinical about something deeply personal, but somehow that felt more honest than pretending emotions couldn't be approached strategically.

"You've really thought this through."

"I think everything through," Joe replied simply. "It's what I do."

"And what conclusion did you reach?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, though his voice remained steady. This was the moment to be completely honest about his assessment, his decision, his commitment.

"That I want to see what this could be. That you're worth whatever complications might arise. And that I'm done pretending otherwise."

He watched Y/N's face change as the words landed. No dramatic declarations or emotional speeches—just clear, honest communication of his position. This was how Joe approached everything that mattered: with careful analysis followed by unwavering commitment.

"What about work?"

Joe had anticipated this question, had already worked through the practical implications. "What about it? We're both professionals. We know how to separate personal and business." He paused, considering her specific concerns. "Though we should probably be discrete until your promotion feels established. For your sake, not mine."

He saw relief flicker across Y/N's face, confirming that he'd correctly identified her primary concern. She needed to know he understood the professional stakes, that he wouldn't do anything to undermine the position she'd worked years to achieve.

"How discrete?"

"As discrete as you need," Joe said. "I'm not looking to broadcast anything. I just want the option to see you outside of work without having to pretend it's about content strategy."

Y/N's smile was genuine now, amused by his phrasing. "The option?"

"The standing invitation," Joe clarified, allowing a hint of humor into his voice. "To coffee that isn't about work. Dinner that isn't about team business. Conversations that don't involve quarterback mechanics or social media metrics."

"That sounds..." Y/N paused, and Joe waited, curious about her assessment.

"Normal?" he suggested.

"Revolutionary," Y/N corrected.

The word surprised a laugh out of him—genuine, unguarded, the kind of response he rarely allowed himself in public. Revolutionary. He liked that assessment better than normal.

"I'll take revolutionary," he said, checking his watch and noting they'd need to head to work soon. "But right now I'll settle for not being late to morning meetings."

They gathered their things efficiently, a comfortable routine that felt natural despite being new. Joe waited while Y/N packed her laptop and notes, noting how she moved through the space like she belonged there.

Walking to their cars, Joe felt cautiously optimistic. The conversation had gone exactly as he'd hoped—honest, direct, focused on practical realities rather than emotional complications. Y/N had seen him thinking through problems, making decisions, being himself rather than performing for her benefit.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked as they reached the parking area.

It was a test, subtle but deliberate. Joe wanted to know if Y/N was genuinely interested in building something consistent, or if this morning had been a one-time exploration of possibilities.

"Tomorrow might work," Y/N said, her tone deliberately casual.

Joe recognized the challenge in her response and felt his competitive instincts engage. She wasn't going to make this easy, wasn't going to let him assume her interest or take her availability for granted. Good. He preferred partners who matched his intensity.

"Good," he said, getting into his truck. "I'll bring better coffee recommendations. This place is adequate, but I know better."

As he drove away, Joe felt satisfied with the morning's work. He'd shown Y/N who he was when he wasn't performing—analytical, direct, confident in his decisions but interested in her perspective. He'd demonstrated that he could navigate their professional complications while pursuing something personal.

Most importantly, he'd proven to himself that authenticity didn't require becoming someone different. It just required stopping the performance and letting Y/N see the person who'd been there all along.

* * *

December 2025 - Saturday Afternoon

Joe was sprawled on his couch, laptop balanced on his chest, halfheartedly reviewing film from last week's practice when his phone buzzed with a text from Y/N.

Y/N: Target run. This is what my Saturday has become.

Joe smiled at the message. Three weeks into whatever they were building, and Y/N had started sharing the mundane details of her weekend—grocery lists, errands, the small domestic realities that most people kept private. It felt significant, this casual intimacy of shared boredom.

Joe: Which Target?

He wasn't sure why he'd asked. Mild curiosity, maybe, or the simple desire to know where she was, what her Saturday afternoon looked like when she wasn't at the facility managing his media obligations.

Y/N: Springdale. Getting boring stuff - shampoo, paper towels, etc.

Joe sat up, closing his laptop. He'd been planning to order takeout and spend the evening alone, the way he spent most Saturday nights during the season. But the thought of Y/N navigating Target aisles by herself, loading boring necessities into her cart, suddenly seemed like something he wanted to be part of.

Joe: Let me come pick you up when you're done. We can grab food.

He hit send before he could analyze the impulse. This was what Y/N had asked for—authenticity, not performance. His first instinct had been to offer practical help and companionship. No need to overthink it.

Y/N: You want to rescue me from Target?

Joe: I want to get dinner and you're already out.

Joe appreciated that Y/N didn't need elaborate explanations or romantic justifications. She understood efficiency, practical decision-making, the logic of combining errands with social time.

An hour later, Joe pulled into the Target parking lot, spotting Y/N loading bags into the trunk of her car. Hair pulled back, jeans and a sweatshirt—she looked completely normal, like any person finishing weekend errands.

Joe found this version of Y/N unexpectedly appealing. Not the polished professional from the facility, not the carefully put-together woman from their coffee dates, but someone running weekend errands like any normal person.

"Need help with those?" he called through his open window.

"I've got it," Y/N replied, closing her trunk and walking toward his car. "Thanks for the rescue mission."

"Drive-through okay?" Joe asked as she buckled her seatbelt. "I'm not really feeling like sitting in a restaurant."

He surprised himself with the admission. Most of his previous relationships had involved carefully planned dinners at upscale restaurants where he could control the environment and manage potential interruptions. But with Y/N, he found himself preferring casual, low-key options that felt more like real life than performance.

"Fine with me."

They ended up at Culver's, Joe navigating the drive-through with the same efficiency he brought to everything else. He ordered without consulting Y/N—she'd mentioned liking their burgers during one of their coffee conversations—and drove to an empty parking lot where they could eat without curious observers.

"This is nice," Y/N said, stealing one of his fries.

The casual theft made Joe smile. It was such a normal, comfortable gesture—the kind of thing people did when they were relaxed with each other, when boundaries had softened into familiarity.

"Better than eating alone."

"Is that what you usually do? Eat alone?"

Joe considered the question while unwrapping his second burger. "Usually. Or with teammates, but that's just different."

"How so?"

It was a fair question, one that made Joe think about the careful compartmentalization of his social life. "With teammates, you're still kind of performing. Even when you're relaxed, you're still the quarterback. This is just... normal."

He glanced at Y/N, noting how she listened—not just waiting for her turn to speak, but actually processing what he was telling her about the isolation that came with his position.

"You miss normal?" she asked.

"I didn't think I did," Joe admitted. "But yeah. This is the first time in years I've eaten fast food in a parking lot and just... talked."

"About nothing important," Y/N added, gesturing to the empty parking lot around them.

"Exactly. About nothing important."

But even as he said it, Joe realized it wasn't true. Everything about this felt important—not the conversation topics, but the ease of being with Y/N without agenda or expectation. The way she'd texted him about Target runs, the way she'd accepted his offer to pick her up, the way she was stealing his fries like they'd been doing this for years.

"Can I ask you something?" Y/N said, settling back in her seat.

"Shoot."

"Do you ever get tired of being 'on' all the time?"

The question hit closer to home than Joe had expected. "Yeah. More than I probably should admit."

"When was the last time you felt like you could just... exist? Without managing perceptions or meeting expectations?"

Joe thought about it, really considered the question. "Honestly? Right now. Sitting in a Culver's parking lot with you, eating terrible-for-me food and not thinking about anything else."

Y/N smiled, and Joe felt something shift between them—not dramatic, just a deepening of the comfort they'd been building over the past few weeks.

"Good," she said. "That's the version of you I'm here for."

"Just Joe might be boring," Joe warned.

"I seriously doubt that."

Joe found himself smiling back, feeling lighter than he had in months. For the first time since their conversation at Hermitage Brewing, he felt like he was successfully showing Y/N who he really was. Not through grand gestures or carefully planned dates, but through moments like this—ordinary, unguarded, real.

"So what else does Saturday night Joe do?" Y/N asked. "Besides rescue people from Target and eat drive-through burgers?"

"Not much, honestly. Watch film, read, maybe call my parents."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I'm probably more boring than you think."

"Or maybe," Y/N said, finishing the last of his fries, "you're exactly as interesting as I hoped."

As they sat in the quiet parking lot, Joe realized this was what he'd been missing in all his previous relationships—the ability to be completely ordinary with someone who found that ordinariness worth her time. No performance, no pressure, just the simple pleasure of shared space and stolen fries.

* * *

December 2025 - Wednesday Morning

Joe was reviewing game film in his home office when his phone buzzed. Y/N's name on the screen immediately shifted his attention away from defensive formations.

Y/N: Car's at the shop. Apparently I need new brakes and God knows what else.

Joe frowned at the message. Y/N didn't usually share problems unless she was looking for practical solutions, which meant she was probably stranded and trying to figure out logistics.

Joe: How long?

Y/N: All day apparently. I'm about to call an Uber.

The thought of Y/N stuck at some service center, dealing with car repairs and ride-sharing apps, when he was sitting at home with nothing but film study on his schedule, felt wrong. Not because she couldn't handle it—Y/N was capable of managing anything—but because he wanted to help. Because offering practical assistance felt like something he could do without overthinking it.

Joe: I'll come get you.

Y/N: You don't have to do that.

Joe was already reaching for his keys. This wasn't about obligation or grand gestures. It was about Y/N being stuck somewhere when he had time and transportation. And he wanted to spend time with her.

Joe: I'm not doing anything anyway. Text me the address.

Thirty minutes later, Joe pulled into the parking lot of a service center in Springdale, spotting Y/N through the windows of the waiting area. She was sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, laptop open, making the best of an inconvenient situation with the same practical efficiency she brought to everything else.

When she saw his car, Y/N's face lit up with genuine relief and something that looked like appreciation. Not surprise—she'd probably expected him to follow through on his offer—but gratitude for the gesture itself.

"My hero," she said, sliding into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh. "They're keeping it overnight. Something about parts and labor costs that made my credit card weep."

"Where to?" Joe asked, putting the truck in drive.

"I should probably head home and figure out how to get to work tomorrow."

Joe glanced at her, noting the slight disappointment in her voice. "Or we could drive around for a while. Unless you have somewhere you need to be."

Y/N studied his face, clearly trying to determine if he was being polite or genuine. "You really want to spend your afternoon chauffeuring me around?"

"I really want to spend my afternoon not sitting in my house analyzing film," Joe replied honestly. "And you're better company than most people."

"Most people?"

"All people."

Y/N smiled at that, settling back in her seat. "Okay. But I get to navigate."

"Deal."

For the next three hours, Joe followed Y/N's random directions through parts of Cincinnati he'd never seen despite living there for five years. She had him take turns based on whim—"Let's see what's down this street" or "That neighborhood looks interesting"—with no destination in mind beyond curiosity.

"Left here," Y/N said as they approached a residential area lined with historic houses. "I want to see what's down this street."

"You're just picking random turns," Joe observed, though he made the left without hesitation.

"That's the point. When do you ever get to just drive around without a destination?"

The question caught Joe off guard. He drove the same routes every day—home, facility, maybe a restaurant if he had to. Always going somewhere specific, always the fastest way there.

"Never," he admitted, something shifting in his understanding of how rigidly he'd structured his life.

"Exactly. So today we're going nowhere in particular."

The concept felt foreign and oddly liberating. Joe found himself relaxing into the aimlessness, following Y/N's directions without questioning the logic or efficiency. When she wanted to explore a particular neighborhood, he slowed down so she could point out architectural details or comment on gardens. When she suggested taking a detour through a park, he found a route that wound through tree-lined paths he'd never known existed.

They ended up at a scenic overlook Joe had driven past dozens of times but never stopped at. The city spread out below them, familiar skyline made new by the afternoon light and the company.

"I grew up in neighborhoods like that," Y/N said, pointing to a section of older houses with wide porches and tree-lined streets. "Louisville has whole areas that look exactly like this."

"What was that like?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "Growing up with three brothers in a place like Louisville?"

"Loud. Competitive. Every dinner conversation was a debate about sports, usually football." Y/N smiled at the memory. "My parents thought they were raising four boys until I turned out to be better at arguing about draft picks than any of them."

"That explains a lot about your media instincts."

"Years of practice defending my opinions against people who assumed I didn't know what I was talking about."

"What about you? Small-town vs. city?" Joe asked. "More in-between," Y/N said, thinking about growing up in Louisville. "Big enough to have options, small enough that football still felt like the most important thing in the world." "I get that," Joe said, thinking about his own childhood in Athens. "Before all the pressure and expectations."

"Do you miss it?"

Joe considered the question, watching the city below them. "I miss the simplicity. The feeling that football was just football, not a business or a brand or a platform for everything else."

"When was the last time it felt simple?"

"Honestly? Right now. Driving around with no agenda, talking about nothing in particular." Joe glanced at Y/N. "This is the most relaxed I've been in months."

Y/N studied his profile, and Joe had the sense she was cataloguing this information, adding it to her understanding of who he was beyond the quarterback persona.

"Good," she said simply. "Because this is exactly what I was hoping for."

"What do you mean?"

"This version of you. The one who's curious about neighborhoods and willing to drive around aimlessly because someone asked him to. The one who doesn't need every conversation to be purposeful or strategic."

Joe felt something loosen in his chest. "You were testing me?"

"Not testing. Just... hoping you were actually interested in being normal for an afternoon."

"I'm discovering I like normal more than I thought I would."

As they headed back toward the city, Joe realized the afternoon had shifted something fundamental in how he thought about time and spontaneity. Y/N had shown him that not every moment needed to be optimized, that aimless exploration could be its own kind of valuable.

"Thanks for rescuing me from car service hell," Y/N said as they approached her neighborhood.

"Thanks for showing me how to drive without a plan," Joe replied, meaning it completely.

"Any time you want to get lost around Cincinnati, I'm your girl."

I'm your girl. Joe liked how naturally she said it, how it implied more afternoons like this, more chances to explore the city together without any particular destination in mind.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, pulling into her driveway.

As Y/N gathered her things, Joe realized he didn't want her to leave yet. Not because he wanted to drag it out artificially, but because this felt like the most honest time they'd spent together—no coffee shop conversations about expectations, no brewery talks about boundaries. Just two people choosing to spend time together because they enjoyed each other's company.

"See you tomorrow," Y/N said, pausing at the passenger door.

"See you tomorrow."

But as Joe drove home, he was already thinking about the next time Y/N might need rescuing, the next excuse to spend an afternoon discovering parts of himself he'd forgotten existed.

* * *

December 2025 - Sunday Afternoon

Joe had been looking forward to this all week—Y/N coming over to watch the afternoon games, the easy domesticity of shared space and comfortable silence. Seven weeks into whatever they were building, and he'd grown addicted to these Sunday afternoons when Y/N settled into his living room like she belonged there.

She'd arrived with coffee and the newspaper sports section, claiming her usual spot on his couch with the casual familiarity that had developed over weeks of careful boundary-testing. Joe found himself watching her as much as the game—the way she tucked her feet under herself, how she unconsciously leaned forward during crucial plays, the soft commentary she offered that revealed her deep understanding of football strategy.

"Terrible coverage," Y/N observed as the visiting team scored on a blown assignment. "Safety was completely out of position."

"Rookie mistake," Joe agreed, though his attention was more focused on Y/N's profile than the replay. Seven weeks of coffee dates and aimless drives, and he was still discovering new things about her—like the way she analyzed defensive schemes with the same precision she brought to content strategy.

During halftime, as analysts droned through statistics Joe could recite in his sleep, he found himself studying Y/N's position on the far end of the couch. Close enough to talk comfortably, far enough to maintain the careful distance they'd been navigating since their conversation at Hermitage Brewing.

The distance felt unnecessary now. Artificial.

"Come here," Joe said, gesturing to the spot beside him. "You're too far away."

Y/N looked up from her phone, eyebrows raised slightly at the direct request. For a moment, Joe wondered if he'd pushed too fast, assumed an intimacy they hadn't established. But then Y/N moved, settling beside him close enough that their shoulders touched when he leaned forward.

The contact was electric—just the simple awareness of Y/N's warmth beside him, the faint scent of her perfume, the way their bodies naturally aligned when they sat together.

"See how the linebacker's dropping back?" Joe said as the second half began, using the game as an excuse to lean closer, his voice dropping to match their proximity.

"Mmhmm," Y/N replied, though Joe could sense her attention wasn't entirely on the defensive formation he was explaining.

Without thinking about it, Joe's hand came to rest on Y/N's knee. The movement felt automatic, like his body had decided before his mind caught up. Y/N didn't pull away—if anything, she leaned slightly into his side, her hand finding his forearm

The game continued, but Joe's awareness had shifted entirely to the points of contact between them. His thumb traced absent patterns on Y/N's leg, feeling the warmth of her skin through the soft fabric of her jeans. Y/N's fingers rested on his forearm, occasionally tightening slightly during tense moments in the game.

This was what he'd been missing in all their careful conversations about boundaries and expectations—the simple pleasure of physical proximity, of being close to someone without agenda or analysis.

"This is nice," Joe said during a commercial break, his voice low enough that it felt like a confession.

"What is?"

"You being here. Like this."

Y/N tilted her head to look at him, and Joe felt his breath catch at how close they were. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, close enough to count her eyelashes, close enough that the space between them felt charged with possibility.

"Joe..."

The way she said his name—soft, questioning, maybe a little breathless—changed something in the air between them. Seven weeks of taking things slow, of being careful, of respecting boundaries and managing expectations. But right now, with Y/N warm and close beside him, all of that felt less important than the simple truth of what he wanted.

"I know we're supposed to be taking this slow," he said, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "But I really want to kiss you right now."

The admission hung between them for a heartbeat. Joe waited, letting Y/N process what he was asking. He could see the moment she made her decision—not just about the kiss, but about crossing the line they'd been carefully maintaining.

"Then kiss me," Y/N said, the words barely above a whisper.

Joe's hand moved to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheek in a gesture that felt both reverent and possessive. Y/N's skin was soft, warm, real in a way that made everything else fade into background noise.

When his mouth found hers, the kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing, giving both of them a chance to adjust to this new territory. But when Y/N's hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him closer, Joe deepened the kiss, weeks of wanting finally allowed to surface.

Y/N tasted like coffee and something uniquely her. She kissed him back with an intensity that matched his own, her fingers tangling in his shirt like she was afraid he might pull away. Joe had no intention of pulling away—if anything, he wanted to pull her closer, to eliminate any remaining space between them.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder than they should have been from just a kiss, Joe rested his forehead against Y/N's. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted, and Joe felt a surge of satisfaction at having put that particular expression on her face.

"We should probably talk about this," Y/N said softly, though she made no move to put distance between them.

"Probably," Joe agreed, his hands still framing her face, his thumbs tracing along her cheekbones. "But not right now."

"Not right now," Y/N confirmed, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

When she kissed him again, Joe felt something settle into place—not just the physical connection, but the recognition that they'd crossed into new territory together. This moment of spontaneous honesty felt exactly right.

The game played on in the background, but Joe's attention was entirely focused on Y/N—the way she felt in his arms, the soft sounds she made when he deepened the kiss, the way her fingers had moved from his shirt to the hair at the nape of his neck.

This was what he'd been waiting for without fully realizing it: not just Y/N's presence in his space, but the permission to touch her, to be close to her, to stop pretending that seven weeks of building toward something hadn't been leading exactly here.

When they finally settled back against the couch, Y/N curled into his side with natural ease, Joe felt a contentment he hadn't experienced in years. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand splayed across his chest, and the simple domesticity of it was more satisfying than any carefully planned date could have been.

"I've been waiting for that," Y/N said softly.

"Should've done it sooner," Joe replied, his hand finding hers.

As the afternoon game continued, Joe found himself only half-watching the action on screen. His attention was focused on the weight of Y/N against his side, the way her breathing had synchronized with his, the occasional brush of her fingers against his chest.

Seven weeks of taking things slow had led to this—not a dramatic declaration or grand gesture, but the simple honesty of wanting to be close to each other. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and Joe wondered why they'd waited so long to cross this particular line.

But as Y/N's hand found his and their fingers intertwined, Joe realized the timing had been exactly right. They'd built trust and understanding first, established a foundation that could support whatever came next.

* * *

Wednesday Evening - Joe's House

Joe's phone buzzed as he was changing out of his work clothes, Y/N's name appearing on the screen with a message that made him smile.

Y/N: Dinner? I'm tired of my own cooking.

Joe typed back quickly: Come over. I'll order something.

When Y/N arrived twenty minutes later, Joe felt that familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with contentment. She looked tired but happy to be there, settling onto his couch like she belonged there.

"What did you order?" she asked, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under herself.

"Thai. Should be here in twenty minutes."

"Good choice."

Joe sat beside her, deliberately close. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, not quite touching Y/N but close enough that she could lean into him if she wanted to.

She wanted to. Y/N settled against his side with a soft sigh, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest. The weight of her against him felt exactly right—not performance or strategy, just simple comfort.

"How was your day?" Joe asked, his fingers automatically finding her hair.

"Long. Meetings, content reviews, more meetings." Y/N's voice carried the exhaustion of someone who'd been managing multiple priorities all day. "How was practice?"

"Fine. Nothing dramatic." Joe's fingers played with the soft strands of her hair, noting how Y/N's eyes fluttered closed at the gentle contact. "This is better."

"What is?"

Joe hesitated. He could deflect, make some casual comment about relaxing after work. But Y/N had asked him to be real with her.

"Coming home to you being here."

The words carried more weight than Joe had intended—an admission of domesticity, of wanting Y/N in his space, of the particular satisfaction that came from knowing she'd chosen to spend her evening with him rather than anywhere else.

Y/N went quiet against him, and Joe wondered if he'd overstepped.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said quietly, understanding her hesitation. "I know we're being careful. But I like this. I like you being here."

Y/N turned in his arms to face him properly, and Joe felt his breath catch at the expression in her eyes. Not concern or caution, but something softer, more open.

"I like being here too."

The simple admission was everything Joe needed to hear. Y/N wasn't just tolerating his interest or going along with his suggestions—she was actively choosing to be here, actively enjoying the intimacy they were building.

Joe's thumb traced along her jawline, feeling the softness of her skin, the way she leaned into his touch. After weeks of careful distance, he finally had permission to touch her face, to trace the features he'd been memorizing from across conference rooms.

"Can I kiss you again?"

oe could see the answer in Y/N's expression, in the way her lips parted slightly, in the way her hands had moved to rest on his chest. But he asked anyway—he needed to hear her say it.

"Yes."

This kiss was different from their first. Less tentative, more certain. Joe kissed Y/N like he was learning her, like he wanted to memorize the taste and texture and perfect pressure that made her sigh against his mouth. Y/N's hands slid up his chest to curl around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape in a way that sent heat straight through him.

Joe pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair, the other settling at the small of her back. Y/N felt perfect in his arms—the right height, the right weight, the right responsiveness to his touch. Like they'd been designed to fit together exactly like this.

The doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive, breaking the spell they'd created.

"Bad timing," Joe muttered against Y/N's lips, though he made no immediate move to answer the door.

"Very bad timing," Y/N agreed, her breath warm against his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, both slightly breathless, both reluctant to break the intimacy for something as mundane as food delivery. Then Joe leaned in and kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, like he was making a point about priorities. Y/N kissed him back with equal intensity, her fingers tightening in his hair.

The doorbell rang again, more insistent.

"Food's getting cold," Y/N murmured, though she showed no signs of moving.

"Don't care," Joe replied, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the sensitive spot just below her ear that made her shiver.

Y/N laughed, the sound breathless and delighted. "You'll care when you're hungry later."

"Fine," Joe said, pulling back with exaggerated reluctance. "But this conversation isn't over."

By the time they actually ate dinner, they'd established a new rhythm of casual intimacy. Y/N curled against Joe's side while they shared takeout containers, her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting on her ankle. The touches were constant but undemanding—not building toward anything specific, just maintaining contact because they could.

Joe couldn't get over how natural it felt. No awkwardness, no overthinking, just the simple pleasure of being close to Y/N while they talked about their days and shared food and existed in the same space without agenda or expectation.

"This is working," Joe said as they cleaned up the empty containers, Y/N moving around his kitchen with easy familiarity.

"What is?"

Joe gestured between them, encompassing the evening, the easy intimacy, the way Y/N had seamlessly integrated into his space and routine. "This. Us. Whatever we're calling it."

Y/N smiled, standing on her toes to kiss him briefly—casual, affectionate, like it was already habit. "It is working."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer, enjoying the way she melted against him. "Because I'm not ready to go back to pretending I don't want to touch you."

"Then don't," Y/N replied simply. "At least not when we're alone."

That was all Joe needed to hear. They could keep things professional at work and be real with each other everywhere else. No rushing, no pressure from anyone but themselves.

* * *

Playoff Push - The Pressure Builds

The facility hummed with a different energy as December progressed and the playoff picture crystallized. Joe felt it in every meeting, every practice, every interaction—the weight of expectations, the knowledge that everything they'd worked for during the regular season would be determined in the next few weeks.

But alongside the familiar pressure of playoff preparation, Joe was navigating something entirely new: maintaining a secret relationship while under the most intense scrutiny of the season. Every stolen moment with Y/N felt both more precious and more dangerous as media attention intensified and their time became increasingly fragmented.

Monday - Content Planning Meeting

Joe walked into the monthly content planning meeting with the same professional focus he brought to film study. These meetings had always been routine—necessary coordination between football operations and media strategy—but now they carried an additional layer of complexity. Y/N would be there, and he'd have to spend an hour watching her lead the meeting, making strategic decisions, commanding the room, all while pretending she hadn't spent Sunday evening curled against his side on his couch.

"Playoff content timeline," Y/N said, pulling up her presentation with the crisp efficiency Joe had admired for five years. "We'll need quarterback availability for three key pieces."

Joe took notes on his tablet, asking practical questions about scheduling and time commitments, maintaining the same professional demeanor he'd cultivated through hundreds of similar meetings. But he was hyperaware of Y/N's presence—the way she gestured while explaining strategy, the particular tone she used when addressing him directly, the subtle way her eyes would linger on his face for just a fraction longer than strictly necessary.

"The fan message piece - when do you need that filmed?" Joe asked, his voice carrying no hint of the fact that twelve hours earlier, his fingers had been tangled in her hair while they watched a movie.

"This week, before playoff prep intensifies," Y/N replied, matching his professional tone perfectly.

Joe admired her composure, her ability to compartmentalize. It was one of the things he'd always respected about Y/N professionally, but now he appreciated it on an entirely different level. She could sit across from him in a conference room full of colleagues and give no indication that they'd spent the previous evening discussing everything from childhood memories to playoff strategy while sharing takeout on his couch.

"Wednesday afternoon work?"

"Perfect. Tyler will coordinate the details."

As the meeting concluded and Tyler and Kayla gathered their materials, Joe lingered, ostensibly reviewing something on his phone. He waited until they were alone, then moved closer to Y/N's chair, his body language casual but intentional.

"Wednesday filming," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "What time?"

"Three o'clock. Should only take an hour."

Joe's hand found her lower back, hidden from view by the conference table. The contact was brief but deliberate, a reminder of the physical connection they'd been building away from these professional spaces.

"And after?"

Y/N's pulse quickened under his touch—Joe could see it in the slight flush that rose to her cheeks, the way her breathing shifted almost imperceptibly.

"After what?"

"After filming. You free?"

The question carried layers of meaning. Not just about her schedule, but about her willingness to continue navigating the complexity of stolen time together during the most intense period of his professional year.

"Depends what you have in mind."

Joe leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, close enough that he could smell her perfume, could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Come to my place. I want to actually spend time with you without worrying about who might see us."

He'd said too much. Made it obvious how tired he was of all the sneaking around, the constant watching over his shoulder.

Before Y/N could respond, Joe headed for the door. Better to leave it simple than stand there explaining himself.

Wednesday - After Filming

The filming went fine. Joe delivered what Y/N needed, same as always.

But he found himself watching her work—the small nods when he hit the right tone, how she quietly directed Tyler to fix the lighting. She was good at this. Had been since day one.

"That's a wrap," Tyler announced as they finished the final take. "Great stuff, Joe."

"Thanks," Joe replied, already looking toward Y/N. This was the moment he'd been anticipating all week—the transition from public performance to private connection.

"Y/N, can I get your take on the messaging? Make sure it hits the right tone?"

The request was professional enough to avoid suspicion while creating space for them to talk privately. Joe watched Y/N recognize the manufactured excuse and play along seamlessly.

"Of course."

As Tyler packed equipment, Joe and Y/N moved to the side of the media room, maintaining the pretense of content strategy discussion while actually negotiating the evening ahead.

"Tone was perfect," Y/N said quietly. "Confident but not arrogant. Focused but not tense."

Joe stepped closer, not enough to draw Tyler's attention but enough to lower his voice. "Good. Now, about tonight..."

"Tyler's still here," Y/N murmured, and Joe appreciated her continued awareness of their surroundings even as her body language suggested she wanted to be closer.

"He's not paying attention," Joe replied, letting his hand brush against hers—brief contact that sent electricity up his arm. "Eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

oe smiled despite himself. A whole evening without watching the clock or checking who might walk in.

"Good. I'll order dinner. Actually want to talk to you without interruptions for once."

Thursday Morning - Facility Hallway

Joe made sure to be in the main corridor Thursday morning when Y/N usually got to work. He knew her routine—coffee in hand, sitting in her car for a few minutes going through her notes before coming inside.

When she walked in, Joe felt that familiar flutter. Y/N looked relaxed, like their evening together had been good for both of them.

"Morning," he said, falling into step beside her.

"Morning," Y/N replied, and Joe caught the subtle smile she was fighting.

"Sleep well?" The question was innocuous enough for any observer, but Joe's tone carried the intimacy of someone who knew exactly how Y/N had looked curled against his side during the movie, how peacefully she'd slept with her head on his shoulder.

"Very well," Y/N said, and Joe heard the acknowledgment in her voice—not just of sleep, but of the comfort they'd found in each other's company.

Joe's mouth curved slightly. "Good. You looked comfortable when you left."

"I was comfortable. Your couch is better than mine."

"It's not the couch," Joe said, his voice dropping despite the public setting. "It's the company."

The comment was risky for a hallway conversation, but Joe didn't care. Having Y/N at his place had changed something. Made his house feel less empty, more like home.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said, recognizing her warning about location and propriety. "Wrong place for this conversation. But I like having you there. In my space."

They'd reached the point where Joe went one way and Y/N went the other. Joe stopped, trying to figure out what he could get away with here.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked, his tone casual enough for any passerby but his eyes holding hers with obvious intention.

"Can't. Early meeting tomorrow, need to prep."

Joe felt a flicker of disappointment but respected her professional priorities. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow works."

Joe nodded, then surprised himself by stepping closer, his hand briefly touching Y/N's elbow. To anyone watching, it would appear to be a casual gesture of farewell, but Joe made sure she felt the intentional warmth of his palm, the deliberate nature of the contact.

"See you later," he said, already moving toward the player area but carrying the satisfaction of Y/N's response with him.

Friday - Storage Room

By Friday, Joe's restraint was wearing thin. A week of careful public interactions and stolen moments had built to a level of tension that demanded release. When he spotted Y/N gathering equipment for a social media shoot, Joe saw an opportunity for the kind of private contact they'd been rationing all week.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, stepping into the storage room and closing the door behind him with deliberate precision.

"Just grabbing camera gear," Y/N replied, though she stopped what she was doing when she saw the expression in his eyes.

Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist with the kind of familiarity that felt both natural and dangerous in this setting. "How long until your shoot?"

"Twenty minutes. Why?"

The practical question carried undertones of anticipation. Y/N knew exactly why Joe was asking about timing, just as she knew exactly what he intended to do with whatever private moments they could steal.

"Because I've barely seen you this week and I miss you."

The admission was more vulnerable than Joe had intended, revealing the emotional cost of maintaining professional distance while building personal intimacy. Every careful interaction at the facility felt like performance when what he wanted was authenticity.

"Joe, we can't keep doing this here," Y/N said, though her hands came up to rest on his chest in a gesture that contradicted her words.

"Doing what?" Joe asked, his thumb tracing a small circle on her hip, enjoying the way her breath caught at the contact.

"Meeting in storage rooms like we're in high school."

Joe's smile was slight but genuine. "Would you prefer your office? Because that seems riskier."

"I'd prefer not to get caught by my staff making out with the franchise quarterback."

"We're not making out," Joe pointed out, though he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume. "We're just talking."

"This isn't talking," Y/N said, her eyes fluttering closed at the gentle contact.

Joe pulled back to look at her, recognizing her need for actual conversation along with physical connection. "Fine. Let's talk. How was your meeting with the sponsors?"

"Boring. How was film study?"

"Tedious." Joe's hands stayed at her waist, providing the constant contact they'd both been craving. "Better topic—what are you doing this weekend?"

"Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Time together. No meetings, no schedules, no one else around."

The proposal was simple but felt revolutionary after a week of careful public management. Joe wanted uninterrupted access to Y/N's company, the luxury of being together without constant awareness of external observation.

"That sounds perfect," Y/N admitted.

Joe smiled, leaning down to kiss her properly—soft and brief but enough to remind both of them what they were building toward. "Good. Because I have plans for us."

"What kind of plans?"

"The kind where I get to keep you on my couch for hours without anyone interrupting."

Weekend - At Joe's House

Saturday afternoon found them exactly where Joe had envisioned—on his couch, Y/N curled against his side while he traced absent patterns on her arm. No agenda, no timeline, no external pressure. Just the simple pleasure of proximity and the luxury of unstructured time together.

"This is nice," Y/N said, her head resting on his shoulder in a position that had become natural over their weeks together.

"Better than sneaking around storage rooms," Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Much better."

Joe's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining with practiced ease. The simple contact felt significant—not dramatic or overwhelming, but steady and satisfying.

"Y/N?"

"Mmm?"

"I like this. Whatever this is we're doing."

The words carried weight beyond their casual delivery. Joe was acknowledging not just the physical comfort but the entire structure they'd built—the careful balance of professional respect and personal intimacy, the way they'd learned to navigate complexity without losing authenticity.

Y/N tilted her head to look at him. "Even with all the complications?"

"Especially with the complications," Joe said, his expression serious. "Makes it worth something."

Joe had never been someone who valued things that came easily. Challenge and difficulty were familiar territories that made success feel earned rather than given. What he and Y/N were building required constant navigation, careful timing, mutual respect for professional obligations—and all of that made their private moments feel more precious rather than less.

"Yeah," Y/N said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "It is worth something."

Joe leaned into her touch, then turned his head to kiss her palm gently. The gesture was tender, intimate, free of the urgency that characterized their stolen moments at the facility.

"Stay for dinner?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer. "Because I'm not ready for you to leave yet."

As they settled back into comfortable silence, Joe reflected on how natural this felt despite its newness. The easy intimacy, the unforced conversation, the way they fit together both literally and figuratively. Whatever they were building felt solid and real, worth the careful navigation required to protect it from external pressures.

The playoffs would bring their own intensity and demands, but Joe felt confident that what he and Y/N had established could withstand those pressures. They'd proven they could maintain professional excellence while building something personal and meaningful.

And as Y/N's breathing grew slower and more regular against his side, Joe realized that this—more than any championship or individual accolade—was what he'd been working toward without knowing it. Not just success, but someone to share it with who understood both the cost and the value of what they were building together.

* * *

The Final Whistle

Joe stood where the final play had died, staring up at the gray Pittsburgh sky. Steelers 28, Bengals 21. Season over. Another year of carrying everyone's hopes and expectations, another year of falling just short when it mattered most.

The stadium noise faded to nothing as it hit him. Five months of work. Sixteen weeks of games. All of it for nothing.

He spotted Y/N on the sideline, camera up, doing her job even now. Part of him was glad she was there. Part of him hated that she had to see this.

Players started moving toward midfield for handshakes. Joe made himself walk, go through the motions—shake hands with Steelers who meant their respect, nod at teammates who looked as gutted as he felt.

Walking toward the tunnel, Joe caught Y/N's eye for a second. No words. Just a look before he disappeared into the locker room, carrying another year that ended too soon.

The visiting locker room was dead quiet. No yelling, no speeches. Just guys sitting there, processing that it was over for another year. Joe sat at his locker in full gear, staring at the floor.

He knew what came next. Interviews. The same questions he'd answered before. Credit the opponent, say you're disappointed, thank the fans. Every losing quarterback said the same things.

But his mind kept replaying the game. The pick in the third quarter. Getting sacked on second down when they needed a first. The audible that didn't work.

Coach Taylor gave his comments to the media—said the right things. Joe's were shorter. Just enough to get through it so he could get on the bus, get on the plane, get back to Cincinnati and deal with another season that ended without a ring.

On the Plane - 11:47 PM

The team plane was quiet. Most guys were sleeping or staring out windows. Joe sat a few rows back from the media staff, giving everyone space to deal with this however they needed to.

He couldn't sleep. His mind kept running through every play, every decision, every moment where things could've gone different.

All of it was on him. Not just tonight, but every season that ended like this. He was the franchise quarterback. The city's hopes, everyone's dreams—it all came back to him.

Joe pulled out his phone. Five years of handling disappointment the same way—stay composed, don't let anyone see it get to you. But tonight felt different. Tonight he couldn't carry it alone.

He typed without thinking too much about it:

When we land, will you come to my house and stay?

He'd never asked anyone to help him deal with this before. But Y/N had seen him at his worst—during the injuries, the rehab, when his guard was down.

Y/N's response came fast: Of course.

No questions. No hesitation. Just yes.

Don't want to be alone tonight.

He'd never admitted that to anyone. Not during his careful courtship with Y/N, not ever. He needed her here tonight.

I'll follow you home from the facility.

Thank you.

Joe put his phone away, feeling like he could breathe for the first time since the game ended. Y/N would be there. He didn't have to do this alone.

Cincinnati - 1:23 AM

The facility parking lot was mostly empty when the team buses got back. Just a few cars—staff and families who'd waited up. Joe grabbed his gear and said goodbye to teammates, but he was really watching Y/N finish up her work.

When he came out twenty minutes later in sweats with his bag, Joe felt completely drained. Everything they'd worked for, gone. But Y/N was there, waiting for him like she'd promised.

Their eyes met across the parking lot. This wasn't about whatever they'd been building between them. This was about trust—trusting her to see him like this and not think less of him.

He nodded toward his car. Y/N followed him through empty Cincinnati streets, both of them driving in silence through a city that had gone to sleep disappointed. But at least they'd face whatever came next together.

Joe's House - 1:52 AM

Joe's house felt different when they arrived—darker, quieter, emptier than usual. The careful order that normally brought him comfort felt sterile in the face of the emotional chaos churning in his chest.

"You want anything?" Joe asked, dropping his bag by the door. "Water, food, whatever?"

The offer was automatic, part of his ingrained politeness, but it felt inadequate for what was actually happening. Y/N wasn't here as a guest making social calls. She was here because he'd asked her to help him carry something he couldn't handle alone.

"I'm fine," Y/N said softly. "What do you need?"

The direct question hit Joe like a physical blow. What did he need? He'd spent years carefully managing his emotions, maintaining professional composure, handling disappointment with controlled grace. But tonight, all of that felt insufficient.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, feeling the first crack in his composed facade since the game ended. "I don't know. Just... not to be alone with this."

Y/N moved closer, her hands finding his forearms with gentle certainty. "You don't have to be."

The simple assurance nearly undid him. "We were so close. Again. And I just... I can't stop thinking about what I could have done differently."

"Joe..."

"The interception in the third quarter. The sack on second down. The audible that didn't work." His voice was quiet but strained, the words tumbling out despite his usual emotional control. "I keep replaying every decision, every throw, every fucking play call."

Y/N stepped closer, her hands moving to frame his face with a tenderness that felt both foreign and necessary. "Stop."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. For tonight, you can." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones, her touch grounding him in the present moment. "Tomorrow you can watch film and analyze every play. Tonight, you're just Joe. And Joe doesn't have to carry all of this alone."

Something in Joe's expression cracked at her words. The careful control he'd maintained all evening—through the handshakes, through the interviews, through the long plane ride home—finally began to slip under the weight of Y/N's permission to be human.

"I wanted it so bad. For the team, for the city, for..."

"I know," Y/N said simply. "I know you did."

When Joe opened his eyes, the professional mask was gone, the careful composure stripped away by exhaustion and disappointment and the relief of finally having someone who saw him as more than just the quarterback who'd lost the game.

"Come here," he said quietly, pulling her closer until there was barely any space between them.

Y/N went willingly, her arms sliding around his neck as his wrapped around her waist. They stood like that in his dark living room, holding each other while the weight of the season's end settled around them. For the first time in hours, Joe felt like he could breathe.

"Thank you," Joe murmured against her hair. "For being here. For seeing me."

"Always," Y/N replied, and Joe believed her completely.

When Joe pulled back to look at her, something had shifted in his expression. Y/N was exactly where he wanted her to be—not because she had to be, not because it was her job, but because she'd chosen to be there when he needed someone most.

And for the first time since the final whistle, Joe felt like he might actually be okay.

Y/N could feel the tension radiating from him—not just disappointment, but something deeper. Frustration, anger, the weight of carrying everyone's expectations and falling short. She took his hand, leading him to the couch.

"Sit," she said gently.

Joe sank onto the cushions, and Y/N moved to straddle his lap, her hands resting on his shoulders. The position was intimate but not sexual—more like she was anchoring him, giving him something solid to hold onto.

"What do you need?" she asked, studying his face.

Joe's jaw clenched, his hands finding her hips. "I don't know. I'm just... I'm sad and I'm angry and I don't know what to do with any of it."

Joe had spent years carefully containing his emotions, channeling them into performance and preparation. But tonight, with Y/N's weight warm and solid in his lap, her eyes focused entirely on him, he felt something fundamental shifting.

"I'm not asking for soft," Y/N said quietly, her hands moving to frame his face. "I'm not asking for slow. I'm asking you to stop holding it in. You don't have to be careful with me right now."

Joe's eyes searched hers, something vulnerable and desperate flickering there. "You don't understand what you're saying."

"I understand perfectly." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones. "You've been holding this together all night. Holding yourself together. You don't have to do that with me."

"If I don't hold it together—"

"Then don't," she said simply. "Let it break. Let me help you put it back together."

Joe's breathing grew uneven, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped her hips. Years of emotional control warring with the desperate need to let someone else carry the weight for once.

"Y/N..."

"Stop," she said quietly, her hands still framing his face. "Stop trying to be okay for me."

"Use me," she whispered, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. "Work it out on me. Be angry. Be sad. Be real. I can take it. I want it."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes—the last of his control beginning to fracture. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer against him.

"You want me to stop being careful?" he asked, his voice rough with barely contained emotion.

"Yes," Y/N breathed. "Show me who you are when you're not trying to be perfect."

Joe stared at her for a long moment, his breathing growing heavier. Then he saw the exact moment his restraint snapped—not into violence, but into something raw and desperate and honest.

His mouth was on hers in the next second, rougher than he'd ever kissed her, like he'd been holding it back for years. Y/N met him with equal force, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to the moment.

He broke the kiss with a breathless, “Fuck,” his grip tightening on her hips like he couldn’t hold himself back another second.

“Off,” he said, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I need—fuck—I need to see you.”

She didn’t say anything, just stripped. No hesitation, no ceremony. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady and unflinching, and then—she dropped to her knees like she’d been waiting to do it.

Joe leaned back slightly, planting his hands on his thighs. She was still looking at him, like she was daring him to say something, to stop her. Like she knew he wouldn’t.

“You want this?” His voice was low, rough.

“Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “Then look at me.”

She didn’t look away as she untied his sweats and pushed them down just enough. He was already hard, already throbbing, and she hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered, hand coming to the back of her head. Not forcing, just steady. A warning. “Not tonight.”

She wrapped one hand around him and took him into her mouth—no warm-up, no playing around, just all in, smooth and sure.

Joe’s head dropped back, a hiss cutting through his teeth. “Fuck—that’s it.”

He looked down again, watching her, needing to see it. His fingers tightened in her hair. “Deeper. You can take it.”

She adjusted, let him guide the pace, didn’t flinch.

“That’s it,” he said, breath catching. “Eyes on me. I want you to feel this. I want to feel you.”

She moaned around him, and he felt it, low and deep. His whole body jolted.

He was already too close, already on edge, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when her mouth felt like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“Don’t look away,” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking look away.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t. And he didn’t want her to. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady even as she kept her rhythm. She was doing it for him. Just for him.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Fuck, you love it, don’t you?”

She hummed, deliberate. That sound hit him low, sharp. His hips jerked forward just slightly, control unraveling.

“I’m not gonna last,” he got out, breath gone, voice uneven. “Not like this.”

He looked down at her again, jaw tight, eyes locked in. “Get up.”

She pulled back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Still breathless. Still tasting him.

Joe stood, grabbed her hand, held on tight. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and frayed. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on my couch.”

* * *

He pulled her up in one smooth motion, not letting go of her hand as he headed down the hall. Grip locked tight. Like if he let go, the moment would break.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his free hand, backed inside, and pulled her in with him.

The second the door clicked shut, he was on her again.

He walked her backward toward the bed, hands on her waist, mouth back on her throat. No pause. No slow build. Just heat and need and the taste of her still on his tongue.

She hit the edge of the mattress and he nudged her down. Stood over her, eyes dragging across her body, trying to figure out where the fuck to start. He wanted all of it. Every inch.

She reached for him.

He shook his head once. Firm.

“Lie back.”

She did. Breath shaky. Legs already open for him.

He dropped to his knees, fingers sliding between her legs—and froze.

“Jesus,” he muttered. His voice came out low, rough. “You’re soaked.”

Her breath hitched, sharp. She didn’t say anything.

He looked up at her. Dead on. “That was just from your mouth on me?”

She didn’t flinch. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

“Good,” he said.

Then he dropped his head and took.

No warm-up. No easing in. Just mouth on her, tongue moving with focus. He didn’t give a fuck about rhythm or build-up. He just wanted to make her come apart. Fast. Hard. Like she had five years of tension to burn off.

She cried out. Loud. One hand flying to her mouth like she couldn’t believe how good it felt.

His hands came up to her hips, holding her still.

“Don’t run from it,” he said against her. His voice was already frayed. “Stay with me.”

“I’m trying,” she gasped. “Fuck—don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He doubled down. Groaned low when she tilted her hips, licked deeper when she gasped. Let her ride it. Let her take what she needed.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured into her. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

She tried to speak. Didn’t make it. Legs shaking. Hands clawing for something to grab.

“I’m gonna—Joe—fuck—”

“Do it,” he said, lifting his head just long enough to say it against her. “Come on. Give it to me.”

And she did.

The sound she made was raw. Nothing soft about it. She broke apart with her thighs tight around his shoulders, whole body shaking.

He didn’t stop until she slumped back, wrecked. Chest heaving. Breath shot to hell.

Only then did he pull back. Slow. Deliberate. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving hers.

He stood. Looked down at her, completely laid out for him, and wrapped his hand around himself—just once, steady. He was hanging on by a thread.

“This what you want?” he asked, voice wrecked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He tilted his head, thumb sliding across the head of his cock. “You’ve wanted this for five years?”

She exhaled like it knocked the wind out of her. “Yes.”

His jaw locked. “Say it.”

“I’ve wanted you,” she said, right on the edge of begging. “Please, Joe. I want you.”

That was it.

He pushed forward in one hard thrust. Deep. All the way.

Y/N gasped, hands flying to the sheets, back arching. “Fuck—”

Joe dropped his head, groaning. “Jesus, Y/N…”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried inside her, holding her hips. Taking in the feel of her. Tight, warm, perfect.

“You feel that?” he murmured, finally pulling back and driving in again. “That’s what you’ve been needing?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He gave her more—deeper, faster—his pace picking up as she met him, her leg hooking around his hip like she couldn’t get close enough.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me fucking you like this?”

“God, yes, harder,” she gasped. “Just like that—Joe, fuck—”

He bent over her, hand braced beside her head, thrusts sharp now, hitting deep every time.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grit out. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

She moaned, loud and open.

“I want to feel you come,” he said, pushing harder. “You gonna come for me again?”

She whimpered. Body locking up. So close.

“I want to feel you lose it around me,” he ground out. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

“Joe, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Look at me.”

Her eyes flew open. Met his.

“Look at me when you do it.”

She came hard. Whole body clenching around him, thighs shaking, breath breaking into pieces. Her cry punched right through him.

“Fuck—” Joe gasped, hips jerking, rhythm gone. He thrust once, twice, then lost it completely—groaning low as he came inside her, everything snapping loose all at once.

He stayed there. Inside her. Still breathing hard. Forehead pressed to hers like he needed something to hang onto.

Neither of them said anything.

* * *

He stayed inside her longer than he meant to. Just breathing. Just feeling it. Her heartbeat under his hand. The way her body was still holding him, still wrapped around him. The weight of what they’d just done settling between his ribs like gravity.

Then he pulled out, slow, careful, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee before stepping back.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, voice still rough but steadier now. Not wrecked anymore. Just real.

She didn’t answer. Just stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling fast.

He went to the ensuite. Turned on the water. Let it run warm while he found a cloth. When he came back, he was still naked, still buzzing under his skin, but he didn’t rush. He knelt between her legs again, holding the cloth in one hand. Looked at her like a question.

She didn’t flinch.

He cleaned her with quiet, focused movements. No talking. No big moment. Just taking care of her because he wanted to. Because this part mattered too.

Wherever the cloth passed, he followed with a kiss—her thigh, her hip, her stomach. He didn’t think about what it meant. Just did it.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and looked at her.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

His thumb ran over her knee. Steady. Like he always was when it counted.

“I’m not going back from this,” he said. “And I’m not going to pretend.”

She swallowed hard. He saw it.

“I’ll handle it,” he told her. “The higher-ups. Front office. I’ll talk to them myself. You don’t have to do anything.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“All you need to do is give Kayla a heads up. So she’s not blindsided. The rest? I’ve got.”

She exhaled. Not relief exactly, but close.

His hand skimmed up her thigh again. Slower now. Grounding, not hungry.

“We’ll keep it professional at work,” he said. “I won’t make you look bad.”

She met his eyes. “I know you won’t.”

He leaned down and kissed her again. Slow. Mouth lingering. His hand cupping her cheek like he wasn’t done holding her yet. Like maybe he never would be.

They got under the covers without much talking. Not because there wasn’t anything to say. Because they’d already said enough.

She curled into him like it was muscle memory. Head on his chest. Her leg over his. Like they’d done this before. Like it wasn’t brand new.

His hand moved along her back in slow, absent lines. Not thinking about it. Just needing the contact.

Silence held for a while. Heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he said it, soft. Quiet enough he almost hoped she didn’t hear it.

“Thank you.”

She stirred a little. “For what?”

He exhaled through his nose. The weight of it sat in his chest.

“For being here tonight,” he said. “For giving yourself to me.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just brushed her fingers over his ribs. That little spot that always made him feel like his body wasn’t all his own anymore.

“I’m sorry it took me five years to get here,” he said, and his voice cracked a little.

Her voice didn’t break. Not even close. “You’re here now.”

He nodded once, barely.

Then he put his hand at the base of her spine and left it there. Holding her. Holding this.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

And he meant it.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - Joe's House, 7:47 AM

Joe stood in his bedroom doorway with his coffee, watching Y/N get ready at his bathroom sink. A week of mornings like this—her stuff on his counter, their clothes mixed together in the hamper. It felt right.

He'd been thinking about this since their first night together. They couldn't keep sneaking around forever. This thing between them had become too important to hide. He was tired of pretending Y/N was just another employee.

"I'm sitting down with the front office today," Joe said, his tone casual but decisive. "To tell them about us."

Y/N's toothbrush stopped mid-stroke. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Joe saw the moment his words registered—surprise, then something close to panic.

"Today?" Y/N managed around the toothpaste, then quickly spit and rinsed. "What do you mean today? What time?"

"Eleven," Joe replied, taking a sip of coffee. He'd already run through this conversation in his mind, anticipated her concerns, prepared his responses. "Meeting with ownership, Kayla will probably be there, maybe legal."

Y/N whirled around to face him, and Joe could practically see her mind racing through the implications. "Joe! You can't just spring this on me! I haven't told Kayla yet!"

Joe set down his coffee, recognizing that Y/N's panic was legitimate even if he didn't share it. "I told you last week I was done hiding this. I meant it."

"You said you were 'done pretending' - I didn't know you meant this week!" Y/N's voice rose slightly, stress making her words sharp. "Shit, what time did you say? Eleven?"

"Eleven."

Joe watched Y/N glance at her phone, saw her calculating the time she had to manage this situation. Her mind was already in crisis management mode, the same focused efficiency she brought to handling his media disasters.

"Fuck. Okay. I need to get to work and talk to Kayla before you talk to them. She needs to hear this from me, not find out in a meeting where she's blindsided."

Y/N pushed past him toward the bedroom, and Joe followed, recognizing that his casual approach to this announcement had created exactly the kind of professional complication he'd been trying to avoid.

"Y/N," he called after her, watching her pull clothes from his dresser with sharp, efficient movements. "It's going to be fine."

"You don't know that," Y/N said, her anxiety evident in every gesture. "This could mess up everything I've worked for. The timing, the optics, the fact that I just got promoted—"

Joe caught her hand, stopping her frantic preparation. He'd miscalculated this moment, had been so focused on his own readiness to go public that he hadn't fully considered Y/N's need to control the narrative around her career.

"Hey. Look at me."

Y/N met his eyes, and Joe saw the fear there—not of their relationship, but of the professional implications she'd been carefully managing since her promotion.

"I've thought this through," he said quietly, meaning it completely. "I know what I'm going to say, how I'm going to frame it. This isn't going to hurt your career."

"But you're telling them before I tell Kayla," Y/N pointed out, pulling her hand free to continue getting dressed. "That makes it look like I was keeping secrets from my boss while you were being transparent with yours."

The moment Y/N said it, Joe realized his mistake. He'd been thinking about this from his own perspective—his timeline, his readiness, his need to stop hiding. But Y/N was right about the optics. The order of these conversations mattered.

"Shit. You're right."

"I know I'm right!" Y/N said, already reaching for her phone. "Which is why I need to get to the facility right now and have a very awkward conversation with Kayla before eleven o'clock."

Joe watched Y/N text with practiced efficiency, coordinating an emergency meeting while simultaneously getting dressed and mentally preparing for a conversation that could affect her entire career trajectory.

"This is going to be a disaster," Y/N muttered, checking her reflection in his mirror.

Joe moved to block her path to the door, recognizing that his casual confidence wasn't helping her anxiety. "It's not. Y/N, stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking, I'm being realistic about the professional implications of—"

Joe kissed her, cutting off her spiraling thoughts with the kind of direct action that had always worked between them. When they broke apart, he saw some of the tension ease from her shoulders.

"Better?" he asked.

"Marginally," Y/N admitted, though her breathing had slowed. "But I still need to go handle damage control."

"There's no damage to control," Joe said firmly, meaning it completely. He'd run through every possible scenario, every potential complication. "We're adults in a relationship. We're both good at our jobs. Everything else is just logistics."

Y/N stared at him with something between admiration and frustration. "I wish I had your confidence about this."

Joe opened the front door for her, his voice gentle but certain. "You don't need confidence. You just need honesty. Tell Kayla the truth—that we've been seeing each other, that it's serious, and that it won't interfere with either of our professional responsibilities."

"And if she thinks the timing of my promotion looks suspicious?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, his protective instincts engaging. "Then you remind her that you earned that promotion through five years of excellent work, and anyone who suggests otherwise can take it up with me."

Despite her anxiety, Y/N's expression softened slightly at his immediate defensiveness on her behalf. "Okay. I'm going to go have the most awkward conversation of my professional life. Try not to torpedo my career while I'm gone."

"I'll be the picture of professionalism," Joe promised, kissing her forehead. "Text me after you talk to Kayla."

As Y/N walked toward her car, Joe felt a mix of anticipation and determination. He'd made his decision about going public, and while the timing had created temporary stress for Y/N, he knew it was the right choice. They'd been careful long enough. It was time to stop hiding.

10:58 AM - Before the Meeting

Joe walked into the conference room the same way he approached playoff games—confident, prepared. He'd spent the morning thinking through what he'd say, what questions might come up. The ownership group was already there—Mike Brown, Katie Blackburn, the executives, and Kayla. Good. Y/N had talked to her. This wasn't about asking permission. This was about telling them what was happening. His relationship with Y/N was serious, and they needed to know.

"Joe," Mike Brown nodded as he took his seat. "Appreciate you making time during the off-season. What's on your mind?"

Joe settled into his chair, hands relaxed on the table. No notes, no prepared remarks. Just the same directness that had served him well for five years as their franchise quarterback.

"I wanted to inform you that I'm in a relationship with Y/N Y/L/N," he said simply. "It's serious, and I thought you should hear it from me directly."

The brief silence that followed was exactly what Joe had expected. He could read the room like he read defensive coverage—surprise shifting to calculation, executives processing implications and potential complications.

Katie Blackburn spoke first. "Y/N from our media team? The new VP?"

"That's right."

"How long has this been going on?" Mike Brown asked, his tone neutral but evaluating.

"We've been seeing each other for a few months. It became official recently." Joe's voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. "I want to be clear about something from the start—this relationship had nothing to do with her promotion. Y/N earned that position through five years of exceptional work."

Joe let that statement settle, making direct eye contact with each person at the table. Not defensive—just establishing facts that couldn't be disputed.

"The timing of her promotion and your relationship becoming public could raise questions," one of the executives pointed out.

"It could," Joe agreed, his tone remaining conversational. "Which is why I'm addressing it directly. Y/N and I are both professionals. We understand the boundaries required to maintain our respective roles."

Joe paused, choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to be respectful but also clear about his position. "I think it's worth noting that I just finished a season where I threw for over 4,000 yards and led this team to the playoffs despite some significant roster challenges."

The subtle shift in the room was immediate. Joe continued, his voice still measured but carrying unmistakable weight.

"The offensive line issues, the depth concerns at key positions—we all know what this team dealt with this season. But we made the playoffs anyway." His eyes moved around the table. "I mention that because I think my commitment to this organization has been pretty well established."

Katie Blackburn nodded slowly. "It has been, Joe."

"Good. So when I tell you that Y/N is the most talented media professional this organization has, and that she earned her promotion through merit, I hope that carries some weight." Joe's tone remained friendly, but there was steel underneath. "Because I'd hate for anyone to suggest otherwise."

The implication hung in the air—polite, but unmistakable. Joe had made his position clear without raising his voice or changing his expression.

"Joe, no one would suggest that," Mike Brown said.

"I'm sure they wouldn't," Joe replied smoothly. "But just so we're all clear—Y/N doesn't know I'm saying this, and she'd probably prefer I didn't—but her success reflects well on this organization. She's been documenting my career since my rookie year, and she's a big part of why our media presence has improved so dramatically."

He leaned back slightly, the picture of relaxed confidence. "I'd consider any suggestion that her promotion was connected to our relationship to be... inaccurate. And I think my track record gives me some credibility on personnel evaluations."

The room was quiet, but not tense—just thoughtful. Joe had made his point without being confrontational, had protected Y/N's reputation while establishing clear boundaries.

"Now," he continued, as if the previous exchange had been purely informational, "Kayla can walk you through the protocols Y/N has already implemented to ensure there are no conflicts of interest."

The meeting proceeded smoothly from there, covering practical considerations and establishing clear guidelines. When it concluded, Joe felt satisfied with the outcome. He'd protected Y/N's reputation, established his position, and set the tone for how their relationship would be handled moving forward. As he walked out of the conference room, Joe checked his phone and found a text from Y/N asking how it went. He smiled, typing back quickly:

Joe: Exactly like it should have. They're supportive. Kayla will handle the paperwork.

For the first time in months, Joe felt completely free. No more careful scheduling, no more stolen moments, no more pretending that Y/N wasn't the most important thing in his life. They could finally be together openly, honestly, without the weight of secrecy.

It felt exactly right.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - 12:47 PM - Y/N's Office

Joe walked through the facility feeling lighter than he had in months. The meeting had gone exactly like he'd expected—straightforward, professional. Five years of good work meant they respected his judgment. No drama, no complications. He went straight to Y/N's office. Felt good to just walk there without timing it perfectly or making up some excuse. When he knocked and went in, closing the door behind him, it was simple—he wanted to see her.

"Got a minute?" he asked, taking in Y/N's expression of barely contained anxiety.

Y/N practically launched herself out of her chair, and Joe felt a flutter of amusement at her obvious stress. "How did it go? Seriously, be honest."

Joe's mouth curved into that subtle smile, the one that appeared when he was satisfied with an outcome he'd carefully orchestrated. "Exactly like I said it would."

"That's not details," Y/N said, moving closer with the kind of urgency that suggested she'd been catastrophizing every possible scenario for the past hour. "I need actual details. What did they say? How did they react? Are we in trouble?"

Joe reached for her hands, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers that betrayed her attempt at composure. "We're not in trouble. Y/N, breathe. It was fine. Better than fine."

"Define fine."

Joe pulled her closer, his hands settling at her waist in the kind of casual intimacy they could now display without worry. "Mike Brown said they appreciate me handling it the right way. Katie confirmed your promotion was unanimous and had nothing to do with us. Kayla will handle the HR paperwork. End of story."

Y/N searched his face with the same intensity she brought to analyzing game footage, looking for any sign of concern or uncertainty. "That's really it? No pushback, no concerns about optics?"

"None that matter," Joe said simply.

"What does that mean?"

Joe was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. He'd handled the meeting with the same strategic precision he brought to reading defenses, but Y/N didn't need to know about the subtle power dynamics he'd navigated to protect her position.

"They needed to understand that questioning your qualifications or suggesting your promotion was connected to us would be... problematic."

Y/N's eyes widened, and Joe saw the moment she understood what he'd actually done in that conference room. "Joe, what did you say?"

"Nothing dramatic," he replied, though he could see Y/N wasn't buying his casual dismissal. "I just reminded them that I had a pretty good season despite some organizational challenges, and that my opinion on personnel carries some weight."

"You didn't..."

"I protected you," Joe said firmly, his voice dropping to match the seriousness of what he was telling her. "Without being dramatic about it. Just made sure everyone understood where things stand."

Y/N's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something that looked like overwhelming gratitude. Joe felt a surge of satisfaction at having handled the situation exactly as he'd intended—no drama, no ultimatums, just clear communication of his position and the consequences of questioning it.

"You really did handle it."

"I told you I would."

"But I was so nervous, and you were just... confident. Like you knew exactly how it would go."

Joe's hands moved to frame her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones in a gesture that felt both tender and possessive. This was exactly why he'd been confident—not because he was naive about potential complications, but because he'd understood the dynamics at play and his own value within the organization.

"Because I did know. Y/N, I'm the franchise quarterback and you're incredibly good at your job. We're both adults. There was never any real question about how this would go."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Joe said, leaning down to kiss her softly. The kiss felt different now—not stolen or careful, but open and honest. "Everything else was just noise."

When they broke apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his, and Joe felt the tension finally leave her body. "I can't believe we're actually doing this. Like, officially doing this."

"Finally," Joe said, his voice dropping lower as the full implications hit him. "No more hiding. No more pretending I don't want to touch you when you're in the same room."

The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Months of careful management, of stolen glances and manufactured professional distance, were finally over. He could touch Y/N when he wanted to, could look at her without calculating who might be watching, could stop performing careful indifference when what he felt was anything but indifferent.

"No more storage room meetings," Y/N added with a laugh.

"Definitely no more storage room meetings," Joe agreed, though his expression grew slightly nostalgic. "Though I have to admit, there was something exciting about the secrecy."

Y/N pulled back to look at him, eyebrows raised. "You're not going to miss it?"

Joe's expression grew more serious as he considered what he would and wouldn't miss about their careful navigation of professional boundaries. "I'm not going to miss watching you worry that someone might see us together. I'm not going to miss you editing yourself out of conversations because you're afraid of how it looks. I'm not going to miss pretending that what we have isn't important."

The honesty in his own voice surprised him. Joe hadn't fully realized how much Y/N's careful self-protection had affected him until he was able to articulate its absence. Watching her constrain herself professionally because of their relationship had been more painful than maintaining his own careful boundaries.

"It is important."

"It's the most important thing," Joe confirmed, meaning it completely. "And now everyone knows it."

Y/N's phone buzzed, breaking the intimate bubble they'd created. Joe watched her glance at the message, saw her expression shift to something like amused resignation.

"Sam," Y/N explained, showing him the screen. "She's been suspicious for weeks. She's going to lose her mind when I tell her."

"Good," Joe said, kissing her forehead with genuine satisfaction. "I want people to know. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours and we're done pretending otherwise."

The possessiveness in his voice was deliberate and unapologetic. Joe had spent months carefully managing his feelings, restraining his natural inclination to claim what mattered to him. No more restraint, no more careful distance.

"Yours, huh?"

"Completely," Joe said without hesitation. "Is that a problem?"

"Not even a little bit," Y/N replied, standing on her toes to kiss him properly.

This kiss was different from their earlier exchange—deeper, more certain, carrying the weight of finally being able to be honest about what they meant to each other. When they broke apart, Joe felt settled in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

"So what happens now?"

"Now we go back to work," Y/N said practically, and Joe appreciated her ability to compartmentalize even in moments of emotional significance. "I have meetings, you probably have film study or workouts or whatever quarterbacks do in January."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight you come home to my place and we celebrate not having to sneak around anymore."

Joe's smile was slow and satisfied. The casual assumption that he'd come to her place, that they'd spend the evening together, felt like the most natural thing in the world. "I like the sound of that."

"Good," Y/N said, reaching up to straighten his quarter-zip in a gesture that was both unnecessary and deeply intimate. "Because I have about five years of not being able to touch you in public to make up for."

The promise in her voice sent heat through Joe's chest. Five years of careful professional distance, of managing attraction and suppressing the desire to touch her, were finally over. Tonight, and every night going forward, he could stop pretending Y/N wasn't exactly where he wanted to be.

Joe kissed her once more—quick but thorough, a promise of more to come—then moved toward the door. "I'll see you tonight. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"No more worrying about this. It's handled. We're handled. Everything else is just logistics."

As Joe left Y/N's office, he felt a completeness he hadn't experienced since before their relationship began. No more careful scheduling, no more manufactured reasons to be in the same room, no more pretending that Y/N wasn't the most important thing in his life.

For the first time in months, Joe Burrow could just be himself—franchise quarterback, sure, but also a man completely in love with a woman who'd finally stopped having to hide it.

Walking through the facility corridors, Joe nodded to colleagues with the same professional courtesy he'd always maintained. But now, when people looked at him, they'd see someone who'd chosen transparency over convenience, who'd prioritized honesty over ease.

They'd see a man who'd found something worth protecting and had protected it exactly the way it deserved.

And Joe had never felt more like himself than he did in that moment, walking through his workplace knowing that Y/N was somewhere in the same building, officially and openly his.

* * *

July 15, 2025 - Training Camp Begins

Joe arrived at the facility early for the first day of training camp, his usual routine unchanged despite everything that had shifted over the past six months. The summer air was thick with humidity and the promise of another season ahead. It had been six months since his meeting with ownership, six months of being openly together with Y/N, and this was their first time back in the facility as an official couple.

The parking lot was packed—players' cars mixed with media vehicles and staff arriving for the official start of football season. Joe parked in his usual spot and noticed Y/N's car a few spaces over. No more careful timing of arrivals, no more pretending they didn't coordinate their schedules.

Walking through the facility corridors, Joe noticed the differences immediately. Staff members who used to give him polite professional nods now smiled with something warmer. They knew about Y/N now, knew she was part of his life in a way that went beyond work.

"Morning, Joe!" called out one of the equipment managers. "Your lucky practice jersey's ready. Tell Y/N I said hello."

Joe nodded, appreciating how naturally Y/N had been incorporated into the team's understanding of who he was. She wasn't just the VP of Digital Media anymore—she was his girlfriend, part of his world in a way that felt right. The locker room was buzzing with the energy of a new season starting. Players catching up after the off-season, coaches reviewing practice plans, the familiar rhythm of football preparation that Joe had missed.

"Look who's back," Ja'Marr said, appearing beside Joe's locker. "How's it feel to be Cincinnati's most private power couple?"

"Like we're doing it right," Joe replied, pulling his practice gear from his locker. "Y/N's not built for a spotlight on her personal life."

"No kidding. You give one-word answers about her in interviews and somehow still make it clear you're completely gone."

Joe felt himself smile slightly. "I protect what matters to me."

"Including her," Ja'Marr said with obvious approval. "It's actually really sweet how you handle it. And can I just say, it's about damn time you two stopped pretending."

"We weren't pretending, we were being professional."

"Man, you were torturing yourselves," Ja'Marr said with a laugh. "The whole team could see it. You've been different since y'all got together—more focused, less uptight. Whatever she's doing, tell her to keep doing it."

Before Joe could respond, Coach Taylor's voice echoed through the locker room, calling for the first team meeting of training camp.

As Joe headed toward the meeting room, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Y/N.

Joe: First day back. Feels right being here with you.

Her response came quickly.

Y/N: Feels right not hiding.

Joe: Never hiding again. See you at lunch?

Y/N: If you're not too exhausted from practice.

Joe: Never too exhausted for you.

Around eleven, after the team meeting but before practice started, Joe found himself walking toward the media offices. Not because he had to—no scheduled interviews or content shoots—but because he wanted to see Y/N in her element here, at the place where they'd built their foundation over five years. He knocked on her office door and stepped inside, closing it behind him out of habit more than necessity.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Always," Y/N replied, looking up from her computer. "Ready for the first practice?"

"More than ready. Excited." Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist as she stood up from her chair. "I missed this place. Missed working here with you."

"We've been together all off-season," Y/N pointed out.

"Not here. Not where it all started." Joe's expression grew more serious. This building held five years of their history—every careful conversation, every stolen moment, every time he'd requested her specifically for his media needs because he trusted her judgment completely. "Y/N, having you here, being able to be open about us—it makes everything better."

"Even with people watching?"

"Especially with people watching. I like that the team knows you're mine."

Joe kissed her then—brief but thorough—marveling at how natural it felt to be affectionate with her here, in her office, without calculating who might see or what conclusions they might draw.

"Go get ready for practice," Y/N said when they broke apart. "Show them why you're worth all the fuss."

"What fuss?" Joe asked with that subtle smile.

"The fuss of dating the VP of Digital Media."

Joe's expression grew more serious. "Best decision I ever made."

As he reached the door, he paused and turned back. The words came easily now, after months of being able to say them openly.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Love you. See you at lunch."

"Love you too," she replied, and Joe felt that familiar satisfaction at hearing her say it back so easily, so certainly.

Walking back toward the practice facility, Joe felt a completeness he'd never experienced here before. For five years, he'd been excellent at his job while carefully managing his feelings for Y/N. Now he could be excellent at his job while being completely himself.

As he changed into practice gear, Joe looked out the windows toward the practice field. For the first time in five years, Y/N could watch him work without having to hide how much she cared about him, both as a player and as a person.

And Joe could perform knowing that the woman who'd documented his entire NFL career was there not just because it was her job, but because she'd chosen to be part of his life in every way that mattered. The first practice of training camp was about to begin, and Joe Burrow had never felt more ready for a season to start.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

The anon who's about to become glitter again. I appreciate your response it makes me feel so much more sane. The character I've latched on to is, for some reason, the SOUL itself- not as a self-insert, and only sometimes as a representation of the player.

I feel like there's so much potential to be explored there. Their relationships with the other characters, Susie and Noelle especially. Are those their friends? Kris's? How would they react to finding out the person they've been talking to for the last week wasn't actually Kris?

How does them being some kind of higher power (an in-universe god or the player, generally) affect the moral implications of their actions? Playing a violent route in a video game doesn't make you, the player, a bad person, and no matter how strongly you empathize with the characters they're still not real, their emotions still aren't of equal weight to our own. And isn't it the same for a deity? It's one thing to acknowledge the impact their actions have on you, and it's more than reasonable to resent them, but can you really hold something that exists so far above you to your own moral standards?

And of course there's the aspect of choice. I feel like the fandom consensus, whether it's conscious or not, is that in spite of the entire beginning sequence where their personhood is literally thrown away, the SOUL is somehow choosing to be in control of Kris, whether because they want to inflict pain (Weird Route, usually,) or just because they want to be part of the world and they don't care how they do it.

But I don't think that's true, even if you take the SOUL=Player concept to the extreme. Sure, we can just close the game and stop controlling Kris. But that's not. Really a choice. That doesn't free Kris. The game doesn't care if you play it or not- the story stops where you do with no in-universe acknowledgement. You have to keep playing.

And Chapter 4. Just.... all of it. The back-and-forth. The resentment from both parties for their situation. The introduction of a common enemy in the strange person on the phone who's probably definitely Carol Holiday. Kris literally being referred to as the 'cage,' complete with imagery of the SOUL trapped within another person's hands. Do you think Kris feels any particular way about that depiction of things? The parallels between the SOUL's freedom to control their body (but only within the confines of the Prophecy) and their brief moments of freedom, which they use to follow someone else's orders. The Weird Route. The SOUL making the first and only set of choices that actually have a tangible effect. The only time they can make a choice that matters is to choose to inflict suffering. Isn't that terrible? Isn't that fascinating?

But it feels like most people are content to write the SOUL off as simultaneously just a player insert and a malevolent, amoral being who exists solely as opposition to Kris's autonomy. Which is, if you couldn't tell by my enthusiasm, a little disheartening. (It is kind of interesting that people are so quick to hate their own self-insert but that's another matter entirely.)

But I appreciate your insights as a survivor of the Ralsei Hate Epidemic from back in the day. I will admit I was not too terribly interested in him back when Chapter 2 released, so I didn't really have an opinion one way or the other- I think I understand what that must have felt like, though.

Thank you for triggering my ramblings and also sorry if my ramblings do not appeal to you I will not take it personally. My glitter will remain on the inside for a while longer now. Bless.

Ah, that's very interesting! The SOUL is a toughie for sure, because I think the natural inclination is to see it largely as an extension of the player... not entirely without reason, of course, since that is literally the thing that allows us to exist in Deltarune's world in any capacity in the first place. But as a device to explore the way that players interact with game worlds and their characters - more particularly the protagonist they control - you're right that it's such a fascinating avenue of inquiry to go down, and you bring up some excellent points about it.

I have a few more for you: do we owe it to a game or its characters to get its "best" ending? Does a happy ending in this regard translate to the most engaging game experience for a player? And getting more meta still - to what extent does a game serve as a conversation between its creator/author and the player of that game? I ask this with things like violence/the Weird Route in mind because that too is a conversation we're having with Deltarune, regardless of how "subversive" or "wrong" it might be presented as.

The reactions that can be provoked by the SOUL's presence in the game is interesting, for sure. For one thing, I have determined that I'm not going to do the Weird Route under any circumstance, because I personally wouldn't be comfortable deliberately inflicting that trauma on Kris and Noelle, regardless of what interesting insights it might yield. That's a personal choice, and I hold no disrespect for anyone who DOES want to do weird route or finds it compelling - neither choice says anything about our morals, because as you say we're engaging with a fictional universe and fictional characters. We can care about them, feel emotions about them, but it doesn't make them real in the same way you or I are, no matter how compelling they appear to us.

You're correct again when you mention that we never chose to inhabit Kris's body, but were forced into them after our vessel was discarded. There's a degree of unwillingness there for both of us, and for much of the time it seems to be that we're just trying to make the best of a bad situation. But the tendency to moralise and self-flagellate over this angle is concerning, because when we do that we miss what the game is trying to tell us about the relationship between a character and the player controlling them. It's natural, I feel, to want Kris to be free from our influence and be able to make their own choices - I want that for them as well. But we don't get a choice in that matter right now - again, lack of choice in video games being one of Deltarune's core themes. And as you say, if the answer were as simple as turning the game off and refusing to engage with it... well, we wouldn't be having any conversation at all, and Deltarune would have failed in its aims. But the fact we're even talking about it at all shows how much people care about this world and the characters therein.

The tension you bring up between Kris's subservience to Carol/phone voice and their unwilling subservience to our influence is especially interesting, because as you say it introduces the potential for a common enemy for us to band together against... but it also speaks to the overwhelming pressure of obligation and promise. Kris is in this terrible situation so deep that not even an eldritch deitylike entity controlling their body like a puppet can stop them from carrying it out - they have a "promise" they need to fulfill, and the fact they can override our control to do so speaks to just how much of a hold it has over them. They need us, but only insomuch as we can help them achieve whatever goals they're pursuing. And we need them, if we're ever going to experience the world of Deltarune and achieve the ending game state... whatever that might end up looking like.

And finally, the prophecy literally calling them a "cage" - not even human, but a living cage. It's interesting to speculate on how they might feel about that, but they give no indication as far as I can make out. Perhaps they're that resigned to their fate that it simply doesn't register anymore. I couldn't tell you right now, and anyone who could is speculating - nothing wrong with speculating, but when that tips over into fandom gospel is when we stop critically engaging with what's in front of us. There are still three chapters left to go, we're only at the halfway mark. And a lot can change with even a single chapter's release, as Ralsei has no doubt proven.

Please don't apologise for rambling, by the way. I enjoyed reading your thoughts very much! I hope that the situation improves and you are able to keep the glitter on the inside :D

[illprotectyou-hearteyes]

Going to be predictable... Benji Dunn for the character ask!

HELL YEAH BENJI!!!! You know he's one of the characters I was fishing for so thank you <3 Apologies for the length below the cut, I cannot be trusted with this kind of opportunity to pontificate about The Character.

How I feel about this character

Oh boy how much time do we have. How much time do I have. See, my kryptonite is a character who is a bit of a cypher, and Benji is so many layers of slight-of-hand. To the point that a significant portion of his character development isn't actually him changing so much as it's the layers being peeled away to reveal what was always there.

He's loud in his objections and expressions of fear and so can be perceived as lacking in adaptability, when actually he's on Ethan's buckwild wavelength like no one else from Day 1, and the first to run after him into danger. He'll complain of a stubbed toe, so will he really be up for the physical threats and injuries of field-work? Joke's on you for asking, he'll take a bullet so quietly a whole team of secret agents will miss it, and that's only the beginning. He's the bright-eyed and naive one, right? In some ways, at the start, but he's also the most acerbic and sharp-edged in others. Even Ethan underestimates Benji's loyalty in RN, as if Benji didn't put his whole life on the line for him without even knowing what the fuck was happening in MI3, before they ever worked together in the field.

He's a delight and a terror and he's always underselling himself and over-performing, he's the comic relief and the heart of the franchise, he's a rambling anxious nerdy tech who becomes a badass field agent and he and Ethan were two sides of the same coin from day one. And I LOVE him.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

I mean, Ethan. No one else really, although I could very easily be sold on Ethan/Benji/Luther.

Setting aside the urge to describe every Ethan and Benji scene and go "Do you see that ????" It's. The two-way loyalty and adoration and bone deep trust and being on the same wavelength to unprecedented degrees. Believing in each other when no one else does (except Luther, my beloved <3), believing in each other so hard they perform miracles not to let the other down. Somehow equal parts the attraction of opposites and self-recognition in the other. And getting to watch the relationship develop and unfold across the films!!! I still cannot believe the franchise straight up concludes with Ethan following Benji as the symbolic conclusion of his 8-film arc.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

I mean. Benji & Paris. I would explain but we all get it. And Benji & Luther. In my headcanon Benji may or may not have been keenly aware of Ethan pre-MI3, but absolutely he was a huge fanboy of Luther's. No way our boy didn't idolize The Phineas Freak. He has lost weeks worth of sleep trying to puzzle out how the fuck Luther pulled off the NATO Ghostcom hack. He's scoured the IMF databases for any fragments of hints about Luther's work, to a degree that makes for an awkward as fuck first meeting. And now that's his friend!!!!

My unpopular opinion about this character

Hmm. I can't think of any that I know to be unpopular within the fandom. I mean Simon talks about his frustration at Benji being seen as just a comic relief character, so if thinking Benji has more to him than funny lines is an unpopular opinion among general audiences, then uh *gestures at post* yeah you might say that's an opinion I have

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

DR provided such an incredible conclusion to Benji's arc it ground most of the answers I'd previously have put here into the dust. But I do desperately wish we had Benji learning of Luther's death. (Still holding out hope for that deleted scene ...). On that note I would have loved to get a bit more of his and Luther's relationship outside the banter. Him and Ilsa too, tbh.

Uhhh feels odd to end on the single downer note so in conclusion I Love him, 20/10 character.

[stellarbit]

Hi Stellar!! Congratulations again on 1000 followers!! 💜 You deserve it so much! You are one of the reasons why I started writing TBB fan fiction in the first place, so thank you for being one of my first inspirations to start writing.🥰

Kissing as a distraction/“You are my equal in every way.”: Tech kissing fem!reader as a distraction during a mission in a really bad part of town on some Outer Rim planet. He quickly realizes that he doesn’t want to stop and reader feels the same since they’ve both been circling around each other and their feelings for months. Reader is possibly feeling a bit insecure over not feeling like she’s interesting/smart enough to hold Tech’s attention/affection. You can make this SFW or NSFW, however you see fit! 💜

Ilysm and I’m so so excited to read everything you come up with! 💜💜💜

Avoid The Droid

Word Count: 1.5k Pairing: Tech x gn!reader Warnings: Kissing SFW Summary: While delivering intel to a client, you and Tech run into a patrol droid and it's coming you way.

“You’ll need to keep up if we are to get back to Cid’s by nightfall.” Tech nagged you over his shoulder.

Squeezing through two people you got within a hand’s reach of Tech. He led you through the slums of Ord Mantell City. The smell and crowd of the slums already had you on edge, Tech’s nagging only amplified that feeling.

Hunter, and by proxy Cid, sent the two of you to deliver intel to a client. Oddly enough, the intel at hand was a sound clip of a senator coughing. Apparently, there was an encrypted message within the recording, but one you’d failed to understand the meaning.

You ran your hand over the datarod tucked away in your jacket, making sure you’d not just squeezed past a pick pocketer. 

“And there’s seriously some message? Not just a cough?” You called, probably too loudly for the scene, over to Tech.

“I assure you there is. I isolated the signature myself.”

“What was the message?”

Abruptly, Tech stopped to look back at you. His lips were pulled to one side, clearly not impressed by your repetitive questioning. “Would you rather discuss this further in a crowd of unsavory companies or complete the mission and get out of this degenerative sector?”

In attempts to appear impatient rather than embarrassed by the chiding, you waved for him on. Before turning back, Tech gave you a once over, eyes momentarily locking on your hand resting on your chest. 

He took a quick inventory of the busy crowd around you as he urged you forward. Without warning he leaned in and pointed beyond you. 

“The rendezvous is 100 meters down. Lead the way and I’ll see that you don’t lose the objective to a common thief.”

At times it was hard to tell whether he was being caring or condescending. You always leaned towards caring but were never surprised if it was the latter. As easy as it would be to take offense to most things Tech said, you were quick to realize Tech expressed himself rarely and to a select few of which included you.

He humored your questions about his gadgets and took interest in your area of study. Before resorting to doing jobs for Cid, you’d been a Senate Advisor as an expert in Galactic history and civics. As it turned out, the Empire had little use for such a speciality. 

Once the governmental tides shifted you were faced with two options: stop spreading what the Empire deemed as propaganda or face unspecified ramifications. In the shadow of the Jedi Purge, you accepted the death of your career rather than the threat of literal one.

When you opened up about your past with the Batch, Tech’s interest was sparked and a cycle of info dumping began. It quickly became routine for you to perch next to him as he worked on the Marauder, prattling on about political intricacies from centuries past or your theories on current happenings. Similarly, Tech commonly regaled you with stories about past missions, space travel, or the detailed mechanics of his work.

Quietly, the two of you enjoyed your symbiosis. It was so nice yet you worried about its longevity. How long could an obsolete subject matter expert like you hold the attention of a man who was simultaneously a soldier, engineer, and living database?

Having fallen into that familiar anxiety, you were blind to the traffic around you. A speeder came up on your right side and nearly ran you over. It would have had Tech not pushed you forward and out of its way.

The technician kept his hand at your elbows, sternly guiding you through the crowd. He was silent, grip firm, until casually slipping you both into a narrow, grimy alley just off the street. He backed against the wall, pulling a datapad from his belt, fingers flying across the screen. 

He’s annoyed. 

"Why are we—"

"Don’t speak," he snapped quietly, eyes flicking upward. You followed his line of sight and caught a glimpse of a patrol drone hovering overhead, slowly sweeping the street. A quiet curse slipped under his breath when the screen flashed red.

“I am attempting to jam the drone’s biometric scanner—” he cut himself off with a sharp inhale. You didn’t fully understand what that meant, but the edge in his voice told you enough.

“Do something,” you hissed.

“I’m trying,” he bit back. “It’s scanning every exposed face and cross-referencing with archived Republic data. Possibly clone-associated personnel.”

“Are you on that list?”

“More than likely.”

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back to look.

“Don’t—” he hissed, reaching for you with one hand while the other kept working. “Just stay still—no, don’t talk—”

“I’m trying to understand what’s going on, Tech—”

“I said—”

You took another breath, ready to argue, but your voice, your movement, the crowd noise, the proximity—all of it was pressing down on him. His fingers stumbled on the datapad. His brain scrambled for solutions, prioritizing probabilities.

The drone beeped.

Too loud amongst the bustling crowd. Too close.

You turned toward it again.

And Tech snapped.

He shoved you back against the wall with one hand, braced the datapad with the other—and smashed his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t sweet. It was messy, rushed, and driven entirely by necessity and panic and you not shutting up.

Your gasp was swallowed instantly, lips crushed under his. His nose bumped yours awkwardly. His goggles pressed against your forehead. His free hand tangled in your jacket as he leaned into you like you were part of the wall.

And then—

Stillness.

The drone hovered a second longer. Then passed.

Tech didn’t move away, but some tension slipped away. You felt his breathing even out against your cheek, warm and fast. The pressure he pressed softened as he leaned away ever so slightly. It was just enough to look at you—eyes wide, lips parted, clearly realizing what he’d just done.

“I—” he started, then stopped, swallowed, and couldn’t speak before you closed the distance again.

You kept your eyes open to watch him a moment longer. His not moving was enough encouragement for you to move your lips against his. In turn, Tech softened and followed your motions. 

The sound of the crowd faded away, the worry of discovery drowned by the thrill of weeks of built tension breaking away. The discomfort of his goggles against your face and your back into the wall behind you turned electric—exciting.

When oxygen became a necessity you finally split. Both of your lips were red, swollen, and dampened with the taste of the other. There was a long beat of silence and Tech gradually disentangled himself from you.

Tech stared at you a moment longer, then said in a hoarse rush, “I couldn’t focus. You wouldn’t stop talking.”

You blinked, a brow arching. “Is that all there was?” Leaning your head against the wall you cleared your throat, asking, “Even after the droid was gone.”

Tech’s eyes darted beyond the threshold of your dark nook. The droid was indeed long gone. Tech raised his datapad, examining it but thinking of anything other than the data presented. He adjusted his goggles and avoided your eye.

“It wasn’t unpleasant.” He mumbled. “For some reason I feel relieved.”

Your heart jumped. It was a coded and vague way of saying it but it sounded like, “Like finally figuring something out?” You asked, blatant hope in your voice.

Tech stiffened at the suggestion, eyebrows breaching his goggles. “I wouldn’t disagree.” His eyes met yours, fell to your lips, and found your eyes again. “Enjoying intimacy with you was not my epiphany, contrary to what you are implying. Our time together made that obvious to me a long time ago.” He tucked his datapad away as his air of confident casualness returned.

The crimping of your brows told him you weren’t following his own implication. Uncomfortable with his prolonged vulnerability, Tech brought his datapad back to his face, the glow of the screen doing little to hide the slight upward turn of his lips.

“Perhaps your reciprocation just now made me realize it but…” On an inhale Tech glanced up over his screen, keeping your gaze as he firmly said. “You are my equal in every way.”

He gave you no time to respond as he abruptly turned back into the crowded street. “We need to deliver this intel before we run into another patrol droid.” He didn’t spare another glance backwards, still rambling about the droid’s presence as if you were at his heels.

All the weeks of worry were suddenly gone. You gently touched your still tingling lips as you stepped back into the crowd. His equal… Proud warmth rooted itself in your chest. You ran to catch up with him, shamefully hoping another droid would come along…

tags: @bruh-myguy-what @cyaretra @jetii @hshfsjzjsgj @zahmaddog @heidnspeak

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

https://www.tumblr.com/twinsarekeepers/786696321217232896/idgaf-i-nodded-when-katara-bloodbent-that-piece-of

Thoughts on this take regarding Katara and blood bending?

*sighs eternally* I'm so fucking sick of this discourse, so here's the short version: Hama abused Katara. Fuck that bitch, fuck her bullshit "teachings", fuck her excuses, fuck her stans, fuck her apologists, and fuck the people that act like she was doing Katara a favor by abusing her, free my girl from this stupid fucking fandom.

Long version actually breaking down the horrible arguments of that post:

"She used the a power created by the only other waterbender, who used it to escape colonial power" Did you miss the part when Hama, an adult, tricked Katara, a child, into coming into the woods with her and then used said power to violate Katara's body? And then did the same to her friends? Aka, the part that means that, despite being a survivor from Katara's tribe, she's also HER ABUSER, because I cannot stress this enough, that's what Hama is: Katara's abuser.

And if you don't agree, ask yourself how you'd label Ozai if he "taught" Zuko to redirect lightining by shooting lightining at him, or at Ursa and Iroh, to force him into doing it - and that for each second Zuko fails to get a handle on it, he and those he cares about are in visible physical agony, while Ozai is just laughing at their suffering, and then has the nerve to look all smug and congratulate Zuko, who is left in tears after such a stressful situation.

"It felt like ancestral rage" Yes, it did, and rage is important and can sometimes be good. Sometimes it also poisons you and makes you do things you'll come to regret - yes, even when done against somebody who was a total piece of shit (see Zuko, the person who was with Katara on that journey, not burning Zhao's face even though we know the bastard would not have spared him)

"And yeah, that’s not how the (white) writers wanted us to view blood bending" And the tumblr users want us to view abusive behavior as good just because it came from someone who happened to be of the same ethnicity as the actual hero, even though betrayed said hero's trust in a horrible way - again, something said tumblr users don't do to Ozai.

The *gasp* white writers are holding the brown skinned woman to the same standard they hold the light skinned man, aka treating them equally, and since they both abused vulnerable children that trusted them and used "I'm trying to teach you something" as an excuse, their "students" reject their lessons, find support, and send their abusers to rot in prison where they belong - and redemption is not even off the table, it's just clear the children they abused won't be bending over backwards to make it happen, because they don't owe their abusers a damn thing.

Maybe ask yourself why you have a problem with that, because I assure you it's not because the writers are the ones with a double-standard here.

"Aang had energybending, Zuko had lightining bending" Aang used it as a last resource to avoid taking somebody's life, and it comes with the consequence of "If your spirit is even a tiny bit corrupt, your very soul will fucking die." That's a much more extreme consequence than just "I did this thing and felt bad about it" and I doubt that using it without care wouldn't count as corrupting his spirit, so it's a power that he cannot abuse without IMMEDIATELY getting screwed over.

And Zuko has lightining REDIRECTING. He cannot create it. Somebody needs to attack him first, and even if he aims it back at the person that shot it at him (with intention to KILL him no less), they will not suffer too much. Once again, it's a power that is basically impossible for him to abuse.

Both of these are VERY different from being able to, in Katara's own words "reach inside somebody and control them" and that can be used in anyway she wants, as long as there's a full moon, therefore the comparison is, at best, unfair, and at worst it's downright dishonest.

You wanna know a power that DOES work in a simmilar way to bloodbending? Ty Lee's chi-blocking abilities. Abilities Katara was always freaked out by, and that the show presents as scary and evil 9 times out of 10.

Katara is a compassionate character with a strong moral compass, believes punching down is wrong, and her introduction to bloodbending came in the form of abuse, betrayal and trauma. Of course she hates it. It makes perfect sense for her to hate it, and I'm glad the writers respected that instead of just going "LOOK AT THIS COOL NEW POWER BOOST!" just because she'd obviously only use it against bad people.

Once again, somebody please free my girl from this fucking fandom.

[uldren-sov]

touchstarved update thoughts (spoilers ahead)

aka how did Redspring think that springing a deletion of an origin people already enjoyed with this new one, was a good idea?

Because I cannot see this as being the step to make the third route more popular. That would be one of the only thoughts I have to completely remove an origin from the story.

Does anyone have any insight from Patreon maybe? Discord?

Not only did it seem to be a move out of nowhere, in all of the dev updates, I don't recall there being any kind of notice to any of the kickstarter backers that there would be a complete removal and overhaul of one of the backgrounds. It was also upsetting to learn this as soon as the update went live.

Especially for an origin that does not seem to fit with the setting in the slightest.

Somehow, we're expected to believe that someone who has been living in some forests, who just had a single person to rely on, has skills that are relevant in an urban environment? Or has any kind of context for this environment? Or even how to deal with others?

The Exile has lived away from civilization (like the bustling and most cutthroat city, Eridia the game takes place in) long enough to know all about Soulless behaviors (not that it helps when actually confronted with Soulless or gives any kind of insight) but somehow knows multiple languages (????) and can get a gut feeling on certain dangers (like that isn't a common skill.)

The other routes have clear lines of relation to major points in the story, the Hound seemed to at least know how to navigate the environment we would be dealing with and the monsters (Monsters, Soulless, and people) we would be interacting with in Eridia.

In comparison, nothing about the Exile synergizes with the setting, none of the skills seem applicable as written, and even worse, I do not believe for a second the Exile's competency or capacity in dealing with a city let alone The City, Eridia.

And the one time that the Exile's skills may come into play, trying to fight the Soulless, it's a bad end and a game over (I guess the death scene that was traded for Vere's former bad end.) The Exile seems to have no applicable skills for them to help themselves in the story, is somehow the MOST sheltered of the origins, and least suited to the current setting.

Was the Hound too savvy for the world? Did their skills overlap too much with Mhin's (even though that could have been corrected if not for now the Exile taking Mhin's specialization on Soulless) or Ais'/Leander's? Were they not sheltered enough?

I'm just so disappointed in being ambushed by the loss of my favorite origin and doubly so when in its place is something that should probably be avoided instead.

[someobscurereference]

ive been rereading your ffxv fic "im trying hard to take it back" for literally four years now. please end my suffering and tell me how gladio feels. please. PLEASE. (but only if u want ofc)

(fic) Short answer: Gladio feels insane guilt and spends a lot of his life trying to make this up to Prompto. In the process, they deepen their connection as friends and do begin a relationship probably around the one-year mark of endless darkness. <3

Longer answer: (implications of abuse/violence tw but no worse than in the fic itself; just what others assume to be true even if it's not in the context of this specific fic)

Gladio is a secret romantic at heart who has always envisioned meeting his soulmate, but he's also duty-bound and duty comes first. So even though he reads romance books (amongst other types of books too) and indulges in his head a bit as many people do, he's often put his duty to the crown first and foremost in his mind. He also didn't imagine his soulmate was anyone on this trip and thought perhaps the person he may have been fated to meet died in the assault of Insomnia. Even if they were a refugee, they can't be a priority to him at this moment. His priority has to be Noctis.

Prompto has obviously grown on him over the course of their road trip, but there are aspects of them that don't 100% mesh (as is true with every realistic relationship). That said, Gladio never in a hundred years would want this moment of (understandable but out of line) frustration and anger in the wake of Luna and Altissa to be a permanent mark on Prompto's face. He's genuinely horrified and disgusted with himself for a long time after this and spends most of his life trying to make it up. He feels like a dirtbag about it.

That said, Prompto runs away from him in this moment and they need time to calm down, just as the fic shows. Noctis goes after Prompto, just like in canon. Prompto falls off the train and has his Despair Arc just like in the DLC, now with the added despair of "well, in addition to being a clone, my soulmate hates me. And in addition to the mark of inhumanity on my wrist (barcode), I have a giant hand print of him literally Shoving Me Away on my face. Forever."

Aranea: Well, do you want to die about it. Or do you want to live.

Prompto, eventually like in canon: Live, I guess. But it will be excruciating.

Aranea: That's what living is. We do it anyway. Your friends love you. Get off the floor.

He fights his way through his issues and gets rescued like in canon. Gladio probably tries to talk to him when they all catch up again, trying to apologize, and Prompto tells him to hold off on that for later.

Then, of course, Noctis is eaten by the crystal and "later" becomes much, much later as they evacuate and try to survive in eternal darkness. (Though they also can't Not think about it because it's a giant hand print. On Prompto's face. And every person they meet has Something To Say about it, for better or worse, whether they knew Prompto before or not. Prompto cannot escape it, and when Gladio is not doing Crown Duties he feels he must do in Noct's absence, he's with Prompto, so he also Cannot Escape It either. Even when the person speaking is unaware that Gladio left that mark. It's almost worse when they don't know, but when they see it's Gladio, who is such a big guy who seemingly hit Prompto and left that permanent mark there, some of them get nasty to him and some back off out of fear. Both are horrible. The guilt is eating him alive.)

Eventually, enough time passes as the dust settles that they do Talk About It. Gladio apologizes sincerely, for the 500th time. Prompto's like, "Well. It's not like you could have known that this would be The One Time it happened." And then cracks a joke about their soulmate mark being a Prompto's hand print on Gladio's ass from a butt slap in another life, which does help the tension somewhat. (The more Gladio tries to apologize, the more Prompto grows sick of hearing it, so they just have to move on and keep going, as he's learned to do.)

They grow closer over time, especially because there's not a lot of people who have survived to this point and even less later on. They do get together romantically, both because they do like the idea of soulmates (for different reasons) and also because they're living out of each others pockets for years, so there's an affection and dependency that develops there. Also, teenage Prompto always thought Gladio was really handsome and teen Gladio thought Prompto was cute and sincere for a pipsqueak.

When they are out together on dates in normal settings surrounded by strangers after the light returns, Gladio will receive dirty looks for the rest of his life from strangers who see the hand print on Prompto's face and immediately (correctly) assumes it was out of anger rather than a funny accident or something. (Edit: Some people will assume there is a funny story attached. Gladio will not know what to say to this. Prompto will play along.) He will learn to live with this. Prompto is really grateful Gladio is with him despite everything.

[skyburger]

Ohmy god my bad guys i spent like an hour ramblingabout music opinions. at least its in the tags of my own post though could be worse

[fozmeadows]

there is no ethical consumption under capitalism

Years ago now, I remember seeing the rape prevention advice so frequently given to young women - things like dressing sensibly, not going out late, never being alone, always watching your drink - reframed as meaning, essentially, "make sure he rapes the other girl." This struck a powerful chord with me, because it cuts right to the heart of the matter: that telling someone how to lower their own chances of victimhood doesn't stop perpetrators from existing. Instead, it treats the existence of perpetrators as a foregone conclusion, such that the only thing anyone can do is try, by their own actions, to be a less appealing or more difficult victim.

And the thing is, ever since the assassination of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson, I've kept on thinking about how, in this day and age, CEOs of big companies often have an equal or greater impact on the day to day lives of regular people than our elected officials, and yet we have almost no legal way to redress any grievances against them - even when their actions, as in the case of Thompson's stewardship of UHC, arguably see them perpetrating manslaughter at scale through tactics like claims denial. That this is a real, recurring thing that happens makes the American healthcare insurance industry a particularly pernicious example, but it's far from being the only one. Because the original premise of the free market - the idea that we effectively "vote" for or against businesses with our dollars, thereby causing them to sink or swim on their individual merits - is utterly broken, and has been for decades, assuming it was ever true at all. In this age of megacorporations and global supply chains, the vast majority of people are dependent on corporations for necessities such as gas, electricity, internet access, water, food, housing and medical care, which means the consumer base is, to all intents and purposes, a captive market. We might not have to buy a specific brand, but we have to buy a brand, and as businesses are constantly competing with one another to bring in profits, not just for the company and its workers, but for C-suites and shareholders - profits that increasingly come at the expense of workers and consumers alike - the greediest, most inhumane corporations set the financial yardstick against which all others are then, of necessity, measured. Which means that, while businesses are not obliged to be greedy and inhumane in order to exist, overwhelmingly, they become greedy and humane in order to compete, because capitalism encourages it, and because there are precious few legal restrictions to stop them from doing so. At the same time, a handful of megacorporations own so many market-dominating brands that, without both significant personal wealth and the time and resources to find viable alternatives, it's all but impossible to avoid them, while the ubiquity of the global supply chain means that, even if you can keep track of which company owns which brand, it's much, much harder to establish which suppliers provide the components that are used in the products bearing their labels. Consider, for instance, how many mainstream American brands are functionally run on sweatshop labour in other parts of the world: places where these big corporations have outsourced their workforce to skirt the already minimal labour and wage protections they'd be obliged to adhere to in the US, all to produce (say) electronics whose elevated sticker price passes a profit on to the company, but without resulting in higher wages for either the sweatshop workers overseas or the American employees selling the products in branded US stores.

When basically every major electronics corporation is engaged in similar business practices, there is no "vote" our money can bring that causes the industry itself to be better regulated - and as wealthy, powerful lobbyists from these industries continue to pay exorbitant sums of money to politicians to keep government regulation at a minimum, even our actual votes can do little to effect any sort of change. But even in those rare instances where new regulations are passed, for multinational corporations, laws passed in one country overwhelmingly don't prevent them from acting abusively overseas, exploiting more desperate populations and cash-poor governments to the same greedy, inhumane ends. And where the ultimate legal penalty for proven transgressions is, more often than not, a fine - which is to say, a fee; which is to say, an amount which, while astronomical by the standards of regular people, still frequently costs the company less than the profits earned through their unethical practices, and which is paid from corporate coffers rather than the bank accounts of the CEOs who made the decisions - big corporations are, in essence, free to act as badly as they can afford to; which is to say, very. Contrary to the promise of the free market, therefore, we as consumers cannot meaningfully "vote" with our dollars in a way that causes "good" businesses to rise to the top, because everything is too interconnected. Our choices under global capitalism are meaningless, because there is no other system we can financially support that stands in opposition to it, and while there are still small businesses and companies who try to operate ethically, both their comparative smallness and their interdependent reliance on the global supply chain means that, even if we feel better about our choices, we're not exerting any meaningful pressure on the system we're trying to change. Which means that, under the free market, trying to be an ethical consumer is functionally equivalent to a young woman dressing modestly, not going out alone and minding her drink at parties in order to avoid being raped. We're not preventing corporate predation or sending a message to corporate predators: we're just making sure they screw other worker, the other consumer, the other guy.

All of which is to say: while I'd prefer not to live in a world where shooting someone dead in the street is considered a valid means of redressing grievances, what the murder of Brian Thompson has shown is that, if you provide no meaningful recourse for justice against abusive, exploitative members of the 1%, then violence done to those people will have the feel of justice, because it fills the void left by the lack of consequences for their actions. It's the same reason why people had little sympathy for the jackass OceanGate CEO who killed himself in his imploding sub, or anyone whose yacht has been attacked by orcas - it's just intensified here, because where the OceanGate CEO was felled by hubris and the yachts were random casualties, whoever killed Thomspon did so deliberately, because of what he did. It was direct action against a man whose policies very arguably constituted manslaughter at scale; a crime which ought to be a crime, but which has, to date, been permitted under the law. And if the law wouldn't stop him, can anyone be surprised that someone might act outside the law in retaliation - or that regular people would cheer for them when they did?

[irishbreakfst]

Big milestone for me: talked to my boyfriend about my incredible bone-deep reluctance to feel/express intense emotions without distancing myself from them via humor or some other mechanism, something which has been causing a lot of issues for us because it gives him (and my friends and basically everyone else who is around me when the mood is serious) the impression that i dont care about other people's feelings or have empathy!

Im also very, VERY bad at verbalizing my feelings when the mood is serious so im incredibly proud of myself for being able to hold that conversation without shutting it down early with a "whatever i dont care" or juwt gping completely nonverbal!

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

so: masking: good, unequivocally. please mask and please educate others on why they should mask to make the world safer for immune compromised people to participate in.

however: masking is not my policy focus and it shouldn't be yours, either. masking is a very good mitigation against droplet-born illnesses and a slightly less effective (but still very good) mitigation against airborne illnesses, but its place in the pyramid of mitigation demands is pretty low, for several reasons:

it's an individual mitigation, not a systemic one. the best mitigations to make public life more accessible affect everyone without distributing the majority of the effort among individuals (who may not be able to comply, may not have access to education on how to comply, or may be actively malicious).

it's a post-hoc mitigation, or to put it another way, it's a band-aid over the underlying problem. even if it was possible to enforce, universal masking still wouldn't address the underlying problem that it is dangerous for sick people and immune compromised people to be in the same public locations to begin with. this is a solvable problem! we have created the societal conditions for this problem!

here are my policy focuses:

upgraded air filtration and ventilation systems for all public buildings. appropriate ventilation should be just as bog-standard as appropriately clean running water. an indoor venue without a ventilation system capable of performing 5 complete air changes per hour should be like encountering a public restroom without any sinks or hand sanitizer stations whatsoever.

enforced paid sick leave for all employees until 3-5 days without symptoms. the vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through industry sectors where employees come into work while experiencing symptoms. a taco bell worker should never be making food while experiencing strep throat symptoms, even without a strep diagnosis.

enforced virtual schooling options for sick students. the other vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through schools. the proximity of so many kids and teenagers together indoors (with little to no proper ventilation and high levels of physical activity) means that if even one person comes to school sick, hundreds will be infected in the following few days. those students will most likely infect their parents as well. allowing students to complete all readings and coursework through sites like blackboard or compass while sick will cut down massively on disease transmission.

accessible testing for everyone. not just for COVID; if there's a test for any contagious illness capable of being performed outside of lab conditions, there should be a regulated option for performing that test at home (similar to COVID rapid tests). if a test can only be performed under lab conditions, there should be a government-subsidized program to provide free of charge testing to anyone who needs it, through urgent cares and pharmacies.

the last thing to note is that these things stack; upgraded ventilation systems in all public buildings mean that students and employees get sick less often to begin with, making it less burdensome for students and employees to be absent due to sickness, and making it more likely that sick individuals will choose to stay home themselves (since it's not so costly for them).

masking is great! keep masking! please use masking as a rhetorical "this is what we can do as individuals to make public life safer while we're pushing for drastic policy changes," and don't get complacent in either direction--don't assume that masking is all you need to do or an acceptable forever-solution, and equally, don't fall prey to thinking that pushing for policy change "makes up" for not masking in public. it's not a game with scores and sides; masking is a material thing you can do to help the individual people you interact with one by one, and policy changes are what's going to make the entirety of public life safer for all immune compromised people.

[motthe]

Maybe some Young! Silco fic? (Or anything that you wanna do) I already loved his older version but his Young self in The last episodes got my heart in a grip 😭💖💖 He looks so full of dreams and maybe a little silly. Maybe with a energetic/chaotic significant other!

young!silco also has me in a death grip don't worry. hope you enjoy this!!

warnings: fem!reader, violence, sexual innuendos, secondhand embarrassment for drunk rambling

“It’s doable!”

“Doable and survivable are two very different things.”

Vander knocked his head against the metal backing of his mining gloves repeatedly, aching for the two of you to come to a compromise. The light of the fungi matched the tink tink tink of his patience running thin.

Crunching footsteps had him pausing, one eye opening to find Felicia pushing her helmet up higher on her head as she stared at you and Silco just beyond, still very much squabbling. She leaned on her hip, one hand rising to rest on it as she smiled down at Vander’s hunched form.

“Are they still arguing about the gap?” she whispered.

He groaned quietly instead of answering. It was all she needed.

“I can make it!” you protested, arms gesturing to the other side of the ravine. “I’ve jumped buildings twice the distance.”

“When you’re jumping buildings you can see the ground,” Silco argued, pointing to the darkness below. “We don’t know how long a fall that is, you absolute lunatic.”

“You’ve gotta hand it to her,” Felicia chuckled, taking up camp next to Vander. “No one else would even think of jumping across.”

“She’s an adrenaline junkie,” Vander muttered. “Jumping off shit is all she thinks about.”

“Would you—just let me—damn it, Sil!”

The shuffle of boots and clothes had both of their heads turning, watching with equally amused expressions as Silco passed by with you being half carried half dragged away from the ravine. Silco didn’t pay them a glance as he went. You kept stretching back the way you came, struggling but not truly putting all your energy into it. Felicia could tell. You loved being his center of attention for as long as possible, even if it kept you away from your wild pastimes. 

The sound of a horn echoed through the caves, sending the fungi white with the sound. The work day was finished. 

“Back to the last drop, then?” Felicia hummed, standing and offering a hand to the big man. He accepted it with a soft grin, following her out. The two of them watched Silco far ahead, who was now fully carrying you in your grieved state. You kept muttering you could have made it.

“Think they’ll ever get together?” she hummed, nudging Vander.

“Wish they would,” he sighed. “It was annoying years ago, now its just pitiful.”

She laughed, waving a hand at you when you pulled your head up from Silco’s shoulder to eye them. “Well, she’ll never do it. She’s convinced herself he’s too focused on our cause to ever settle down.”

“Some days I think the same thing,” Vander said, introspective when she glanced up at him, “others, I catch him looking at her. He doesn’t open up, barely does around us, but…”

“Disappears around her, yeah?” She smiled at him and he mirrored her, nodding.

Later that night, the Last Drop was bustling with the newest record added to the box. You’re dancing over chairs, running across the edge of the pool tables as people chant your name. Someone tossed a mug through the air and you caught it, swallowing the contents down and cheering with the rest before continuing on with dancing. 

Silco watched from his bar seat. He had cruel timing, turning his eyes back to his notebook when you pulled yourself away from the crowd to glance at him. To you, he was lost in his own world, but really he fell into yours quite easily. You were distracting. He perked up at the sound of your voice without meaning to, knew the outline of your body in his periphery. Abrasive and chaotic. You’re too much, too loud.

Too perfect for someone as withdrawn and stiff as him.

“Oh, heaven help me,” Vander grumbled, both hands on the bar as he stared at the scene. Silco paused to raise an eyebrow at him. “She just downed three shots in one.”

“How many does that make it now?” he questioned.

“Eight.”

Both of their heads dropped, knowing how the night would be going.

“All right, I give!” Felcia slammed a hand on the bar as she walked up, panting. “I can’t keep up with her. Gods. Where does she get the energy?”

Vander passed her a drink as Silco shrugged, music blaring all around them. Felicia scowled when she noticed his journal. 

“Oh, c’mon, Silco. Let loose for a bit!” she shouted over the din of the bar, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“If I did that, nothing would ever get done around here,” he returned, smirking as she rolled her eyes. 

The counter shook under them, the second bang of Vander’s fist sending both of them on high alert. Two meant trouble. 

Felicia spun around, Silco turned in his seat. There by the record player you were backed against the wall by a man, one arm caging you in while his fingers pinched your chin. The cold look in your eyes had a shiver streaking down Silco's spine. You were a storm like this and he’d been lost to it for years. 

The man said something that made you scoff, batting his hand away and sliding to get out from under him. As his hand grabbed your upper arm Silco realized he was no longer sitting. Even across the room he could read your lips.

“Last chance. Beat it,” you warned.

The man laughed and tugged you closer, it sent your knee right between his legs. When he bent over, Silco heard the crack as your fist met the man’s jaw. He hit the ground, dead weight. 

Fuck, he thought, hands curling into fists at his side. You were perfect.

You stumbled back a few steps. It seemed those shots had soaked in. You were cradling your hand as yells broke out, slow to turn as a couple of goons stood from a table nearby.

“Great,” Felicia puffed, pushing off the bar, “he had lackeys.”

Vander shouted as they ran at you, Silco was halfway to you when you dodged the first swing, putting you straight into the path of another. Your back hit the record player, a scratch disrupting the music. The entire bar turned, regulars rushing forward without second thought and jumping the goons. 

Silco went straight to you, mindful of the chair Felicia was brandishing overhead as she flew into the meat of the fight. 

“Let me see,” he said, sliding a hand under your jaw and tilting your head back. You were hunching, still holding that hand of yours to your chest. 

“Hey, Sil,” you slurred, grinning and wincing. Your lower lip was busted, the right side of your face already beginning to swell from the jaw up. “Can you believe that guy? Down in one hit, hah!”

“Still have all your teeth?” he asked, wiping the blood trailing from the corner of your mouth. 

“What? You want me to open wide for you?”

He ticked a brow, scowling through the heat that flashed through his stomach. 

“Come on, let’s get ice on that,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around you. You hummed happily, falling into his side. Even as drunk as you were, your feet barely stumbled as he led you to the basement door. He nodded to Vander who already had the same idea, coming around the back of the bar to pass him an ice pack and a clean rag. He thanked him.

“Take care of her,” Vander said, rubbing a hand over your back. You tossed the big man a smile before he returned to his station.

“Keep that on there,” Silco said to you, heart aching as you hissed at the touch of it. 

“I’ve got it,” you muttered, hand brushing his. He made sure you kept it pressed to your cheek before opening the door and helping you in first, careful of the stairs as he closed it behind him. The sounds of fighting and the skipping music was muffled as he led you into the bowels of the Last Drop, setting you down gently on the couch.

He reached for your hand, frowning when you turned away from him. 

“Let me see,” he said.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled, curling into the couch.

“I’d like to see that for myself,” he pushed, fingers gentle as they smoothed over your wrist. Your furrowed brow relaxed a bit, watery eyes trailing to him. “Let me see,” he asked again, softer.

You sighed, the weight of your arm settling into his palm as he moved to sit next to you. You hand shook in both of his, the skin of your knuckles ripped open and gushing red. When he attempted to move your pointer and middle fingers you whimpered, head falling into his shoulder.

He apologized, pulling one hand away to reach into his jacket. “It’s sprained. I’ll need to wrap it.”

“Sweet Sil,” you sighed, your good cheek rubbing against his shoulder as you brought your knees up, “always prepared for the worst.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t constantly getting into trouble,” he hummed, pulling out a roll of bandages and beginning his work. You curled into him as he cleaned you up, tensing when he secured your bruised digits. As he tied the bandages off around your wrist, he sighed, holding your hand in his, thumb running over your skin. 

“M’sorry,” you sniffed.

He turned his head, a breath punched from his lungs as he saw tears slipping down your cheeks. The ice pack laid abandoned in your lap. 

“What are you apologizing for?” he murmured, brushing your hair out of your face. 

“I always make a mess,” you whispered, little gasps slipping. Each one was a bullet to his chest. He couldn’t stand seeing you cry. “I always annoy you.”

“No,” he murmured, arms stretching over you to pull you into his lap, “no, you don’t annoy me, pet.”

“Yes, I do,” you sobbed. “I get into t-trouble when I-when I just want you to look at me.”

Oh, Gods help him. He knew this was the alcohol talking but the hopeful flame in his heart was burning into a torch. He needed to calm you down and get you to bed. 

“I’m looking,” he said, lips grazing your forehead as he rubbed your back. “You don’t have to try so hard. I’m always looking.”

You sniffed and he grabbed the bloody rag, nudging the cleanest corner towards you to blow your nose. He chuckled when you groaned, curling deeper into his chest.

“Too drunk for this,” you mumbled. “Stupid shots.”

“Stupid shots, indeed,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Let's get you some water and go to bed.”

You whined, hiding your face in his neck. “Wanna stay here. M’warm.”

He sighed, settling into the couch. Eventually you would nod off. He’d carry you into bed, then.

“Hair’s nice.”

“What?” he chuckled, trying to look down at you, but it was impossible with you smushed up against him.

“Your hair,” you said, lips moving against his neck. “I like it when it’s bun. Hair frames your face nice. S’handsome.”

You’re going to hate yourself in the morning, he thought, holding back his laughter. You were never going to live this down and he wasn’t nearly nice enough to not tease you about this for the rest of your life. 

“Face hurts,” you sighed. He rubbed your calf, shushing you.

“Sleep, pet,” he murmured against your forehead. 

“You’ll stay?” you asked.

“I’ll stay,” he promised.

[jaysng]

post arguement — park sunghoon

pairing: bf!sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: angst (resolved), fluff

synopsis: waking up the next day after an argument, sunghoon is a little shy to ask you to follow up your daily routine together.

• help palestine, click me

sunghoon had always been the quiet type, never one to express too much, but last night’s argument was different.

it left an uncomfortable tension lingering between you two, something neither of you were used to. you tossed and turned in bed, unable to find peace, the memory of harsh words replaying in your mind like a broken record.

the morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. you had barely slept, your mind restless with unresolved thoughts.

you felt a soft nudge on your arm, and as you blinked your eyes open, there was sunghoon, standing beside the bed, his expression unreadable, a mix of uncertainty and something else you couldn’t quite place.

he hesitated for a moment, as if he was trying to find the right words. “can you… do that thing?” he finally mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flickering away from yours.

it was unlike him to ask for anything, especially after a fight, but you knew what he meant. every morning, without fail, you’d apply his skincare for him, a small act that had somehow become your routine.

you let out a sleepy groan, turning away from him and pulling the covers over your head. “not today, hoon,” you murmured, your voice muffled, teasing him just a little, but deep down, you knew you couldn’t actually refuse him.

he stood there for a moment, the silence stretching out between you two.

“please?” he added, a little softer this time, a rare vulnerability in his voice that made your heart soften. it wasn’t like him to ask twice.

you sighed softly, sitting up and pushing the covers off. “fine,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully as you climbed out of bed.

“but only because you said please.” despite the remnants of last night’s argument hanging in the air, you didn’t have it in you to say no to him. maybe this was his way of making peace, in the only way he knew how.

“thanks,” he mumbled, almost too quiet to hear, but you caught the sincerity in his voice.

you slipped out of bed, your feet padding softly on the cold floor as you headed to the small vanity where you kept the skincare products.

sunghoon followed you, his steps equally soft, almost as if he was afraid to break the fragile silence that had settled between you two.

“you know, you could’ve just done it yourself today,” you teased lightly, grabbing the moisturizer and turning to face him.

he shook his head, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“it’s not the same,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze fixed on the floor. it was rare for him to be this open, and it made you pause for a second.

you motioned for him to sit properly, and he complied, scooting back a bit so he was closer to you.

you took a deep breath, your hands working automatically as you unscrewed the cap of his moisturizer. the familiar scent filled the space between you, and for a moment, it felt like everything was back to normal.

“you’re such a baby, you know that?” you said, your tone playful as you smoothed the cream onto your fingers.

“only for you,” he replied, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

you gently applied the moisturizer to his face, your touch soft and careful, as if you were trying to erase the harshness of the previous night with every gentle swipe.

sunghoon’s eyes closed, his face relaxing under your touch, and you could feel the tension slowly melting away.

neither of you spoke, the silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. it was the kind of silence that spoke volumes, the kind that said everything you both were too afraid to put into words.

you finished with the moisturizer, your fingers lingering on his skin for a moment longer before you pulled away.

but instead of standing back up, you suddenly decided to straddle his lap, settling yourself comfortably as you faced him. his eyes flew open, a hint of surprise in them as you smiled down at him, your hands resting on his shoulders.

“what are you doing?” he asked, his voice a little shaky, clearly flustered by your sudden proximity.

“just making sure you’re not going anywhere,” you teased, leaning in to smooth out the moisturizer on his forehead.

you could feel the warmth of his body beneath you, his breath hitching slightly as your fingers grazed his skin.

sunghoon was trying hard to keep his composure, but you could see the faint blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks.

“you’re really… close,” he mumbled, his hands hesitantly finding their way to your waist, unsure of where to put them.

“is that a problem?” you asked, your tone teasing as you finished up with his skincare, your hands lingering on his cheeks for a moment longer.

he shook his head, his eyes flickering up to meet yours for just a second before they darted away again. “no… it’s just… different,” he admitted, his voice barely audible, but you caught the shy smile playing on his lips.

you leaned in closer, your face just inches from his, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “different can be good, you know.”

he didn’t respond, but you could see the way his eyes softened, the way his hands tightened slightly around your waist, holding you just a little closer.

“about last night…” he started, his voice hesitant, his gaze flickering to the side, avoiding yours. “i’m… i didn’t mean to make you upset.”

you felt a small smile tug at your lips, his awkwardness endearing. “i know,” you replied softly, reaching out to take his hand, squeezing it gently.

“i’m sorry too, i shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

he finally looked back at you, a hint of relief in his eyes.

“we’re okay, right?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost as if he was afraid of your answer.

“yeah, we’re okay,” you reassured him, giving his hand another squeeze. “just… try not to be such a grump next time, okay?”

he huffed out a small laugh, the tension finally breaking.

“i’ll try,” he promised, a shy smile playing on his lips.

for a moment, you just sat there, side by side, the morning light wrapping around you like a gentle embrace.

and though the argument wasn’t entirely forgotten, the weight of it had lessened, replaced by the quiet understanding that you’d work through it together, just like you always did.

• REBLOG if you enjoyed, do not copy or repost.

[f1fantasys]

Hi Love! Im thinking of reader x Lando, reader needs reminding that Lando has only eyes for her and not Magui like the media and Magui have said? Reader acts bratty about it but Lando can see that it's just hidden insecurity and needing reassuring. Maybe possibly alittle spit play? And possibly Lando saying something like 'I've only ever done you raw, noone else knows how it feels to have me dripping down their thighs' or something like that? Rough as too and squirting too?

Thankyou so much 💓

What about her?

Warnings - filthy smut, minors DNI, fingering, oral sex, spit play, rough sex, unprotected sex, cum play, swearing, use of the word slut

A/N - hope you enjoyed this anon!

You had been hooking up with Lando for close to a year now. It wasn’t planned, but rather a drunken night leading to more nights spent together during race weekends, and before you both knew it, it was the new norm.

Nothing was ever labeled, it wasn’t exclusive. You were both young and had agreed to see others, as long as you were both clean.

Recently though, it was becoming harder and harder to see how Lando’s friendship(?) with Magui seemed to resurface. They were seen out more and more, especially back home in Monaco every other other weekend, and although you had no right to, hell, you didn’t even plan to, the feeling of jealousy was slowly creeping in.

You’d never once felt jealous about seeing lando hooking up with others during the course of the year, but something with the way he was when pictured with Magui hit slightly different. He had that effortless smile, corners of his lips tugging upwards as his body language seemed so easy, so comfortable, standing closer to her than you’d have liked him to. Often, your mind spiraled as to what they did behind closed doors. Did he kiss her like his life depended on it, like he did with you? Do that thing with his tongue around her nipples and on her clit? Were his calloused fingers thick through her hole? Did fuck her like he fucked you? Hard and rough? Or better? Or was he slow and gentle with her? Did he make her cum multiple times through the night? That was something you definitely got the night before a race. And then did he finish inside her, or on her tits?

You had it bad, in case you hadn’t noticed.

You hadn’t seen Lando for 3 weeks now, your job permitting you to work from the MTC rather than being present at the triple headers, and everyday you willed yourself not to over think things, not to make this a bigger thing than what it was. You tried to be your usual self in front of him, but without really realizing it, you were in fact distancing yourself. Your texts were less frequent, and your calls, often FaceTiming to get each other off, were quick, not the usual catch ups you both were used to.

Lando had told you to come spend the weekend with him in Monaco before the next double header started. And being desperate to see him, you’d agreed before giving yourself a chance to over think things.

You found yourself in his apartment, waiting for him to come home as once again he gossip pages on instagram were having a blast, dissecting every picture ever of Lando and Magui, pin pointing every detail as to why they were sure to be in a relationship.

Too lost in your thoughts, you jumped in your seat on the couch when the door opened. Lando walked in, looking exhausted, but beautiful as ever. His face lit up when he spotted you, the biggest smile gracing his face and he let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

You too, butterflies waking up in your tummy at the sight of him, let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

‘Fucking finally’ he said softly, walking up to you and wasting no time in wrapping his arms around you tightly, taking in a deep breath as his face hid in your hair. You did the same, hugging him back equally as tight as you stood on your tippy toes, your fingers playing with the curls on his head.

‘Well done on both wins Lan, you deserve them’ you said, knowing he was beating himself up over the fact that he wasn’t even in the points for the third race, McLaren fucking up his strategy once again.

He pulled back, eyes shades darker making your chest heave with anticipation, too many thoughts taking over your mind in a matter of 10 seconds - Lando, how hard he was on himself, his relationship with you, Magui, everything came rushing up as you feared you’d said the wrong thing.

‘Don’t wanna talk about the race. Just want you. Please’ he said, eyes softening but still holding a bucket of lust in them.

You could feel a part of you self withdrawn compared to how you were when he first walked through the door. All of a sudden the pictures of him and Magui were at the forefront. But another part of you was relieved, he still wanted you, your body. You craved him as much as he craved you.

‘You have me’ you whispered, not sure what the hell you meant by that but before you could contemplate any further, Lando crashed his lips to yours, kissing you with such force that all the air was knocked out of your body, his tongue quickly sliding into your mouth as his hold on your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer to his body.

You whimpered at the feeling of his hard on, grinding yourself against him as you pulled back to take a breath, his hips moving down to your neck as you let out shallow gasps, clutching your body to his front.

Soon both your clothes were on the floor, Lando hoisting you up and throwing you over his shoulder. At the minute, the room seemed too far away, and so you hissed as he set your ass down on the cool kitchen counter top, stepping between your legs. He continued attacking your neck as your hands found his girth, giving him a few pumps before he sent you a warning. ‘Nights’ gonna fucking end early you carry on, love.’ He said, pulling your hands away and placing them on your boobs, then pushing your upper body down to lay on the counter.

You followed his steps, massages your breasts as desperation took over your body as he finally spread your legs wider apart, leaning his weight onto one of them, while the thumb of his left other hand left a hot trail from your thigh all the way to your dripping cunt. You looked down at him, seeing the way his tongue wet his lips, eyes focused on the task at hand as he let this finger linger where you needed him the most.

‘Look at you, dripping for me like this’ he murmured.

Your back arched as he slid his thumb through your slick folds, breath hitching when he leaned forward to let a hot strip of spit drop down his mouth down to your core.

‘Fuck Lan, please’ you begged, body getting jittery with impatience.

‘Gonna take my time with you, got you to myself for a whole 48 hours babygirl’ he said softly, still concentrating on his actions as your body writhed under his hold.

He spat another lot of spit on you, making you jump at the contact before he finally, finally found your clit, giving it just the right pint of pressure, eventually sinking his middle finger through your hole.

You gasped, a guttural moan leaving your body as he set a quick pace, adding in a second finger as your hands found his hair, pulling at it harshly. He was nudging your G-spot repeatedly, not going easy on you one bit.

‘Fuck me. Yes Lan’ you praised his name, shutting your eyes as you knew it would take him long to make you cum.

It was when you felt his tongue on you though that had you trembling in his arms. Your fingers still clutching his hair tightly as you came all over his face and hands, lewd moans filling the room.

Lando pulled back, his own chest heaving and he licked his lips and fingers clean of your juices. You watched on as he took his dick in his hands, spitting down on himself this time, spreading it all over before he pulled you back to the edge of the counter, one hand holding your one thigh open, while the other lined himself up at your entrance.

You sat up, bracing your hands on his shoulders, but not before giving him a sloppy kiss, tongues battling each other as he slid into your cunt with a single thrust.

Breaking the kiss for air, he hid his face in your neck, his breath hot, sending shivers down your sweat clad body as he started to move, pulling out almost completely before ramming into you again and again, obscene moans leaving both your mouths.

Your nails scratched a path down his back, making Lando hiss at the feeling as he sped up his pace, your foreheads now resting against each others’, breaths mingling.

‘Fuck I missed this tight little cunt of yours, takes me so fucking well’ he moaned, fingers pinching at your nipples as you wrapped your legs around his middle, making hit you deeper.

As high as you felt, those pictures were still lingering at the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to push them away, and without really realizing it, your whole mood changed, body stiffening and Lando was quick to notice the change.

He slowed his movements, still continuing to thrust into you but gentler this time. He cupped your face, worried he might have been hurting you. You, on the other hand, weren’t even phased by his slowing down.

‘Babe?’ He questioned. But your focus was clearly somewhere else.

‘Y/n’ he said, pulling out of you completely, seriously losing his shit because what did he do so wrong? He wondered. It wasn’t until he slid out completely that you came back to reality, eyes widening.

‘Huh?’ You asked, completely oblivious, and looking down to see Lando’s softening dick as he cupped himself, both your faces flushed.

‘You zoned out. Did I hurt you?’ He asked.

‘I-no. I’m sorry I-we can go again’ you said, already trying to take him into your hands and line him up, but he ever so subtly stopped you.

‘We’re not going again y/n, what’s up?’ He asked, knowing there was something bugging you.

Your cheeks heated up at his question, you really didn’t feel like having this conversation right now., watching as he walked over to the pile of clothes to slide his boxers on.

‘No nothings wrong. Just tired. Busy’ you said softly, suddenly feeling too exposed.

‘You know I can always tell when you’re lying right? I’m right here. Talk to me. One second you’re letting me fuck you then the next your mind is a million miles away.’ He said, helping you into your own clothes.

‘I’m ok. Promise’ you said, giving his lips a quick peck and jumping off the counter.

You were glad he didn’t push you, just needing some more time to think things through and make sure you weren’t over reacting to the whole situation.

The rest of the evening was spent cuddling on the couch, a slight tension in the air but your bodies glued together like they belonged there.

Going to bed was awkward as fuck. Normally before sleeping, it would another round, or lando eating you out, with you blowing him as well. Not tonight though. A few words spoken, and lando spooned you from behind, giving you a few kisses on your neck.

…

At some point in the night, you stirred, eyes shooting open as confusion took over your body. You took a few seconds to gather your whereabouts, while Lando’s arm around your waist tightened.

You shifted, wanting to turn around to face him, when you felt it. His hard on pressing against your back, throbbing.

While your mind was still fuzzy with lots of emotions, your cunt had other ideas. Sliding down your panties as best you could, you pushed one leg forward, lining lando up perfectly, before sinking backwards, letting him slide through your pussy with ease.

You moaned, louder than you’d intended to, when Lando’s hands instinctively took a hold of your waist, holding you ever so tightly as he thrust himself back before plummeting forward again, slamming himself into you. He leaned forward, leaving open mouthed kisses along your back and neck, letting out his own grunts which you were sure you cum just from listening too.

‘Fuck Lan, please don’t stop’ you pleased, knowing you both needed the release you failed to follow through with earlier.

Before you knew it you were flat on your back, Lando hovering above you as the moonlight shone on his face beautifully. His eyes were dark, full of lust.

He carried on with his pace, hard, raw, when he spoke, voice soft compared to the dirty he was doing to you.

‘Wanna tell me what’s got your thinking so hard?’ He asked, leaning down he peck your forehead.

You hesitated, but something in the way he was handling you right now, something about him told you it was okay to say it.

‘I-‘ 68) started, then turned your head to look away.

Lando was quick to bring his hand up to your face, turning it back towards him.

‘Don’t shut me out, tell me’ he said softly, still thrusting in and out of you but at a brutally slow pace now as your walls clenched painfully around him.

You looked him in the eyes, a single word spilling out before you could stop it.

‘Magui’ you whispered.

He stopped his movements completely, but didn’t pull out.

‘I’m fucking you and you’re thinking of her?’

‘Do-do you like her..like that?’

‘Fuck me. Like her? I spend all of one afternoon with her, now and then, couldn’t give a flying fuck about feeling anything towards her’ he said, face contorted in shock, disgust even.

You don’t know where you found the confidence from, but you weee glad you did.

‘I see the pictures. You look..happy together, a- and what about the other gir -‘ you started but he cut you off. ‘Happy? Yeah she’s an acquaintance, but whatever. I’m fucking happy when I with YOU’ he said very matter of fact, quickly catching on to what you were trying to say.

You started quiet, trying to shift to create some friction because you weee going to fucking explode.

‘Y/n, baby look at me’ he said sternly.

You did as you were told.

‘Her, them, mean fuck all to me. Baby you’re the only one I do raw. Do you think I let them feel me like this’ he started moving again, slowly still, ‘fuck them like I do you? Do you think I cum deep inside them and then let it drip down their thighs like I do yours?’ He asked, pace quickening with every word he said.

‘Oh and get this. I’ve not once fucked her. The others were a means of distraction because I couldn’t have you. Used to close my eyes and imagine it was your cunt i was fucking’ he said, making your breath hitch as the butterflies when ballistic in your stomach.

Fuck this man and his way to make you feel this way, you thought.

When you kept quiet, albeit a few moans as he was now pinching your clit, he leaned down, whispered into your ear. ‘It’s you baby, always has been. Just say the fucking word and it’s only me and you’ he said, nibbling on your ear.

His words alone through you off, your climax hitting you hard as you shook underneath him, lewd moans leaving your lips as you gushed your cum all over his dick, warm sheets of it already messing your thighs and his.

‘Ah, fuck me y/n’ he murmured, somehow picking up his speed, chasing his one high now.

Somehow, in your fucked out state, you managed to say what you’d been eager too since he’d told you he’d never fucked Magui. ‘I want you Lan, all of you’ you whispered.

He pulled back, eyes staring into yours with a darkness you don’t think you’d seen before.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ you said, a single tear running down your cheek.

Lando was quick to kiss the tear away, you heard him mumble a ‘thank fuck,’ more to himself. Then, he was a man possessed.

‘Gonna let me cum in you, as always, yeah?’

You have no idea what you do to me baby, I’m gonna fucking ruin you tonight.

‘Gonna fuck you like you’re only my slut now, yeah? No one else’s?’

‘God, Lan, give me your cum. Please’ you pleaded, already feeling another orgasm approaching.

‘Gonna let me fill you up? One day make a fucking baby together?’ He asked, voice rougher than ever.

That one thought - the one that had you thinking about him fucking a baby into you - that was enough to send you crashing again, violently so as you spewled your warm cum all over, creating a right mess with your trembled body and obscene grunts, clutching on to Lando’s shoulders as tight as you could.

He didn’t slow his pace on bit. His voice was shaky as he spoke. ‘Made you mine and made you squirt with minutes. Only my fucking love can do that’ he said, with each thrust getting sloppier and sloppier.

And then he let go. Ropes of hot, sticky cum shooting out his dick while he pushed it deep inside you, filling you up to the brink, his words borderline pornographic with pure filth leaving his mouth as his hips bucked into yours.

Eventually he slowed his movements, and normally he’d stay inside you for a few moments while his dick softened, but this time, breath heavy, he pulled out quickly, groaning, strong arms placing your legs high on his shoulders as he lifted your body up, you cunt coming up to level with his face.

‘Lan’ you questioned, not knowing where this was going but breath hitching when he spat spit directly onto you core, licking his lips when he saw your glistening pussy, messed with a mix of your cum, his cum, and his spit.

He used his fingers to already the sticky mixture, making a right mess of you before he man handled you to stand, going down on his knees as he spread your legs.

‘Baby look,’ he said.

‘Your dripping with my cum’

You looked down to see, already trying to squeeze your thighs shut at the sight.

‘No one’s felt you like this?’ You asked teasingly.

Lando stood up, vaporing your face with more force than necessary but not enough to hurt you.

‘No one. Only you my love’ he said, before kissing you filthy.

…

THIS PIC? HELLO?