#(note to self: when you check your drafts)

[afterthegreatunknown]

quagmire triplets + hector and the widdershins family and what they do/what happens to them when at the (indoor) shopping center mall in a nearby city (first year of living together when things are mostly calm):

duncan: browse a music store and reorganizes the vinyl records, cassettes, and cds by year release, not band or artist

isadora: goes to the claire’s and buys herself a few pairs of clip-on earrings because she’s not allow to pierce her ears yet

quigley: makes his own hand-drawn map of the mall because he brought his commonplace book with him on in the trip

fiona: gets perfume spray on her whenever walking pass a perfume/make-up kiosk and always enter a sneezing fit as result

fernald: a security guard nearly throws him out and avoids said throwing out after proving himself as non-threatening

hector: complains about how the mexican food offer at the food court isn’t very authentic, but still eats it because he’s hungry

widdershins: constantly stares at the mall’s many fountains as if he’s thinking about taking the coins thrown in there

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Part One

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. 

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 20k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Slow burn, unrequited love, emotional repression, late-night work sessions, professional boundaries being pushed to their limit, that sick feeling when you realize he’s seeing someone else, and the kind of yearning that makes you spiral in your group chat. No resolution yet, just a lot of tension, timing issues, and feelings no one wants to name.

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

Author's Note: So here’s Part One. I’m hoping this will be a two-parter, but let’s be real, I’m long-winded so we’ll see. My goal with this section was to really sit in the unrequited part. The slow burn. The quiet ache. The years of showing up, holding back, staying professional, and still falling deeper anyway. The almosts. The not-quites. The timing that never seemed to line up.

I’m also a little nervous because this is my first request and I really hope I got it right. Fingers crossed it hits the way it’s supposed to.

If you’re here for the angst, the emotional spiral, the girl who’s been in love with him for years while pretending it’s fine, this part’s for you. The heartbreak isn’t over yet, but the foundation is laid.

* * *

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility

The media room buzzed with activity, camera equipment being assembled, lighting adjusted, and PR staff running through talking points. First overall draft pick. Heisman Trophy winner. The savior of Cincinnati football. The narrative had been constructed well before Joe Burrow ever set foot in the building.

Y/N Y/L/N checked her camera settings for the third time, methodically working through her mental checklist. First official shoot as a Bengals staff member, and they'd assigned her to the franchise quarterback. No pressure.

Her phone vibrated against the table. Three texts in a row from the sibling group chat that hadn't stopped since she'd landed the job two weeks ago.

Matt: Don't drop the camera when you see him

Aaron: Ask him if he'll sign my jersey

Lucas: Remind him that the Y/L/N family has survived a lot of bad quarterbacks

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling as she typed back a quick response.

Y/N: I'm a PROFESSIONAL. Unlike some people I know.

Lucas: I’m professionally jealous that you're breathing the same air as our franchise savior

Growing up with three football-obsessed brothers in Louisville had prepared her for this world in ways her master's degree in sports management never could. She'd spent her childhood being dragged into backyard games, learning to throw a perfect spiral out of self-defense, and developing an encyclopedic knowledge of plays and statistics just to hold her own at the dinner table.

"He's on his way down," announced Kayla from PR, clipboard pressed against her chest. 

"Everyone ready?"

Y/N nodded, adjusting her Bengals polo, still crisp and new against her skin, and straightened her posture. The room settled into expectant silence, cameras at the ready, the culmination of months of draft speculation about to materialize in the doorway.

When Joe Burrow entered, there was none of the fanfare his status might have suggested. He walked in with a quiet confidence that seemed to belong to someone much older than twenty-three. Dressed in Bengals gear that still looked just slightly unfamiliar on him, he surveyed the room with calm, observant eyes. His expression remained neutral, but there was something assessing in his gaze, taking in details and remembering faces.

"Good morning everyone," he said, nodding to the room.

Y/N watched through her viewfinder as PR staff introduced themselves, directing him to his mark for the initial photoshoot. She captured his handshakes, his nods, the way he listened carefully to instructions. Professional, focused, but with none of the arrogance that often accompanied first-round quarterbacks.

"We'll start with some standard shots," Kayla explained. "Then move to action poses with the ball."

As if on cue, an assistant hurried forward with a football, but in his eagerness, he fumbled the toss. The ball spiraled awkwardly through the air on a collision course with an expensive light setup.

Without thinking, Y/N stepped forward from behind her camera, catching the ball one-handed before it could cause any damage. The leather felt familiar against her fingers, a muscle memory from countless backyard games. She transferred the ball to her right hand in one fluid motion and sent a perfect spiral directly to Burrow.

He caught it easily, but his eyebrows lifted slightly, and that subtle Joe Burrow expression of being impressed without overstating it. The hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"Nice hands," he commented.

Heat rushed to Y/N's cheeks, but her voice remained steady. "Growing up with three brothers," she explained, already retreating to her camera. "You either learn to catch or get hit in the face a lot."

Something flickered in his eyes, recognition, maybe, of someone who understood the language of the game beyond the surface. He spun the ball in his hands, considering her for a moment longer than necessary before turning his attention back to the waiting PR team.

As the photoshoot continued, Y/N fell into the rhythm of her work, directing Joe through various poses with professional efficiency. However, something had shifted in their interactions, and a natural ease was developing between them. He responded to her cues without question, seeming to trust her judgment on angles and lighting in a way that surprised the more veteran staff.

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

Joe locked eyes with her through the lens, his gaze steady and unreadable. For a brief moment, it felt like everything else in the room had faded away, leaving just her, him, and the camera between them. Y/N swallowed hard, maintaining her composure as she captured the shot.

"Perfect," she said, her professional mask firmly in place. "Now just a slight smile, nothing forced."

The corner of his mouth lifted genuinely this time. Not the media smile he'd been giving the other cameras, but something quieter. Something real.

Click.

Later that evening, as Y/N sorted through the day’s photos from her new cubicle, she paused on the last shot. There was something in his expression she hadn’t noticed before. Focused, almost curious, like he wasn’t just looking at the camera but through it. Not vacant. Not posed. Just present.

She quickly moved to the next image, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. This was Joe Burrow, the franchise quarterback. She was just the newest media team member and was lucky to land a job during a pandemic. Whatever she thought she saw in that photograph was professional respect at best, her imagination at worst.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lucas: So... did you embarrass us or what?

Y/N glanced back at the photo on her screen, at those steady eyes looking directly into her camera, and smiled to herself.

Y/N: I was the picture of professionalism. Just caught a rogue football one-handed, saved  thousands of dollars in equipment, and threw a perfect spiral to Joe Burrow. No biggie.

The response was immediate, all three brothers texting simultaneously:

Matt: WHAT 

Aaron: YOU THREW A PASS TO JOE BURROW 

Lucas: WE'RE GOING TO NEED DETAILS. ALL OF THEM. NOW.

Y/N laughed, setting her phone aside without responding. Let them stew in their jealousy for a while.

She returned to the images, continuing to sort through them with methodical precision, telling herself that this was just the first day of many, that Joe Burrow was just another player she'd be working with, and that the way he'd looked at her through the camera meant nothing.

But as she exported the final selections, she couldn't help saving that one particular shot to her personal folder. Joe looking directly into her lens, that hint of a genuine smile, eyes alive with something that might have been curiosity.

* * *

The COVID Protocol Meeting

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting

“And that’s the revised media protocol for the season,” Kayla concluded, her face serious in the Zoom window. “Limited in-person access, virtual press conferences, and strict distancing during the interviews we do conduct face-to-face.”

Y/N scribbled notes, mentally calculating how these restrictions would affect their ability to connect fans with the team. Everything would be more distant, more sanitized. The exact opposite of what made sports culture thrive.

“We need to address the fan engagement problem,” the director of media relations added. “No fans in the stadium means we’re losing that community connection that’s central to the Bengals experience.”

Y/N hesitated, then unmuted herself. “I have some ideas, if you’re open to them.”

Several of the veteran staff members exchanged glances, the new hire speaking up so soon. But Kayla nodded encouragingly.

“Go ahead, Y/N.”

“First, what if we did cardboard cutouts in the stands? Fans could purchase their photos to be placed in the seats. It gives them a presence in the stadium, provides visibility during broadcasts, and could generate revenue we could direct toward COVID relief efforts in Cincinnati.”

The director nodded slowly, making notes.

“Second,” Y/N continued, her confidence building, “I know the team is planning the march to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and the $250,000 pledge to community programs. We could create a digital content series highlighting the social justice initiatives. In-depth interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, educational components. It’s meaningful content that connects to what’s happening beyond football.”

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

When she finished, there was a moment of silence before the director spoke.

“These are solid, Y/N. Particularly the social justice series.” He looked around the virtual room. “Let’s form working groups to develop each of these. Y/N, I want you on the social justice content team, coordinating with player involvement.”

After the meeting ended, Y/N’s phone pinged with a direct message from Kayla.

Impressive first strategy meeting. The rookie quarterback is participating in the Freedom Center march. Since you’ll be handling content for that initiative, I’m making you the point person for his involvement. Virtual introduction tomorrow at 10.

Y/N stared at the message, excitement and anxiety wrestling in her stomach. Three weeks into the job, and she was already working directly with the franchise quarterback on a project that actually mattered.

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Meeting

Y/N logged into the Zoom call five minutes early, double-checking her presentation on the Bengals’ planned social justice initiatives. She’d spent half the night researching the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and preparing thoughtful questions about what aspects of the initiative Joe might connect with most.

At exactly 10:00, a new window appeared in the meeting. Joe Burrow sat in what looked like a home office, wearing a plain gray t-shirt, his expression attentive but neutral.

“Good morning,” Y/N began, professional despite her nerves. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N from the media team.”

“The one with the good arm,” Joe replied, that hint of recognition in his eyes. “Kayla mentioned you’re heading up content for the social justice initiative.”

Y/N nodded, momentarily caught off guard that he remembered her. “That’s right. We’re developing a content series around the team’s commitments, particularly the Freedom Center march and community programs.”

She shared her screen, outlining the proposed series – player perspectives on social justice, educational components about Cincinnati’s history with the Underground Railroad, and documentation of the team’s ongoing involvement in community programs.

“We want this to be authentic, not performative,” Y/N explained, watching Joe’s reactions carefully. “So I wanted to talk with you directly about what aspects of this initiative matter most to you personally.”

Joe leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting from polite attention to genuine engagement.

“I appreciate that approach,” he said. “A lot of teams are putting out statements, but how many are actually listening to the communities they claim to support?” He paused, considering. “My platform comes with responsibility. I want to use it to amplify voices that don’t get the same audience I do automatically.”

Y/N found herself nodding, impressed by his thoughtfulness. This wasn’t a PR-trained response; this was someone who had clearly been reflecting on his position and influence.

“What if we structured part of the series that way?” she suggested. “Instead of just documenting the team’s involvement, we could use player platforms to highlight community organizers and local leaders who’ve been doing this work for years.”

Something changed in Joe’s expression – a spark of interest, a subtle shift as he reassessed her.

“That’s exactly the right approach,” he said. “I’d be on board for that. Actually…” he hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “I’ve been having conversations with some of the veteran players about organizing additional player-driven initiatives beyond what the team has planned. Would that be something you could help develop content around?”

Joe Burrow was a rookie, sure, but already, he was stepping into leadership. And now, somehow, he was bringing her into it.

He looked right at her this time, more serious than before.

“I might be a rookie, but I want to help create the right culture here.”

Y/N tried not to show her surprise. Joe Burrow, rookie quarterback, was already taking leadership on social initiatives and was bringing her into the conversation.

“Absolutely,” she assured him. “Whatever you guys decide to do, I can make sure it’s documented thoughtfully. Just keep me in the loop.”

Joe nodded, seeming satisfied. “Will do. Send me the schedule for the Freedom Center content when you have it. And Y/N?”

“Yea?”

“I meant what I said about amplifying other voices. That includes inside the organization. If you have ideas, bring them directly to me. I might be a rookie, but I want to help create the right culture here.”

After the call ended, Y/N sat back in her chair, processing. Joe Burrow wasn’t just another entitled athlete performing social consciousness for the cameras. There was a genuine commitment there, a willingness to listen and learn.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.

Lucas: How’s life shaping the Bengals’ social media empire?

Y/N smiled to herself.

Y/N: Just had a meeting with Burrow about the social justice initiatives. He’s actually… impressive. Not what I expected.

Lucas: Damn, they’ve got you working directly with QB1 already? Moving up fast, sis.

She didn’t respond, still thinking about Joe’s parting words. Bring ideas directly to me. It was an unusual level of accessibility from the franchise quarterback, especially to someone so new.

Y/N opened her laptop and began outlining additional concepts for the social justice series, feeling for the first time like she might be building something meaningful in this role and finding an unexpected ally in Joe Burrow.

* * *

September 2020 - Cincinnati

The morning of the team’s march to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center dawned clear and crisp. Y/N arrived early, coordinating with the small camera crew allowed under COVID protocols. She had two jobs today: document the event and support Joe’s involvement.

Players and staff gathered in small, distanced groups, many wearing masks with “END RACISM” printed across them. Y/N moved among them with her camera, capturing candid moments of conversation and preparation.

She spotted Joe standing slightly apart, reviewing what looked like notes on his phone. Approaching cautiously, she asked, “Everything good for today?”

He looked up, recognition crossing his features. “Y/N. Yeah, just reviewing some history on the Freedom Center. Figured I should be informed if they ask me questions.”

Something about his diligence touched her. Many players showed up for PR events with minimal preparation, but here was Joe Burrow, studying historical context before a march.

“The content team put together some background materials,” Y/N offered. “I can send them to you.”

“That would be helpful,” he nodded. “I want to get this right.”

As they began walking toward the starting point, Joe asked, “You’re from Kentucky, right? Louisville?”

Y/N looked at him in surprise. “Yeah. How did you remember that?”

A slight shrug. “You mentioned your brothers when we talked about the social justice series. Said they grew up playing football in Louisville.”

Before she could respond, they reached the gathering point, and Joe was pulled into a conversation with veteran players. Y/N stepped back into her professional role, camera ready, but she couldn’t help reflecting on Joe’s unexpected recall of personal details she’d mentioned only in passing.

The march itself was powerful, players, coaches, and staff walking together toward the Freedom Center, a physical demonstration of commitment to addressing racial injustice. Y/N documented it all, but found her lens repeatedly drawn to Joe. Despite being a rookie, he walked with purpose, engaged in serious conversations with teammates and staff.

At the Freedom Center, the team gathered for a group photograph and brief remarks. Y/N positioned herself to capture reactions, smiling slightly when Joe adjusted his stance to be more visible in her frame. She didn’t think he even realized it yet, but he was already learning how to work with the camera and with her.

As the formal portion concluded, Y/N was reviewing footage when Joe approached, now carrying a Freedom Center brochure.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, nodding toward her camera.

“Plenty of good material,” she confirmed. “Thanks for being so aware of the documentation needs.”

“That’s your job, right? Making us look good,” he said, that ghost of a smile appearing briefly.

“Making you look authentic,” Y/N corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Joe considered this, then nodded in apparent approval. “You planning to go through the exhibits while you’re here?”

“I want to, but I need to get this footage back for initial editing.”

Joe glanced at the brochure in his hand. “I’m going to take a look around. Part of the point was to learn, not just be seen here.” He hesitated, then added, “Let me know what you think of the final content package. I’d like to see how this whole initiative comes together.”

“Will do,” Y/N promised, trying not to read too much into his interest in her work.

As Joe walked away toward the museum entrance, Y/N’s phone vibrated with a text.

Matt: Saw coverage of the march on ESPN. Did you meet any of the players?

Y/N smiled to herself, thinking of Joe reviewing historical notes and asking for her feedback on the content.

Y/N: Working directly with several of them on this project. They’re taking it seriously. More than just a PR move.

She tucked her phone away and packed up her equipment, reflecting on how the Joe Burrow she was getting to know differed from both the media portrayal and her own initial expectations. There was a thoughtfulness to him, an attention to detail that extended beyond football.

Y/N glanced toward the museum entrance where Joe had disappeared. The flutter in her stomach when he’d remembered details about her family, the way her pulse had quickened when he’d approached her earlier, these weren’t just professional responses to a colleague.

Oh no, she thought, the realization dawning with uncomfortable clarity. She was developing a crush on Joe Burrow. The franchise quarterback. Her literal job assignment.

Y/N forced herself to turn away, focusing intently on packing her equipment. This was exactly the kind of complication she couldn’t afford in her first real career position. She was here to document the Joe Burrow era, not catch feelings in the middle of it.

But as she headed back to the media van, she couldn’t quite shake the image of Joe studying historical notes before the march, his quiet determination to get things right. Or the way his eyes had met hers when he’d asked about her Kentucky roots, attentive and genuinely interested.

Professional boundaries, she reminded herself firmly. Just doing my job.

Even as she thought it, Y/N knew she was already in trouble.

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

“This is surreal,” Y/N murmured, walking between rows of cardboard cutouts staring blankly from the stands. Her idea had turned into rows of life-sized fan cutouts, filling the empty seats with frozen smiles and silent support.

She snapped photos for social media, occasionally recognizing faces of season ticket holders who had submitted their images. The empty stadium echoed with the sounds of her footsteps and the occasional distant voice of facilities staff.

“Quite the crowd you’ve assembled.”

Y/N turned to find Joe Burrow standing a few yards away, hands in the pockets of his team-issued sweatpants. He wasn’t scheduled for any media today, and she hadn’t expected to see him.

“Tough audience though,” he added with that subtle lift at the corner of his mouth. “No matter how well I play, they never cheer.”

Y/N laughed despite herself. “But they never boo either. Built-in supportive fanbase.”

Joe moved closer, studying the cardboard faces. “This was your idea, right? Kayla mentioned it in a media briefing.”

“One of them,” Y/N confirmed, surprised he knew. “Part of our COVID adaptations.”

Joe nodded, walking slowly between the rows. “Creative solution. Kind of eerie, but better than completely empty stands.” He stopped at a particular cutout, an elderly man wearing what looked like decades-old Bengals gear. “Some of these go back generations of fandom.”

“The team means a lot to this city,” Y/N said, joining him. “Even when the seasons are rough.”

“Especially then,” Joe replied, his expression thoughtful. “Loyalty means more when it’s tested.”

They stood in oddly comfortable silence, surrounded by the two-dimensional crowd. Y/N was acutely aware that this was the first time they had been completely alone together, no cameras or meetings structuring their interaction.

“We’re setting up for a socially distanced filming session,” Y/N finally explained, gesturing to her camera. “Fan messages to play during the broadcast.”

Joe glanced at her equipment, then at the stands. “Need help?”

Y/N stared at him. “You’re volunteering to help set up a PR shoot?”

“I’ve got an hour before film study,” he shrugged. “Figured I’d see how the other side of this works. I’m usually the one being pointed at, not the one setting things up.”

Before Y/N could respond, her phone rang, Kayla from PR, probably wondering where she was with the setup.

“Go ahead,” Joe said, already picking up one of the lighting stands Y/N had brought. “I’ll start getting these positioned.”

The call was brief, Y/N confirming she was already at the stadium preparing. When she hung up, she found Joe had already assembled the lighting setup, positioned exactly where it needed to be.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, surprised.

He gave a small smile. “Enough times to know where the light should hit.”

As they continued setting up, Y/N was struck by how easily they worked together, a wordless efficiency developing as they prepared the filming area. Joe would anticipate what she needed next, handing her equipment before she asked or adjusting lighting as she checked camera angles.

“My brothers would never believe this,” Y/N muttered, almost to herself.

“What’s that?”

“The franchise quarterback doing setup work for a social media shoot,” she said, a little sheepish. “They think I spend my days chasing you around with a camera, not actually doing anything.”

Joe smiled, a real one this time, not just the hint of one. “Happy to help rewrite the narrative.”

He glanced back at the rows of cutouts. “What did they think about your idea, by the way? The cardboard fans?”

“They actually thought that was brilliant,” Y/N admitted. “They submitted their own photos. They’re around here somewhere.”

“Which ones?”

“Row 23, I think? Three guys who look suspiciously related to me, wearing vintage Boomer Esiason jerseys.”

Joe immediately changed direction, heading for Row 23. Y/N followed, amused by his curiosity. He stopped when he found them, three cardboard men in their early thirties, indeed wearing matching vintage jerseys, grinning widely at the camera.

“The Y/L/N brothers,” Joe observed, studying their faces. “I can see the resemblance.”

“God help me,” Y/N sighed.

Joe turned to her with unexpected seriousness. “You’re lucky. To have family that supports what you do like that.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet sincerity that made Y/N pause. Before she could respond, the stadium doors opened and the rest of the media team arrived, ending their private conversation.

“Thanks for the help,” Y/N said quickly as Joe prepared to leave. “Unexpected but appreciated.”

He nodded, already shifting back into the more reserved demeanor he typically displayed around staff. “Good luck with the shoot.”

As he walked away, Y/N turned back to the cardboard crowd, her eyes lingering on her brothers’ frozen smiles. You’re lucky, Joe had said, with something like wistfulness in his voice. Another unexpected glimpse beneath the composed exterior of Joe Burrow, not just the focused quarterback or careful public figure, but someone who noticed family bonds and valued them.

And despite her best efforts, Y/N couldn’t ignore how her heart had raced when he had studied her brothers’ faces with such genuine interest, or the warm flush that had spread through her when they had worked side by side, moving with that easy, inexplicable synchronicity.

This is dangerous territory, she thought, forcing herself to focus on the technical aspects of the upcoming shoot. She was here to capture the Joe Burrow era on film, not fall for it firsthand. Developing feelings for Joe Burrow would be professionally reckless and personally painful, especially when he was already in a relationship. Olivia wasn’t a rumor or a tabloid story. She was his longtime girlfriend, dating back to Ohio State. They didn’t post much, but when they did, it was enough to remind everyone where things stood. Including Y/N.

Earlier, while organizing the cutouts by section, Y/N had paused at a familiar trio in the lower bowl. Joe’s parents. And Olivia. All smiling. All submitted together.

Y/N had kept moving, pretending it didn’t sting.

Now, standing among hundreds of cardboard faces and listening to her own heart speed up at the memory of working alongside him, she reminded herself again. This wasn’t a crush. This was a complication. One she couldn’t afford.

Later, reviewing footage from the fan message recordings, Y/N found an unexpected clip at the end of the day’s files. Joe had recorded a brief message directly to camera before leaving.

“To all the cardboard fans,” he said, that subtle humor evident in his eyes, “we hear your silent cheers. And to the real fans watching from home, we feel your very real support. Stay safe, and we’ll see you back in these stands as soon as possible.”

It was perfect content, genuine, thoughtful, with just enough warmth to feel personal without being overly sentimental. Y/N added it to the editing queue, knowing it would resonate with fans.

But as she worked late into the night on the final cut, she kept thinking about Joe among the cardboard crowd, noticing her brothers’ faces, helping with equipment no quarterback would typically touch. The Joe Burrow the public saw, composed, occasionally reserved, and the Joe Burrow who noticed details, who said you’re lucky with quiet sincerity.

Two versions of the same person, and Y/N was beginning to suspect she was one of the few people who got to see both.

* * *

Early November 2020 - Virtual Children's Hospital Visit

"You're on in five, four, three..." Y/N counted down silently with her fingers, giving Joe the cue to begin.

He smiled into the camera – that media-ready smile he'd perfected over the season, warm but controlled. "Hey everyone at Cincinnati Children's! Sorry I can't be there in person this year, but I wanted to say hello and answer some of your questions."

Y/N sat behind her laptop, coordinating the virtual visit while Joe interacted with children appearing on screen one at a time. Despite the technical constraints, he managed to make each conversation feel personal, giving children his full attention, answering their sometimes rambling questions with patience.

Between children, while the hospital staff set up the next patient, Joe glanced at Y/N for guidance.

"You're doing great," she mouthed, giving him a thumbs up. "Four more to go."

He nodded, taking a sip of water. This was their fifth virtual charity event together, and they'd developed an efficient shorthand. Y/N could read the subtle shifts in his expression that indicated when he needed a break or when technical issues were frustrating him. Joe, in turn, had learned to trust her direction, responding to her non-verbal cues without question.

The final child was a twelve-year-old boy recovering from surgery, wearing a handmade Burrow jersey over his hospital gown.

"My question is," the boy began shyly, "what are you doing for Thanksgiving since things are different with COVID?"

The question caught Joe off-guard, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before his media composure returned.

"That's actually a great question," he replied. "Olivia and I are keeping it small at our place this year. She's from Ohio too, so we're staying local instead of seeing extended family. It's different, but we're making it work, just like you're making things work at the hospital."

Y/N kept her expression professionally neutral, even as something inside her deflated. Of course Joe had someone. Of course they lived together. Y/N had seen enough social media tags to know that Olivia was his long-term girlfriend from Ohio who'd supported him through his college career at LSU and his transition to the NFL.

The information wasn't new, she'd heard casual mentions of Olivia in conversations around the facility, but hearing Joe speak about her with such warmth and familiarity made their relationship suddenly more concrete.

After the call ended, Joe stretched in his chair. "Think that went okay?"

"It was great," Y/N assured him, busying herself with equipment breakdown so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "Those kids were thrilled."

"Thanks for coordinating all this," Joe said. "These virtual events could be awkward, but you make them run smoothly."

Y/N nodded, focusing on cable management with unnecessary precision. "Just doing my job."

"Still," Joe insisted, "it makes a difference having someone who..." he paused, searching for the right words, "gets it. Gets the balance between the PR stuff and what actually matters."

The sincerity in his voice made Y/N look up, against her better judgment. Joe was watching her with that quiet intensity that sometimes replaced his more guarded expression – the look that made it feel like he was really seeing her.

"Thanks," she managed, hating the flutter in her chest. "That means a lot."

An awkward silence stretched between them, until Joe cleared his throat. "So, uh, any plans for Thanksgiving? Going back to Louisville?"

"Can't this year," Y/N shook her head. "My oldest brother's wife is pregnant, so they're being extra cautious about COVID. We're doing a big Zoom call instead."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's tough. First holiday away from family?"

"Yeah," Y/N admitted, surprised by his perception. "It's weird, but it's just one year, right?"

Joe seemed about to say something else when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, a genuine smile spreading across his face – the unguarded kind that Y/N rarely witnessed.

"Olivia's wondering when I'll be home," he explained, already standing and gathering his things. "I should get going."

"Of course," Y/N nodded, the professional mask firmly back in place. "Have a great rest of your day."

He hesitated for a beat at the door, like he was going to say something else. But then his phone buzzed again, and the moment passed.

She stayed seated after he left, letting the quiet settle in. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known about Olivia. But hearing him talk about her like home—that was harder than she expected.

* * *

November 22, 2020 – Paul Brown Stadium

Y/N stood frozen behind her camera as the Washington defensive lineman crashed into Joe’s planted leg. Even from her position on the sidelines, she could tell immediately that something was catastrophically wrong. The unnatural angle. The way Joe’s body crumpled.

For a terrible moment, the stadium fell silent.

Then everything accelerated into chaos. Medical staff rushing onto the field, players from both teams taking a knee, coaches huddled in urgent conversation. Y/N’s training kicked in, her hands steady on the camera despite the sick feeling in her stomach, documenting what no one wanted to see but everyone needed to remember: the moment that changed the trajectory of Joe Burrow’s rookie season.

Through her lens, she watched as players from both teams approached Joe before he was loaded onto the cart. Even from a distance, Y/N could see his face, pale with pain but somehow composed, nodding at his teammates as medical staff secured his leg.

The cart began its slow journey off the field, passing near where Y/N stood. She lowered her camera for just a moment, their eyes meeting briefly through the crowd of concerned staff. Y/N gave him a small nod, part acknowledgment, part encouragement. The corner of Joe’s mouth lifted slightly in recognition before he was driven away, disappearing into the tunnel.

Hours later, after processing footage, filing preliminary reports, and fulfilling media obligations, Y/N sat alone in her office, staring blankly at her computer screen. The official announcement had come: torn ACL, MCL damage, additional structural issues. Joe Burrow’s rookie season was over, and a long rehabilitation lay ahead.

Her phone vibrated on the desk.

Matt: Just saw the injury. Absolutely brutal.

Lucas: You were there on the sideline? Damn.

Aaron: Recovery timeline?

Y/N appreciated their concern but couldn’t find the energy to respond with more than a brief acknowledgment.

Y/N: It’s bad. ACL, MCL. Looking at 9+ months probably.

She set the phone down and turned back to her computer, focusing on what she could control, organizing footage, preparing content plans for a team that would continue without its central figure.

A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up to find Kayla standing there, expression uncharacteristically subdued.

“Crisis management meeting in ten,” she said. “Oh, and you’re being assigned to Joe’s rehabilitation documentation.”

Y/N tried to keep her expression neutral. “Documentation?”

“The team wants to chronicle his recovery journey,” Kayla explained. “Limited access, very controlled narrative. Needs someone he’s comfortable with, who understands both the football and PR sides.” She gave Y/N a meaningful look. “He asked for you specifically.”

After Kayla left, Y/N sat motionless, processing this development. Amid the pain and chaos of a season-ending injury, Joe had thought to request her for the rehabilitation coverage. Had remembered her name in what must have been a blur of medical discussions and difficult conversations.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unexpected source.

Joe: Heard you’re documenting the comeback tour.

Y/N stared at the message, surprised he was texting so soon after the injury. She’d assumed he’d be wrapped up in medical consultations and processing the devastating news.

Y/N: If you’re sure that’s what you want. We can assign someone else if you’d prefer.

The response came quickly:

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

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, deliberating her response. Professional, she reminded herself. Keep it professional.

Y/N: Then I’m in. We’ll document the comeback on your terms.

Joe: Surgery’s next week, December second. We’ll get going after that.

Y/N: Got it. Focus on healing. I’ll handle the content strategy.

She watched the typing bubble flicker on and off before one last message came through.

Joe: Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

She knew he meant her work on the sidelines, the professional documentation of a difficult moment, but there was something in those simple words that felt more personal. An acknowledgment of their brief eye contact, the small nod of encouragement she’d offered when she’d lowered her camera.

Y/N: Always. That’s what I’m here for.

Setting her phone down, Y/N turned back to her computer, already mentally outlining a rehabilitation content strategy that would balance the team’s PR needs with Joe’s dignity and privacy. This assignment would mean more direct, one-on-one work with him over the coming months. More opportunities to witness the person behind the professional facade. More chances for her inconvenient feelings to deepen.

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. She should request a different assignment. She should maintain more professional distance. She should stop the flutter in her chest whenever Joe sought her out specifically.

She should do a lot of things.

Instead, she opened a new document and titled it Burrow Rehabilitation Content Strategy, already knowing she was in far too deep to turn back now.

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 – Rehabilitation Center

“Just a few more clips today,” Y/N assured Joe, adjusting her camera as the physical therapist prepared for the next exercise. “We’ll keep it brief.”

Joe nodded, his face drawn with the familiar tension that came with these early rehab sessions. Two weeks post-surgery, every movement was still an exercise in controlled pain management. Y/N had been documenting the start of his recovery, creating carefully edited content that showed determination without exploiting vulnerability.

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

“Let’s work on those quad activations again. Ten contractions, five-second hold each.”

Y/N captured the session with practiced ease, knowing when to focus on Joe’s face, when to catch the therapist’s coaching, and when to lower the camera out of respect. She’d developed an intuitive sense for the line between honest storytelling and intrusion.

After thirty minutes, the therapist called it. As he stepped out to retrieve Joe’s chart, Y/N began packing her equipment.

“How’s it look?” Joe asked quietly, nodding toward her camera.

Y/N glanced up. She knew he wasn’t asking about framing. “It looks like exactly what it is. The beginning of a comeback story.”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Pretty boring content so far.”

“The best comeback stories start slow,” Y/N replied, zipping her bag. “Makes the highlight reel more satisfying when it hits.”

Joe adjusted his position on the table, wincing. “This part doesn’t make the highlight reel, huh?”

“Only the parts where you’re showing superhuman determination,” she said. “Not the ones where you’re calling the PT sadistic.”

That earned a real laugh, though it quickly turned into a grimace. “You’re honest. I appreciate that.”

Y/N paused, sensing a shift. After two weeks of filming his rehab, the professional boundaries were still in place, but the nature of the work created a certain closeness. Documenting someone’s pain, frustration, and tiny victories had a way of drawing people closer, whether either of them liked it or not.

“The team wants an update for social tomorrow,” she said, steering them back to safer ground. “Any preferences for the message?”

Joe rubbed his thigh just above the brace, thinking. “Keep it simple. No dramatic promises. Just… I’m working. Progress is happening. Grateful for the support.”

“Done,” Y/N nodded, making a note. “I’ll send a draft for approval.”

“I trust your judgment,” Joe said. “You haven’t overplayed any of this.

“That’s why you requested me, right?” Y/N asked, trying to keep the tone light, though the question had lingered since she got the assignment.

Joe’s eyes met hers. “Yes. You see the person, not just the story.”

The honesty in his voice caught her off guard. Before she could respond, her phone chimed.

Kayla: Need the rehab footage by 3pm for review.

“Work calls,” Y/N said, holding up her phone. “I should get this back to the facility.”

Joe nodded. “Same time Thursday?”

“I’ll be here,” she said, collecting the last of her gear.

As she reached the door, Joe called after her. “Hey, Y/N?”

She turned. “Yeah?”

“You doing anything for Christmas?”

She shrugged. “Staying in Cincinnati. My brother’s wife is pregnant, so we’re playing it safe.”

“That’s tough.”

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

“Right,” Joe said, though something in his expression flickered. “See you Thursday.”

That evening, Y/N returned to her apartment to find a care package from her brothers: Louisville bourbon, family photos, and University of Kentucky gear to “keep her from turning into a full-time Bengals fan.” The gesture made her laugh, but it also made her chest ache. The distance felt heavier than usual this year.

While editing footage from the day’s session, she noticed again how different Joe seemed in rehab. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t polished. Just quiet, steady effort. It was more compelling than any mic’d-up segment she’d ever shot.

Her phone buzzed.

Kayla: Rehabilitation content is getting excellent engagement. Team’s impressed with how you’re handling the narrative. Authentic but respectful.

Y/N replied with a quick thanks, then sat staring at the paused frame on her laptop—Joe mid-contraction, jaw tight, eyes focused. She knew this wasn’t supposed to be personal. But somehow, it was starting to feel that way.

She closed her laptop firmly.

Joe Burrow was her subject. Not her friend. Not anything more. The fact that he trusted her with his recovery story was a professional compliment, not a personal invitation.

Even as she thought it, Y/N knew she was lying. But sometimes, professional survival required a certain amount of self-deception.

* * *

December 24, 2020 – Y/N’s Apartment

Y/N’s apartment felt too quiet on Christmas Eve. She’d decorated half-heartedly, a small artificial tree with a few ornaments, some lights strung around her living room window—but the holiday spirit was hard to capture alone in a city where she still felt like a newcomer.

She was curled on the couch watching Die Hard (a Y/L/N family tradition her brothers had insisted she maintain) when her phone buzzed with a notification from the building’s security desk.

Package delivered for Y/L/N – front desk

Puzzled, Y/N paused the movie and headed downstairs. She wasn’t expecting anything, and her family’s gifts had arrived days ago.

The security guard handed her a medium-sized package wrapped in simple brown paper with her name written in neat block letters. No address. No shipping label.

“Guy dropped it off about an hour ago,” the guard said. “Said it was important you got it tonight.”

Back in her apartment, Y/N carefully unwrapped the mystery package to find a plain white box. Inside was a Cincinnati Bengals snow globe, but not the kind sold at the team store. This one was custom-made with meticulous detail: a miniature Paul Brown Stadium filled with thousands of tiny cardboard cutout fans. When she shook it, confetti in Bengals colors swirled around the stands.

A small card rested beneath the snow globe.

Y/N – Thought you should have something to remember your first season with the team. The cardboard fans deserve a place on your shelf. – Joe

Y/N read the card twice, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined the signature. Joe Burrow had found a custom snow globe with cardboard fans—a perfect tribute to her COVID initiative, and had it delivered to her apartment on Christmas Eve.

While she was still absorbing that, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Did it arrive in one piece? The guy at the shop was worried about the cardboard details.

She saved the number before responding.

Y/N: It’s perfect. How did you even find something like this?

Joe: Custom order. Guy downtown does specialty snow globes. Took some convincing to add cardboard people instead of snow.

Y/N: I don’t know what to say. Thank you.

She hesitated, then added:

Y/N: How’s rehab going? That last session looked tough.

His reply came quickly.

Joe: Getting there. PT says I’m ahead of schedule, but it still feels too slow. Olivia’s tired of me being restless about it.

The casual mention of Olivia brought her back to earth. Of course they were spending Christmas together, Joe recuperating, Olivia looking after him.

Y/N: Well, the snow globe was incredibly thoughtful. This officially puts my Secret Santa game to shame.

Joe: Wasn’t Secret Santa. This was just… a thank you. For handling the rehab documentation the right way.

Y/N sat with that for a moment. Joe had gotten her a separate, personal gift. Something he’d commissioned, thought about, followed up on. It wasn’t part of any exchange. It wasn’t required.

Before she could figure out what to say without giving herself away, another text came through.

Joe: Merry Christmas, Y/N. See you for the next rehab session.

Y/N: Merry Christmas, Joe. Rest up, comeback next season is gonna to be epic.

She set her phone down and picked up the snow globe again, turning it over in her hands. Outside her window, snow had started to fall over Cincinnati. Her first Christmas in a new city felt a little less lonely.

Y/N knew she should guard her heart. Joe Burrow had a girlfriend he clearly cared about. This was just a thoughtful gesture from someone who noticed details and appreciated hard work. Nothing more.

But as she placed the snow globe on her nightstand before bed, she couldn’t help the warmth that settled in her chest. Couldn’t quiet the voice that whispered

He was thinking about you on Christmas Eve.

* * *

January 2021 – Rehabilitation Center

“That’s good for today,” the physical therapist said, making notes on Joe’s chart. “You’re pushing hard, but remember what we discussed about not overdoing it.”

Joe nodded, jaw clenched in a way Y/N had learned to recognize as pain management. The session had been particularly grueling, testing new movement patterns that clearly challenged his healing knee.

“I’ll send these notes to the medical team,” the therapist continued. “Same time on Thursday?”

“I’ll be here,” Joe confirmed, his voice controlled but tight.

As the therapist left, Y/N began packing her camera equipment, giving Joe a moment to compose himself. She had been documenting his rehabilitation for six weeks now, establishing a careful routine: arrive early, capture what was needed, create space for recovery between exercises, and never make him feel watched during moments of struggle.

“That looked rough today,” she said, keeping her tone neutral as she stored memory cards.

Joe exhaled slowly, adjusting his position on the treatment table. “PT says that’s good. Means we’re pushing boundaries.”

Y/N nodded, recognizing the stock answer he gave to staff and coaches. After weeks of these sessions, she had become adept at distinguishing between Joe’s responses—the media answers, the team answers, and, occasionally, the real ones.

“We got good content,” she assured him, shifting the subject. “The determination shots will play well with fans. And that moment with the resistance band tells a clear progress story from last week.”

Joe made a noncommittal sound, staring at the ceiling. Y/N continued packing, assuming the conversation was over, when he suddenly spoke.

“What if I can’t come back from this the same?”

The question hung in the air, so quietly spoken that Y/N wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it. She turned to find Joe still staring upward, his carefully maintained composure showing rare cracks.

Y/N set down her equipment and moved closer. She reached for the camera she had just packed.

“Off the record,” she said, showing him as she turned off the device completely. “Nothing recorded.”

Something in Joe’s expression shifted, relief, maybe, or recognition that she understood what he needed in this moment.

“Everyone keeps saying I’ll come back stronger,” he continued, voice low. “The team, the media, the fans. ‘Joe Burrow’s comeback will be legendary.’ But what if it’s not? What if this,” he gestured to his braced leg, “changes things permanently?”

Y/N leaned against the treatment table, giving him space but staying present. “What does your PT actually say? Not the public version.”

“That I’m ahead of schedule but have a long way to go,” Joe answered. “That most players come back from ACL tears, but it can take a full season to feel normal again.” He paused. “If normal even exists after this.”

Y/N nodded, considering her response carefully. This wasn’t a moment for empty reassurance or team talking points.

“I tore my ACL my senior year,” she said, surprising him with the personal reference. “Playing soccer at UK. Doctor said I might not play again. Six months later I was back on the field.” She paused. “Different, but better.”

Joe turned to look at her fully, genuine surprise breaking through his frustration. “You tore your ACL?”

“I did,” Y/N said. "The rehab was brutal. I used to ice my knee and cry in the training room bathroom so my teammates wouldn’t see.”

“What changed?” Joe asked, fully engaged now. “How did you get from bathroom tears to ‘better’?”

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

She hesitated, then added, “But here’s what no one tells you—the mental game changes too. You become more strategic when you can’t rely on pure physicality. You see the field differently. You anticipate because you have to. Some of my best plays came after the injury, not before.”

A moment of connection formed as Joe finally met her eyes, a small smile forming. “You don’t bullshit me. That’s why I like you.”

Y/N felt that flutter but kept her composure, moving back to her equipment. “The comeback narrative isn’t bullshit. It’s just incomplete without acknowledging the struggle.” She picked up her camera bag. “And Joe? No one who’s watched you work these past weeks doubts you’ll be back. The question is just who you’ll be when you get there.”

Joe nodded slowly, processing her words. “Thanks. For the honesty. And for turning off the camera.”

“Some moments aren’t for documentation,” Y/N said. “Though if you ever want to talk about the mental side of recovery for the content series, I think it would resonate. Athletes don’t discuss that enough.”

“Maybe,” Joe said, his professional mask gradually returning. “I’ll think about it.”

As Y/N prepared to leave, Joe called after her. “Hey, Y/N? Your team ever regret drafting you after the injury?”

Y/N smiled despite herself. “I wasn’t exactly first-round NWSL material, Joe. But no. The injury made me a better player. Different, but better.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she left, aware that something had shifted between them—a new layer of understanding beneath their professional relationship. For the first time, Joe had seen her not just as the person behind the camera, but as someone who truly understood his struggle from the inside.

It was a connection she hadn’t planned for. And one that would make staying professional a little harder every week.

* * *

April 2021 - Y/N’s Apartment

“They’re absolutely taking Chase,” Lucas insisted through the Zoom call, his voice slightly delayed over Y/N’s laptop speakers. “Burrow needs weapons more than protection.”

“That’s insane,” Aaron countered, his window lighting up. “They’ve got to take Sewell. What good are receivers if your quarterback is getting murdered every play?”

Matt’s face appeared in the third window. “Y/N, you literally work there. What are they thinking?”

Y/N took a sip of her beer, settling deeper into her couch as the NFL Draft coverage continued on her TV. The brothers’ traditional draft night debate was in full swing, though this was the first year they’d done it virtually instead of crammed into someone’s living room.

“I’m in media, not the front office,” she reminded them. “And even if I knew anything, I’m not sharing confidential information with you degenerates.”

“Come on,” Lucas pressed. “You’ve been filming Burrow’s rehab for months. He must have dropped hints about who he wants.”

Y/N shook her head. “Professional boundaries, remember? I document the recovery. I don’t gossip about draft preferences.”

In truth, Joe had mentioned Chase during a rehabilitation session the previous week. A casual “Be nice throwing to Ja’Marr again” while working on his passing motion. But Y/N took her role seriously. What happened in those sessions stayed there, unless approved for team content.

Her phone buzzed with a text, offering a welcome distraction from her brothers’ continued debate.

Joe: You watching?

Y/N stared at the message, surprised. It was draft night. She had assumed Joe would be watching with friends, family, or Olivia.

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

Joe: Predictions?

Y/N thought carefully about her response, hyperaware of her brothers still arguing loudly through her laptop.

Y/N: My brothers are arguing Chase vs Sewell. Heated debate in progress. I’m staying neutral.

Joe: Smart. But off the record?

She smiled at his persistence.

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

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.

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

Something warm bloomed in Y/N’s chest at the implication, that texting her constituted “normal” for Joe, a respite from the pressures of draft night.

Y/N: Happy to talk about it like a regular person. How’s the knee today?

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

“Y/N, who are you texting? You’re missing the debate!” Matt called through the Zoom.

“Just work stuff,” she replied absently, watching the three dots appear on her phone again.

Joe: Olivia says hi. She’s been impressed with the rehab content series.

Y/N’s fingers froze over her keyboard. The sting was immediate, the kind that crept up slowly even when she thought she’d braced for it. Of course Olivia was there. Of course they were watching the draft together. The reminder sat heavy.

Y/N: Tell her thanks and hey back.

She set her phone down and forced her attention back to her brothers and the draft coverage. On screen, the Bengals’ pick was approaching, the tension building as analysts debated the same Sewell-versus-Chase question that had divided the Y/L/N brothers.

When Commissioner Goodell announced “Ja’Marr Chase, wide receiver, LSU,” Lucas erupted in triumph while Aaron groaned dramatically. Y/N felt her phone buzz again but didn’t look right away, instead watching the coverage of Chase celebrating with his family.

Finally, she glanced down.

Joe: Like I said, LSU connections matter.

Y/N couldn’t help smiling, imagining Joe’s subtle satisfaction at the pick.

Y/N: Lucas says you’re welcome. Apparently he’s taking credit for Chase like he was in the war room.

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

Y/N: Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

She set her phone aside and rejoined her brothers’ now-heated debate about the wisdom of the pick. But part of her mind lingered on that text exchange—on being the person Joe reached out to for normal amid the draft night chaos, and on the complicated feelings that continued to develop despite her best efforts to contain them.

The rehabilitation documentation had created a unique space between them. Not quite friendship. Definitely not romance. But something intimate nonetheless. Joe trusted her. Relied on her perspective. Valued her discretion.

It was enough, she told herself. And for now, it had to be.

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp

The energy at training camp was electric, fans lining the practice fields for their first glimpse of Joe Burrow back in action after his devastating injury. Y/N moved efficiently through the crowd, capturing fan reactions and b-roll for the team’s social content.

“Y/N!” Kayla called, waving her over to the media area. “We need you on Burrow’s first team drills. Main camera, tight focus on his movement and confidence. This is the money shot everyone’s waiting for.”

Y/N nodded, adjusting her equipment as she headed to the designated position. After months documenting Joe’s rehabilitation journey, the painful early sessions, the gradual progress, the breakthrough moments, this felt like the culmination of a shared experience. Though she’d never say it aloud, she felt oddly protective watching reporters and cameras gather, knowing many were hoping to capture any hint of hesitation or weakness in his return.

When Joe jogged onto the field in full practice gear, a roar went up from the assembled fans. Y/N watched through her viewfinder as he acknowledged the crowd with a casual wave before joining the quarterbacks group. His stride looked natural, confidence evident in his movement. If he felt any apprehension about this first public session, it didn’t show in his body language.

Throughout the early drills, Y/N maintained her professional focus, capturing exactly what the team needed, Joe’s throwing mechanics, his footwork, the way he planted on the surgically repaired knee. But she couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction each time he executed a perfect dropback or stepped confidently into a throw, knowing how hard he’d fought for each of those movements.

During a brief water break, Joe glanced toward the media area, his eyes finding Y/N’s camera with practiced ease. He gave a subtle nod, something like acknowledgment or even gratitude, before turning back to his teammates. Y/N swallowed hard, refocusing her lens. That small gesture felt significant, a private recognition of the journey they’d documented together.

“Looking good out there,” commented a reporter standing nearby. “Can’t even tell which knee was injured.”

“That’s the point,” Y/N replied, not looking away from her viewfinder. “Months of work to make it look effortless.”

After practice concluded, Y/N was reviewing footage when she noticed Olivia standing near the family area, waiting as Joe finished speaking with coaches. She was stunning even in casual clothes, her easy confidence evident as she chatted with other players’ family members.

Y/N had managed to avoid direct interaction with Olivia throughout the rehabilitation documentation. Their paths rarely crossed during Joe’s recovery. Now, watching her welcome Joe with a warm embrace after practice, Y/N felt the familiar ache that she’d become adept at ignoring.

“Y/N, right?”

Y/N turned to find Olivia standing beside her, offering a friendly smile.

“Yes,” Y/N confirmed, professionalism automatically kicking in. “Nice to see you again.”

“I wanted to thank you personally,” Olivia said, surprising Y/N completely. “Joe mentioned how you handled the rehab documentation. Keeping it about the work, not turning it into some dramatic sob story. It meant a lot to him. To both of us, really.”

Y/N managed a smile, her grip tightening slightly on the strap of her camera bag. “Just doing my job,” she said, steadying her voice. “Joe made it easy. He was committed from day one.”

“Still,” Olivia insisted, “he said you understood what he needed from those sessions. Not many media people get that part right.” She paused, glancing toward where Joe was still engaged with coaches. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. It’s been a rough few months.”

The sincerity in Olivia’s voice made Y/N feel suddenly guilty for her complicated feelings. This woman clearly loved Joe and had supported him through an incredibly difficult recovery.

“He’s looking great out there,” Y/N offered. “All that work is paying off.”

Olivia nodded, relief evident in her expression. “That’s what the doctors are saying too. Though he’s still pushing too hard, in typical Joe fashion.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at that familiar truth. “Some things never change.”

“Exactly,” Olivia agreed with a knowing look. As Joe approached, she added quietly, “Anyway, thanks again. Looking forward to seeing the season content you create.”

Joe approached from across the field, catching sight of them mid-conversation. His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he smoothed it out with a nod.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Just thanking Y/N for her work during your recovery,” Olivia explained, her hand finding his naturally. “The content series has been really well done.”

Joe’s eyes met Y/N’s briefly. “She gets it right. Always has.”

The simple validation shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. Y/N nodded professionally, already stepping back. “Just capturing what’s there. You looked solid today. Confidence reads clearly on camera.”

“Months of practice,” Joe replied, the hint of a private joke in his eyes, a reference to their many conversations about perception versus reality in the rehabilitation content.

“I should get this footage back for editing,” Y/N said, gesturing to her camera. “Good to see you both.”

As she walked away, Y/N tried to sort through her conflicting emotions. The professional pride in seeing Joe’s successful return. The personal satisfaction of having been part of his recovery journey. The complicated ache of witnessing his relationship with Olivia up close, their easy intimacy, their shared experience of his injury.

Y/N had maintained appropriate boundaries throughout the rehabilitation process, focusing on the work rather than her inconvenient feelings. But seeing him back on the field, confident and strong after all those difficult sessions, stirred something deeper than professional satisfaction.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Kayla: Need the practice footage ASAP. National outlets requesting clips of Burrow’s return.

Y/N welcomed the distraction, focusing on the immediate demands of her job. There would be time later to process the complex emotions of this day, and to reinforce the professional walls that seemed increasingly necessary as the new season approached.

* * *

2022 Season – January 2023

“And Joe Burrow leads the Cincinnati Bengals back to the AFC Championship game for the second straight year.”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium as Y/N captured the sideline celebrations, moving efficiently through the chaos to document the team’s triumph. After a remarkable comeback season in 2021 that took them to the Super Bowl, the 2022 Bengals had faced enormous expectations. They were meeting them with another deep playoff run.

Y/N had established herself as a key member of the media team, promoted to Social Media Coordinator at the start of the season. The role gave her broader responsibilities beyond player-specific content, though she still handled much of the quarterback and skill position documentation.

As players embraced on the field, Y/N captured Joe’s celebration with his teammates. The confident smile, the easy leadership that had developed over three seasons. When he glanced toward her camera and gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, Y/N felt the familiar flutter she’d learned to ignore.

Their professional relationship had evolved over the past year. The intensive connection of the rehabilitation period had naturally shifted as Joe returned to full strength and Y/N’s responsibilities expanded. They still worked together regularly, but the intimate space of those recovery sessions, where vulnerability and trust had created something unique, had given way to the more structured interactions of normal team operations.

Later, in the locker room, Y/N navigated between celebrating players and capturing authentic moments for the team’s social platforms. Joe stood at the center of a media scrum, handling questions with the composed confidence that had become his trademark.

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

She smiled and directed her camera toward their celebration. This was her world now. Trusted by players, respected by staff, the voice behind the team’s digital presence. The professional success was everything she’d worked for, even as she maintained careful boundaries with the quarterback who had once trusted her with his most vulnerable moments.

After finishing the required content, Y/N was packing her equipment when she sensed someone approaching.

“Good game to capture,” Joe said, now changed from his uniform but still flushed with victory.

“Congratulations,” Y/N replied, her smile genuine. “Back-to-back championship games is no small feat.”

“The content team has been killing it this season,” he said, nodding toward her coordinator badge. “That promotion was well-deserved.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, a little surprised he’d noticed. Since his full return, their interactions had been mostly professional. Still friendly, but nothing like the closeness they’d shared during his recovery. “Everyone makes it easy to create good content.”

Joe gave a small shrug. “Still. You’re the one shaping how it’s remembered.”

Y/N smiled at that. “Well, my job’s bigger now. I’m not just chasing quarterbacks around anymore.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. The kind that only develops between people with shared history. For a moment, Y/N felt a faint echo of their rehabilitation sessions, when conversation had flowed naturally despite the professional context.

“Olivia’s organizing a team gathering if we make the Super Bowl,” Joe said, breaking the quiet. “You should come. The whole media team is invited, but”, he paused, searching for the words, “it would be good to have you there. After everything.”

Y/N nodded, maintaining her professional composure despite the unexpected invitation. “Thanks. That would be nice.”

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

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

As he walked away, Y/N finished packing her equipment and tried to parse the brief interaction. There had been something in his expression. Not quite nostalgia, but recognition of their unique history. The rehabilitation journey had created a connection that, while carefully professional, had left its mark on both of them.

Y/N’s phone buzzed with the brothers’ group chat.

Lucas: Another AFC Championship! Bengals social team crushing it with the content.

Matt: They better be paying you overtime for playoff coverage.

Aaron: How close are you and Burrow these days? Still working together often?

Y/N stared at Aaron’s question, unsure how to answer. The truth was complicated. They worked together professionally, but the intensity of their connection during his recovery had naturally faded as circumstances changed.

Y/N: Professional relationship. I work with all the players in my coordinator role. But yes, still see him regularly for content.

She tucked her phone away and headed for the media room, where immediate deadlines awaited. The answer hadn’t been a lie, exactly. But it hadn’t captured the nuance of whatever existed between them. The lingering awareness, the comfortable silences, the way his eyes still found her camera in crowded moments.

Y/N had become expert at compartmentalizing these thoughts, focusing instead on her professional success and the exciting playoff run ahead. Whatever complicated feelings remained were her burden to manage. Not Joe’s, and certainly not something that would ever interfere with the career she’d worked so hard to build.

Even if, occasionally, she still caught herself watching him through her viewfinder a moment longer than strictly necessary.

* * *

February 2024 – Joe’s Home Gym

Y/N adjusted her camera, capturing Joe as he completed another set of wrist stabilization exercises. Four months into his second major injury recovery in three years, the rehabilitation routine had become familiar to them both. This session was taking place in the home gym Joe had built after his ACL recovery, a space that reflected his methodical approach to training, all clean lines and functional equipment, personal touches minimal.

“How’s that feeling compared to last week?” Y/N asked, lowering her camera as Joe finished the exercise.

“Better,” he replied, flexing his wrist carefully. “More control. Less hesitation.”

Y/N nodded, making notes for the recovery update that would be released to fans later in the week. As Social Media Coordinator, she no longer had to handle the daily documentation of Joe’s recovery, but she had still accepted his request to personally oversee the key elements of his rehabilitation content. After the success of their first recovery series, the team had readily agreed.

“The fans will be happy to see the progress,” she said, reviewing the footage. “They’ve been worried since Baltimore.”

“Four years with the Bengals and two seasons ended by injuries,” Joe commented, a rare note of frustration breaking through his composure. “Not exactly what anyone had in mind.”

Y/N looked up from her camera. “The comeback narrative plays well the first time. Second time, it reads as resilience. Those aren’t bad stories to have attached to your name.”

He gave her a small smile, the kind reserved for when she cut through the media spin to something more genuine. It was a look Y/N had catalogued without meaning to, along with his game-day focus, his press conference diplomacy, his unguarded moments of triumph. Four years of documenting Joe Burrow had left her with an encyclopedic knowledge of his expressions.

As his physical therapist entered to begin the next series of exercises, Y/N stepped back, camera ready but maintaining a respectful distance. She had perfected the art of being present without imposing, of capturing vulnerability without exploiting it.

“Y/N,” Joe called as the PT finished setting up. “The team said you’re heading to the combine next week?”

“Yeah, they want feature content on potential draft picks.” She adjusted her lens. “First time being on that side of the process.”

“Tell them to find someone who can stay healthy,” Joe said, that subtle humor in his eyes. “Someone boring who never gives the social media team anything dramatic to document.”

Y/N laughed. “I don’t know. Documenting your injuries has been good for my career. Got me this promotion.”

“Happy to help,” Joe replied dryly, though something in his expression shifted and grew more serious. “You deserve it. You always see the person beyond the player. Not everyone does that.”

The simple observation caught Y/N off guard. Before she could respond, the PT motioned that they were ready to begin the next exercise, and the moment passed.

Later, reviewing the footage alone in her apartment, Y/N paused on a frame that captured Joe mid-motion, his expression reflecting the focus and determination that defined him. After nearly four years, she still found herself studying these images longer than necessary, still felt that familiar tug of emotion she had long since accepted but never fully conquered.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming call. Sam, a colleague from the PR department who had gradually become her closest friend on the team.

“Please tell me you’re not still working,” Sam’s voice carried the easy warmth Y/N had come to rely on. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Just finishing up the Burrow rehab content,” Y/N replied, closing her laptop. “Wanted to get ahead before the combine trip.”

“How’s our quarterback looking?”

“Good,” Y/N said, careful to keep her tone professional. “Recovery’s on track. Should be cleared well before training camp.”

There was a brief silence before Sam spoke again. “And how are you doing with all of this?”

Y/N hesitated. She had never explicitly discussed her feelings for Joe with anyone. Not her brothers, not her colleagues. But over the past year, Sam had noticed things, the way Y/N’s expression changed when Joe entered a room, how she instinctively anticipated his needs during media sessions, the careful distance she maintained in group settings.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said automatically. “Just doing my job.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam replied, the skepticism evident in her voice. “And has that job gotten any easier in the, what, almost four years you’ve been doing it?”

Y/N sighed, glancing at the snow globe still sitting on her nightstand, a reminder of a Christmas Eve long ago. “It’s not like that. We work well together. We have a professional rapport. That’s all.”

“Y/N,” Sam said, her voice gentler now. “I’ve seen how you look at him when you think no one’s watching. And I’ve seen how he seeks you out in a crowded room, how his eyes follow you. Whatever’s between you two, it’s not just professional rapport.”

Y/N felt a familiar tightness in her chest. “Even if there was something, which there isn’t, he has Olivia. Four years together. That’s not nothing.”

“True,” Sam conceded. “But that doesn’t change what I’ve seen.”

After hanging up, Y/N moved to her window, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline that had become home. Four years. Four years of building a career, of establishing herself as a respected voice within the organization, of carefully maintaining boundaries while documenting the career of Joe Burrow.

Four years of feelings that hadn’t faded, despite her best efforts.

For the first time, Y/N allowed herself to fully acknowledge the truth she had been dancing around since that first photoshoot when a rookie quarterback had caught her perfect spiral and looked at her with surprised recognition.

She was in love with Joe Burrow. Had been for years.

Admitting it felt both crushing and freeing, like finally naming something she had been avoiding for a long time. But recognition didn’t change reality. Joe was with Olivia. Y/N was his colleague. The boundaries between them were necessary and fixed.

As she prepared for bed, Y/N made a silent promise to herself. When she returned from the combine, she would create more distance. Focus on other players. Delegate more of Joe’s content to her team. For her own preservation and for the career she had worked so hard to build, she needed to step back from the center of Joe Burrow’s world, even if she had helped hold it together.

It was time to tell a different story. One where she wasn’t caught in a perpetual state of yearning for something that couldn’t happen. One where she was the main character again.

* * *

March 2024 - Bengals Media Suite

Y/N had been back from the NFL Combine for exactly four hours when the whispers reached her. Moving through the facility's open office space, she noticed the furtive glances, the conversations that hushed as she approached, the unmistakable atmosphere of gossip in circulation.

"What's going on?" she asked Sam, who was leaning against the doorframe of the media suite, phone in hand.

Sam's expression shifted to something cautious, almost apologetic. "You haven't seen the news?"

"I just got off a plane. What news?"

Sam hesitated, then turned her phone screen toward Y/N. There it was, a sports blog headline blown up for emphasis: "Bengals QB Joe Burrow and Longtime Girlfriend Split After Four Years."

Y/N felt the floor tilt beneath her, but kept her expression carefully neutral. "When did this break?"

"This morning," Sam said, watching her face. "It's been confirmed by multiple sources. Apparently, it happened a couple weeks ago, before your trip."

Y/N nodded mechanically, her mind racing to process this information while maintaining outward composure. "Well, I hope they're both okay. Break-ups are rough."

Sam raised an eyebrow at her deliberately casual tone but seemed to understand Y/N's need for discretion in the middle of the office. "The PR team's in emergency mode trying to control the narrative. You might want to be prepared for questions about the social media approach."

"Of course," Y/N replied, already moving toward her office, seeking privacy to collect herself. "Thanks for the heads-up."

Once behind her closed door, Y/N sat heavily in her chair, the news still reverberating through her. Joe and Olivia had been together since before her time with the Bengals. Their relationship had been a constant backdrop to her own complicated feelings, a fixed reality that had allowed her to keep those feelings firmly contained. With that boundary suddenly removed, Y/N felt exposed, as though a wall she'd been safely hiding behind had vanished.

Her phone buzzed with a group text from her brothers, who had clearly seen the news.

Matt: Don't think we didn't notice you've been radio silent on the Burrow news.

Lucas: Is he okay? Getting bombarded with questions as the resident Bengals expert in the family.

Aaron: More importantly, are YOU okay?

Y/N stared at Aaron's message, surprised and unsettled by his perceptiveness. Had she been that transparent all these years?

Y/N: Just got back from the combine and learning about it with everyone else. Don't have inside info. And obviously I'm fine, it has nothing to do with me.

The response was immediate:

Aaron: If you say so, sis.

Y/N was saved from replying by a knock at her door. Kayla, the head of PR, stood there with a tense expression.

"We need to coordinate on the social media approach," she said. "Engagement's through the roof, but we need to strike the right tone. Respectful distance while acknowledging the fans' interest."

"Absolutely," Y/N replied, grateful for the professional focus. "I'll draft a content strategy for the coming weeks."

"What are you thinking?" Kayla asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Y/N considered for a moment. "Actually... I think we don't acknowledge it at all."

Kayla's eyebrows shot up. "Not even a brief statement?"

"Joe has never discussed his personal life publicly before," Y/N explained. "He's always kept that separate from his football identity. Starting now would set a precedent that his private life is fair game for public consumption."

"The fans will want—"

"The fans want football," Y/N interrupted gently. "We continue with regular football content, draft prep, team developments. We respect the boundary he's always maintained between his personal and professional life."

Kayla studied her thoughtfully. "That's... actually a solid approach. Let me run it by the team. Also, Joe's asking for you to handle his NBC Sports interview next week personally. Seems like he might be on the same page."

After Kayla left, Y/N sat motionless, absorbing this new development. Even amid personal upheaval, Joe still trusted her judgment, still sought her specific perspective. The weight of that trust felt heavier now than it ever had before.

Throughout the day, Y/N buried herself in work, drafting content plans, holding strategy meetings, responding to media inquiries. Every task provided a welcome distraction from the thought that circled her mind: Joe was single. For the first time since she'd known him, Joe Burrow was single.

It was nearly seven when her office phone rang.

"Y/N Y/L/N," she answered automatically.

"It's Joe."

She straightened in her chair, professional mask firmly in place despite the privacy of her office. "Hi. How are you doing?"

A soft exhale on the other end. "Been better. But surviving the media circus."

"I'm sure," Y/N said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. "We've drafted a content approach that should help."

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

"I hope that aligns with what you want," Y/N said, suddenly uncertain. "I just thought—"

"It's exactly what I want," Joe interrupted, his voice warm with approval. "That's why I'm calling about the NBC interview. I need you there."

Y/N paused, confused. The NBC interview was a major opportunity, but not typically something that required her personal oversight. "I can assign our best team—"

"I want you there," Joe interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "You understand that not everything needs to be a story. You respect the boundaries. That's rare in this business."

Y/N felt a rush of professional pride mixed with something more personal. "I'll be there. We'll make sure they stay focused on football."

"Thank you," Joe said, relief evident in his voice. "And Y/N? Thanks for not asking why it happened. Everyone else has."

After hanging up, Y/N sat in the quiet of her office, the lights of Cincinnati beginning to twinkle in the early evening darkness outside her window. The professional boundaries she'd promised herself felt suddenly more essential and more fragile than ever before.

Joe needed her expertise. Her professional judgment. Her ability to maintain boundaries when everyone else wanted to cross them. That's what this was about—nothing more. She couldn't allow herself to read anything deeper into his request, couldn't let hope take root where it had no business growing.

Yet as she packed up her things to head home, Y/N couldn't quite suppress the small, persistent voice that whispered through her careful defenses.

He's single now. And the first person he called was you.

The Next Day - Bengals Conference Room

Y/N arrived early to prepare for the content planning meeting, arranging her presentation materials and reviewing her notes on the NBC interview format. She'd spent half the night crafting the perfect approach, one that would allow Joe to gracefully deflect personal questions and maintain focus on football.

The door opened, and Y/N looked up, expecting to see the PR team. Instead, Joe entered alone. He was dressed casually in Bengals athletic wear, hair slightly tousled, expression calm but tired around the eyes. Without the usual buffers of coaches, staff, or other players, his presence seemed to fill the empty conference room.

"Morning," he said, setting down his coffee. "Hope I'm not too early."

"Not at all," Y/N replied, her professional demeanor instinctively taking over. "I was just setting up."

Joe nodded, taking a seat at the table, not across from her as she expected, but at the adjacent corner, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of his aftershave. "So what's the game plan?"

Y/N pulled up her presentation, grateful for the distraction of work. "I've drafted a content strategy for the NBC interview. The approach is straightforward—if personal questions come up, we have prepared deflections that redirect to football topics without acknowledging the headlines directly."

She walked through the key points, outlining potential questions and suggested responses, maintaining eye contact with the screen rather than with Joe. This was familiar territory, the professional space where she felt confident and in control.

"This is perfect," Joe said when she finished. "No drama, no personal details, just football."

"You've always kept your private life private," Y/N agreed, finally meeting his gaze. "No reason to change that approach now, regardless of the circumstances."

Joe studied her for a moment, his expression warming. "You've always understood that about me. Even from the beginning."

"It's my job to understand what players need in terms of media strategy," Y/N replied modestly.

"No," Joe countered, leaning forward slightly. "Other media staff push for personal angles, human interest stories, emotional hooks. You never have. You respect the boundaries I set, sometimes before I even articulate them."

The directness of his praise caught her off guard. "I just try to see the person behind the player."

"And that's why I trust you," Joe said simply. "You see me as a person first, not as content to be packaged."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more contemplative. "I've been thinking a lot lately about the frames we put around ourselves. The stories we let others tell about us. The parts we keep private."

"That makes sense," Y/N offered carefully. "Especially with everything going on now."

Joe nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I've started to realize how exhausting it is to maintain those frames. To always be seen through someone else's lens. I'm starting to wonder what it would be like to just... be seen. Without the frame. Without the lens."

There was something in his voice, an undercurrent of meaning Y/N couldn't quite decipher. Before she could respond, the door opened and the PR team filed in, breaking the moment with their arrival.

As the meeting proceeded, Y/N maintained her professional focus, presenting her strategy and responding to questions. But beneath her composed exterior, her mind kept returning to Joe's words, to the strange intensity in his eyes when he'd talked about being seen without a lens.

When the meeting ended, Y/N gathered her materials, aware of Joe lingering as the others filed out.

"The NBC interview is Tuesday at ten," she confirmed, keeping her tone light and professional. "I'll have the final prep materials to you tomorrow."

Joe nodded, but seemed distracted. "Y/N," he began, then stopped, glancing at the partially open door. "Never mind. We can talk about it Tuesday."

As he left, Y/N remained in the conference room, trying to make sense of what had just happened. In four years of working closely with Joe Burrow, she had learned to read his expressions, to anticipate his needs in professional settings, to recognize the difference between his media persona and his authentic self.

But today he had looked at her differently. Spoken to her differently. As though seeing her fully for the first time, or perhaps allowing her to see him without the careful filters they'd both maintained for so long.

Y/N gathered her things and headed back to her office, reminding herself of the promise she'd made just days ago. More distance. More professional boundaries. Less emotional investment in a relationship that existed primarily through a camera lens.

Yet as she settled at her desk, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. Joe Burrow was single for the first time since she'd known him. And for reasons she couldn't yet understand, he seemed to be looking at her in a way he never had before.

Tuesday's interview suddenly felt like much more than a standard media appearance. It felt like standing on the edge of something new and unknown. Something that both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.

* * *

March 2024 – NBC Sports Interview Setup

The NBC Sports crew had transformed a corner of the Bengals facility into a sleek interview set, complete with a branded backdrop and professional lighting. Y/N surveyed the space with a critical eye, making quiet adjustments and mental notes about camera angles as the crew finished setup.

“All set on your end?” asked the NBC producer, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense tone.

“We’re good,” Y/N confirmed, checking her notes one last time. “Just a reminder, football questions only. No personal inquiries.”

The producer’s smile tightened. “We’re aware of your guidelines. Though our viewers may find the personal angle relevant.”

“They’ll have to find that content elsewhere,” Y/N said pleasantly. “Joe’s here to talk about his recovery and the season ahead.”

Before the producer could respond, Joe walked in, dressed in Bengals gear, his easy confidence settling over the room. Y/N watched as he greeted the crew with practiced professionalism, calm but fully present.

“Everything look good?” he asked, joining her at the edge of the set.

“All set,” she said. “We’ve reviewed the outline and reestablished the limits.”

Joe nodded. After four years of media work together, their rhythm was seamless. Y/N knew where to stand, when to flag a break, how to redirect a question with a subtle cue. They didn’t need to talk much anymore.

“Five minutes, Mr. Burrow,” an assistant called.

“I’ll be over there,” Y/N said, gesturing to her post just off-camera. “Remember the deflections if they press."

Joe reached out, catching her arm gently. “Hey.” His voice dropped. “Thanks for handling this. For knowing what I need.”

Y/N met his eyes. “That’s what teammates do, right?”

A smile flickered across his face, referencing a conversation from years ago. “Right. Teammates.”

The interview began smoothly. Joe fielded questions about his wrist, the off-season program, and his expectations for the year ahead. The host was polished and respectful, at first.

Then came the shift.

“So, Joe, with everything going on in your personal life lately, how has that impacted your mindset heading into the season?”

Y/N tensed, ready to intervene, but Joe’s glance toward her stopped her. He had it.

“I’m focused entirely on football right now,” he said evenly. “My recovery’s on track. We’re building something special here. That’s where my head is.”

The host pressed gently. “But a change like that, after four years, has to affect your mental approach.”

Y/N’s fingers hovered, ready to call it, but Joe held her gaze. Calm. Steady.

“One thing I’ve learned is that some parts of life belong to the public and some don’t,” he said. “I’ll talk about every detail of rehab, film study, preparation. But my personal life stays personal, not because it’s secret, but because it’s mine. I hope people can respect that.”

The host, sensing the firm line and the soundbite, moved on.

Thirty minutes later, the interview wrapped. The NBC crew began packing up. Y/N was reviewing her notes when the producer approached.

“That was good television,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “We didn’t get the personal angle, but his response was better than any breakup statement.”

“He meant every word,” Y/N said.

When the room cleared, she found Joe still in his chair, scrolling through his phone.

“You handled that perfectly,” she said, sitting down across from him. “The personal boundary line, clean and confident.”

“I had a good coach,” he said with a faint grin, then set his phone down. “You free for lunch? I could use some normal conversation.”

Y/N blinked. In four years, they’d rarely had lunch that wasn’t attached to a content shoot or a meeting. “I’ve got a review at two, but I’m free until then.”

“Great,” Joe said, already standing. “I know a place where no one will bother us.”

* * *

Local Cafe – 45 Minutes Later

The place Joe picked was small and tucked away on a quiet side street, the kind of cafe that didn’t advertise and clearly didn’t care to. No branding, no social media walls — just warm lighting, scratched wood tables, and a menu written in chalk. They sat in a corner booth, out of view from the street, menus already half-forgotten between them.

“I come here when I need to breathe,” Joe said, catching the way Y/N looked around. “Owner’s son played D-II ball. He doesn’t care who I am. No photos, no questions. Just food and quiet.”

“Everyone needs one of those,” Y/N said, settling into the seat. “A spot where no one asks for anything.”

Joe looked at her, curious. “Where’s yours?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. “East side. Little cafe in the back of a bookstore. Average coffee, great scones. Nobody cares about sports. I just sit and read and pretend I’m not attached to a team account.”

Joe grinned. “That actually tracks. I can picture it. You with a book, probably judging the plot structure.”

“It’s a curse,” she said, smiling. “Comes from too much content review.”

They ordered lunch. The conversation stayed easy, lighter than it ever was at the facility. Joe asked about her brothers, recalling random details she didn’t even remember mentioning. Y/N asked about his training plans, casually weaving in suggestions for future content ideas without falling into work mode completely.

“So,” she said, nudging her empty plate away, “how’s the wrist holding up after all that expert-level pointing in the interview?”

He flexed his hand theatrically. “Strong enough to gesture with purpose.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s going on the injury report.”

Joe leaned back, relaxed in a way she didn’t often see. “This is nice. No cameras, no checklists. Just… lunch.”

Y/N nodded. “There’s a reason I didn’t bring the content kit.”

“We should do it again,” he said, casual but sincere. “Lunch. Coffee. Whatever. Just… not at the facility.”

She felt it then, that small shift. The line they’d both been quietly standing on for years moving slightly, the rules changing under them.

“I’d like that,” she said, keeping it light. “Might help with brainstorming.”

Joe tilted his head, giving her a look that was equal parts amused and direct. “Not for work. I mean just to hang out.”

Y/N blinked, a quiet flush rising to her cheeks. “Oh. Yeah, okay. That’d be nice.”

She looked down for a second, then back up, trying to play it off with a quick smile. “Not just for work, then.”

Joe smiled too, something almost teasing in his eyes. “Not just for work.”

Back at the facility, they walked side by side until the hallway split. Joe paused before they parted.

“Thanks for today. The interview. Lunch. All of it.”

“Just doing my job,” Y/N said, the reflex kicking in before she could stop it.

Joe looked at her, steady. “No. It’s always been more than that with you.”

And then he turned and kept walking, leaving Y/N standing there, trying not to replay the sentence before she’d even finished hearing it.

* * *

April 2024 – Bengals Facility Media Room

Over the next few weeks, a new pattern emerged. Joe would seek Y/N out after meetings or rehab sessions, suggesting coffee breaks or lunch outings that had less and less to do with content planning. They started talking more, not just about football or strategy, but about music, families, the random thoughts they didn’t usually share with coworkers. A friendship was forming, one that felt separate from everything else they’d been before.

“Y/N!” Sam called, poking her head into the media room where Y/N was editing draft day content. “Lunch plans?”

“Can’t today,” Y/N replied, eyes on her screen. “Meeting Joe about his charity event next month.”

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, already smirking. “That’s the third ‘meeting’ this week. Someone’s becoming a regular.”

Y/N glanced up. “We’re just talking through logistics.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Logistics. Of your friendship. That just so happens to involve daily lunch plans.”

Y/N sat back, crossing her arms. “We’re friends, Sam. Is that so strange?”

“Not strange,” Sam said. “Just new. And very different since the breakup.”

Y/N went still. “So what if it is?”

“Just… don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening,” Sam said gently. “You’ve been in love with the guy for years, and now he’s single and spending more time with you than anyone else on the team.”

“Keep your voice down,” Y/N muttered, glancing at the open door. “And no, nothing’s happening. We’ve always worked well together. That hasn’t changed.”

“Except it has,” Sam said. “You’re not just filming him in the weight room anymore. You’re texting. Hanging out. Laughing in the break room like it’s nothing. It’s something. And I just don’t want to see you get hurt pretending it’s not.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She stared at her screen, the video paused on a frame of Joe walking into a press conference, casual and calm and so familiar.

After Sam left, Y/N closed her laptop and sat with the weight of the conversation. She knew Sam wasn’t wrong. The boundaries between her and Joe had shifted. The conversations had changed. So had the silences.

Joe texted.

Joe: Still on for lunch? Found a new place with killer sandwiches.

Y/N: Definitely. Meet you in the lobby at 12:30?

Joe: Perfect. Looking forward to it.

Three simple words.

Looking forward to it.

And she was too. That was the part she didn’t know what to do with.

* * *

July 2024 – Training Camp

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with energy: players returning, rookies getting loud welcomes, schedules tightening, everything moving fast. Y/N moved with it, camera slung over her shoulder, coordinating her media team between drills and pressers. This year, she had more responsibility, more people to manage, more angles to cover.

On the field, Joe looked sharp. The wrist held up. His throws were crisp, timing on point. Y/N tracked him through her lens, quietly relieved. This was the version fans had been waiting for. And she’d seen every step it took to get back here.

“Looking good out there,” she called as he passed during a water break.

“Feeling good,” Joe said, tipping the bottle back. “Might actually survive a full season.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she warned.

He grinned, and for a moment it felt like spring again, when they were texting about books and sneaking off for lunch and everything between them felt easy.

But something had shifted. Subtle, but noticeable. Their lunches had slowed. His texts, less frequent. He still sought her out during media stuff, still made space for her during press days. But the familiar rhythm had changed. More distance. A little quieter.

Y/N told herself it was camp. The pressure. The tunnel vision. Still, it lingered.

One night, after most of the building had cleared out, she spotted a familiar figure in the film room. Joe, hoodie on, eyes on the screen.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked from the doorway.

He looked over, offered a tired half-smile. “Not this time of year.”

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him. “Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off.”

Says the woman who’s been here since dawn.” He nodded toward her camera bag.

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen.

“You’ve been kind of MIA lately,” Y/N said lightly. “Everything good?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the paused film. “Yeah. Just… camp mode. Lot to lock in.”

She nodded. “If you need a break from all this, I’m around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football.”

That made him smile, just barely. “I’d like that. Maybe next week? When it slows down.”

“Deal.” She stood, grabbing her bag. “Don’t stay too late.”

As she walked back through the dim hallway, she couldn’t shake the quiet knot in her chest. Something was different. Not bad exactly, just… not what it had been. And maybe Sam had been right, that the closer they’d gotten, the more it risked tipping into something unspoken.

Maybe Joe felt that too.

Still, whatever this was between them, it mattered. And if keeping it meant backing off, Y/N could do that.

She had before.

* * *

November 2024 – Late Night

Y/N’s phone lit up with an incoming call, dragging her out of a dead sleep.

Sam (2:47 AM)

She answered immediately. “What happened?”

“You haven’t seen your phone yet?”

“No, I just got in from the flight and crashed.”

Sam exhaled. “Joe’s house got broken into tonight. While we were still in the air.”

Y/N sat up, heart pounding. “Wait, what? He was on the plane.”

“I know. That’s what makes this weirder. Apparently someone showed up at his house and found a shattered window. Cops were called. No one hurt, but it’s all over the internet.”

Y/N blinked. “Who showed up?”

Sam hesitated. “A woman. Ellie James.”

The name hit like ice water.

“She told police she was his employee. But fans already clocked her. She’s a 21-year-old model. Big on Instagram, runway work, a couple of campaigns. TikTok found her instantly.”

"It's blowing up on X right now. Apparently, he's been seeing someone for months. No one had any idea, not even the team."

Y/N was already unlocking her phone.

“‘Break-in at Joe Burrow’s home while team in Texas. No injuries reported.’”

“‘Ellie James identifies herself as “employee” in police report. Fans suspect more.’”

“‘Burrow and Ellie James: timeline of a secret relationship?’”

“They’ve got screenshots, tagged photos, weird little clues going back to July. That’s when people think they started seeing each other. Which—” Sam hesitated. “Kind of lines up, right?”

It did. July was when Joe had started pulling back. When their texts slowed, when their lunches stopped, when the tone of everything between them shifted into something more careful and less open.

Sam continued, “She wasn’t living with him, but she had access. Enough to be there alone. That’s the part everyone’s running with. The whole internet’s treating it like confirmation they’ve been together for months.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“Kayla called an emergency meeting for seven,” Sam added gently. “You’ll be in the room. We’re keeping it quiet for now, no official posts, no statements, but it’s gonna be messy. Just… be ready.”

After the call ended, Y/N scrolled through her phone. Headlines were popping up faster than she could keep track: Model Found Inside Joe Burrow’s House After Security Alarm Trip. Woman Identifies as Employee. Internet Says Otherwise.

Photos from Ellie’s Instagram. Old likes on Joe’s posts. A resurfaced clip from preseason camp that now felt painfully obvious. The puzzle pieces were already being assembled by fans who needed no confirmation to draw conclusions.

Y/N dropped her phone onto the bed and stared into the dark. It all made sense now, why he’d started retreating, why the easy momentum between them had suddenly stalled. While she’d been wondering what changed, he had already been moving toward someone else.

And she hadn’t known. Not once had he mentioned Ellie. Not to her. Not in passing. Not even after everything they’d shared.

She let herself lie back down, though sleep wouldn’t come again. Her chest ached with the kind of heartbreak you can’t rationalize away. Four years of working beside him. Of being trusted. Of feeling like maybe, just maybe, she was something more than just a colleague.

But tonight made it plain. She hadn’t been the one he’d let in. Not to his house, and not to the private parts of his life he kept so fiercely protected.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, a tear sliding quietly into her hair. She would go to the meeting in the morning. She would do her job.

But in this quiet hour, there was no protecting herself from the truth.

He had let someone else in.

And it wasn’t her.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility, 7:00 AM

The conference room was already filled when Y/N arrived, PR staff and executives huddled around the table, phones buzzing with alerts, coffee cups scattered like defensive positions. Dark circles under eyes revealed who had been up all night tracking social media fallout. Kayla stood at the head of the table, a slideshow of current headlines projected on the wall behind her.

Y/N took a seat beside Sam, grateful for the friendly face amid the tension. She'd spent the hours since Sam's call cycling through shock, hurt, and professional resolve, finally landing on a numb determination to get through this day with her dignity intact.

"Good, we're all here," Kayla began, silencing the murmurs. "As you're aware, there was an incident at Joe's residence last night while the team was returning from Dallas. The situation has escalated with social media speculation about his relationship with Ellie James, the woman present during the break-in."

Y/N's eyes remained fixed on her notebook as Kayla continued detailing the situation: security footage being reviewed, police statements, media requests flooding in. The office was buzzing with opinions about how to handle the revelation of Joe's apparent secret relationship.

"We need a clear, consistent message," said Marcus from PR. "Confirm the relationship, express appreciation for privacy during this unexpected exposure, pivot back to football."

"We should get ahead of this," another executive agreed. "Have Joe make a brief statement addressing the speculation directly."

"No," Y/N said quietly, then louder when several faces turned toward her. "No. That's exactly what we shouldn't do."

Kayla gestured for her to continue. As Social Media Coordinator, Y/N's perspective on public messaging carried weight, especially regarding Joe, with whom she'd worked closely for years.

"Joe isn't going to want to talk about this," Y/N continued, keeping her voice steady despite the emotional undercurrent. "He's never discussed his personal life publicly before. Not with Olivia, not after their breakup, not ever. We need to let him lead and share what he wants to, if anything."

"But the speculation is already overwhelming," Marcus countered. "The internet's connecting dots, creating narratives—"

"And that's the internet's problem, not ours," Y/N interrupted firmly. "This wasn't a planned reveal. His home was broken into. His privacy was violated. And now we're sitting here discussing how to package his personal life for public consumption?" She shook her head. "He deserves better from us."

A silence fell over the room as her words sank in.

"Y/N's right," Kayla said finally. "Joe's always maintained clear boundaries between his personal and professional life. Our job is to respect and reinforce those boundaries, not erode them further."

"So what do we do?" someone asked.

"We focus on the break-in as a security matter," Y/N suggested. "We acknowledge the incident without commenting on personal details. We prepare for questions but don't volunteer information Joe hasn't chosen to share himself."

The meeting continued with logistics planning, security protocols, media management strategies. Y/N participated with professional focus, offering insights on social media monitoring, content approaches, protective messaging. No one in the room would have guessed from her composed exterior the turmoil beneath the surface, the personal devastation she was carefully compartmentalizing to do her job.

As the meeting concluded, Kayla approached Y/N. "Joe's coming in at ten for a scheduled press briefing about Sunday's game. After this, reporters will obviously try to shift focus. Can you prep him? You've got the best sense of how he'll want to handle this."

Y/N nodded, her stomach twisting at the prospect of facing Joe after last night's revelation. "I'll handle it."

10:15 AM - Press Prep Room

Y/N was reviewing notes when the door opened and Joe walked in. He looked tired but composed, dressed in standard team attire, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. For a moment they simply looked at each other, the air between them heavy with unspoken complications.

"Hey," he said finally.

"Hey," Y/N replied, professional mask firmly in place. "You okay?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking a seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed neutrally. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her with that perceptive gaze she'd come to know so well. "What do you think I should do?"

Y/N took a deep breath, pushing aside every personal feeling to focus on what Joe needed professionally right now.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

Joe's expression softened slightly. "That's what I figured you'd say."

"The reporters will try to ask," Y/N continued. "They'll find roundabout ways to bring it up. But you can respond the same way you always have when personal matters arise. Redirect to football. Maintain your boundaries. We're not confirming or commenting on anything you don't want to discuss."

"Thank you," Joe said quietly. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Y/N felt a flash of hurt at the implied gratitude for her professional distance, when all she wanted was to ask why he'd never once mentioned Ellie during their countless lunches, their growing friendship, their shared confidences. But she pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.

"That's my job," she said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing likely questions and deflection strategies, maintaining a careful professional rapport that revealed nothing of Y/N's inner turmoil or whatever Joe might be feeling about this unexpected exposure of his private life.

As they finished their prep, Joe paused before standing. "You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

The irony of his gratitude for her professional boundaries when she'd spent years carefully hiding how much more she wanted from him was almost too much to bear.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed. "Even you."

Something flickered in Joe's expression, a moment of searching, before he nodded and stood. "Right. Let's get this over with."

Press Conference

Y/N stood in the back of the room as Joe stepped up to the podium, dressed in Bengals gear, posture steady, expression unreadable. The media had been buzzing since early morning, the room packed with local and national reporters, every one of them waiting for a chance to ask the question that had consumed the internet overnight.

Before they could.

Joe adjusted the mic slightly, then spoke with calm clarity.

“I know there’s been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours. Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I’m going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share.”

He paused, letting the silence settle over the room.

“I’m here to talk about football. That’s what I’ll be answering questions about today.”

The room went still. Not stunned, but quieted. Everyone knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t dodging. He was drawing a line.

Y/N exhaled slowly, a complicated ache settling in her chest. It wasn’t what they’d written together, but it was unmistakably him, measured, respectful, honest. Joe didn’t deny or explain. He simply protected the parts of his life he hadn’t invited anyone into.

A few reporters tried to pivot back toward the story, but Joe held firm, calmly redirecting every question to Sunday’s matchup, his wrist recovery, the team’s progress. He gave them nothing else.

When it ended, he stepped down from the podium and looked once toward the back of the room. His gaze met Y/N’s for half a second. A silent acknowledgment. Then he was gone.

Sam appeared beside her. "That wasn't what we prepped, but it worked."

"Better than what we prepped," Y/N agreed, her professional assessment genuine despite her personal turmoil. "No one's going to push after that."

"And how are you handling it?" Sam asked quietly, concern evident in her voice. "This can't be easy."

Y/N kept her eyes forward, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she looked at her friend. "I'm fine. It's not about me."

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Media Office, Later That Day

Y/N sat at her desk, monitoring media coverage of Joe's press conference. His direct statement had effectively shut down the most invasive questions, though speculation about Ellie James continued across social platforms. She was crafting guidance for the social media team when a knock sounded at her open door.

She looked up to find Joe standing there, changed from his press attire into casual team workout gear.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

Y/N nodded, professional mask firmly in place despite the sudden acceleration of her pulse. "Of course."

Joe closed the door behind him and took a seat across from her desk. For a moment, he just studied her, those observant eyes taking in details in a way that had always made Y/N feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

"I went off script," he finally said.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe nodded, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. "That's what I figured you'd say." He hesitated, then added, "I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning. Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N shrugged, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Y/N kept her focus on her professional role, refusing to acknowledge the hurt and confusion swirling beneath her composed exterior.

"The coverage should die down in a soon," she said, gesturing to her monitor. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

Joe nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, heart suddenly pounding. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe trailed off, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. The word stung despite its truth. "It's really okay, Joe. I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face. "It's complicated. More complicated than what people are assuming."

Y/N felt a flicker of something, not quite hope, but curiosity, before she tamped it down. Whatever was happening between Joe and Ellie James, it wasn't her business unless it affected his public image, which was her professional concern.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

Joe nodded slowly, seeming both grateful and somehow disappointed by her response. "Right. Well, I should let you get back to work."

He stood to leave but paused at the door. "I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon. Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The invitation hit Y/N like a physical force, stirring up the complicated feelings she was trying desperately to compartmentalize. Part of her wanted to accept immediately, hungry for any connection with him. Another part knew that continuing their friendship after last night's revelation would only prolong her heartache.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," she replied, a neutral response that neither accepted nor rejected. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

Something flickered across Joe's face, disappointment, perhaps, before he nodded. "Sure. Just let me know."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, staring at the door. That conversation had left her more confused than ever. Joe seemed to want to maintain their friendship, perhaps even explain whatever was happening with Ellie, while Y/N was still reeling from discovering the relationship existed at all.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam.

Sam: Just saw QB1 leaving your office. You okay?

Y/N: Fine. Just discussing press conference fallout. Professional stuff.

Sam: Available for wine and venting later if needed. No judgment.

Y/N smiled despite herself, grateful for her friend's support.

Y/N: Might take you up on that.

She turned back to her work, focusing on the tangible aspects of her job rather than the emotional complications. Whatever Joe's relationship with Ellie James was, whatever "complicated" meant in this context, Y/N needed to accept that she had been firmly placed in the "friend" category. And perhaps it was time to accept that and establish some healthier boundaries of her own.

That Evening - Sam's Apartment

"So he just showed up at your office to thank you, then vaguely called his relationship with Model Barbie 'complicated'?" Sam asked, refilling Y/N's wine glass. "What does that even mean?"

Y/N sank deeper into Sam's couch, the professional composure she'd maintained all day finally crumbling in the safety of her friend's apartment. "I have no idea. And I didn't ask."

"Why not?" Sam demanded. "After four years of pining—"

"I don't pine," Y/N interrupted defensively.

"Fine, after four years of 'professionally admiring from an appropriate distance,'" Sam amended with air quotes, "don't you deserve some answers? Especially after how close you two got this year?"

Y/N took a long sip of wine. "What would I even say? 'Hey Joe, why didn't you mention your secret girlfriend during all our lunches and conversations?' Or maybe 'Just wondering why you pulled back right when I thought we were getting closer?'"

"Yes!" Sam exclaimed. "Exactly those questions!"

"That's not who we are," Y/N sighed. "I've spent four years respecting his boundaries, his privacy. I can't suddenly demand explanations about his personal life just because I'm hurt."

"But that's the thing," Sam said gently. "You're not just a colleague anymore. You became friends, real friends. And friends tell each other when they start dating someone."

Y/N stared into her wine glass, confronting the truth in Sam's words. "Maybe we weren't as close as I thought."

"Or maybe there's more to the story," Sam suggested. "He called it 'complicated,' right? That's not exactly 'madly in love.'"

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said firmly. "The point is, I've been holding onto this hope that maybe, someday, he might see me as more than a friend or colleague. But the reality is, when he became single, he didn't turn to me. He found someone else. Someone completely separate from his football life."

"And you think that's what he wants? Separation?"

Y/N nodded slowly. "It makes sense. I represent his professional world, the cameras, the documentation, the public scrutiny. Ellie represents something completely different. Something private."

Sam studied her friend's face. "So what are you going to do?"

"My job," Y/N replied simply. "I'll keep doing my job excellently. And I'll start creating some healthier boundaries for myself." She took another sip of wine. "Including not accepting lunch invitations that will only make it harder to move on."

"And if he persists? If he wants to explain this 'complicated' situation?"

Y/N considered the question, recognizing both the temptation and the potential pain. "Then I'll listen. As his friend. But with no expectations beyond that."

Sam seemed skeptical but supportive. "Just promise me you'll prioritize yourself this time, not just his privacy or comfort."

"I'm trying," Y/N admitted. "Four years of habits are hard to break."

As they continued talking, Y/N's phone buzzed with an incoming text. She hesitated before checking it, already knowing who it would be from.

Joe: Just wanted to check how you're doing. Today couldn't have been easy for you either, managing all the fallout. Thanks again for having my back.

The sincerity of his concern, even amid his own privacy crisis, was quintessential Joe Burrow. Y/N stared at the message, debating whether to respond.

"Him?" Sam asked, watching her face.

Y/N nodded.

"What are you going to say?"

After a moment's consideration, Y/N typed a response that embodied her new resolution: friendly but with clearer boundaries.

Y/N: Just doing my job. Everything will settle down soon. Get some rest, we have a game to win Sunday.

She set her phone aside, ignoring the immediate notification of his reply. Tonight was about processing, about beginning to disentangle her heart from the web of hope and expectation she'd woven around Joe Burrow.

Tomorrow would be about moving forward. Professionally excellent as always, but with a new personal awareness that what she'd spent years hoping for simply wasn't going to happen.

It was time to protect her heart as carefully as she'd always protected Joe's privacy.

* * *

November 2024 - Game Day

The stadium hummed with energy as Y/N moved along the sidelines, camera in hand, documenting pre-game preparations. Despite everything, she found comfort in the familiar routines, the professional focus required to capture the right moments, the technical aspects of her job that left little room for emotional distractions.

She had successfully avoided direct interaction with Joe since their office conversation, managing team social media remotely when possible, delegating player-specific content to her staff when appropriate. The distance was self-protective, a necessary step toward accepting that their relationship would never be what she had hoped.

As players took the field for warm-ups, Y/N kept her camera trained on rookies and highlight plays, deliberately avoiding lingering on the quarterback. She was reviewing footage when a voice spoke behind her.

"Avoiding me?"

Y/N turned to find Joe standing there, helmet in hand, pre-game intensity evident in his posture but a question in his eyes.

"Of course not," she replied smoothly. "Just focusing on the content plan."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeming to see through her professional excuse. "You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Y/N maintained her composed expression despite the confrontation. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

"Right," Joe said, clearly unconvinced. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game," she interrupted gently. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

A mix of frustration and concern crossed his features. "This conversation isn't over. But you're right about the timing."

As he turned to head back toward the team, Y/N called after him. "Joe?"

He looked back.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that subtle smile she knew so well. "Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

Y/N watched him jog back to the quarterback group, his form perfect, his presence commanding attention without effort. She would always admire that about him—the natural leadership, the focused intensity, the quiet confidence.

But admiration could exist without expectation. Respect without romantic attachment. Professional excellence without personal entanglement.

At least, that's what Y/N was determined to learn.

As the game began, she threw herself into her work, capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating the content that brought fans closer to the action. This was what she excelled at. What she had built her career on. What had earned her respect throughout the organization.

And if her heart ached when the camera caught Joe celebrating a touchdown, when he glanced toward the sideline where she stood, when he gave his post-game interview with that mixture of humility and confidence she'd documented for four years—well, that was her burden to bear.

Her phone buzzed with a text as she was packing up her equipment after the game.

Joe: We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

Y/N stared at the message, her new resolution already being tested. Every instinct urged her to agree immediately, to hope that "complicated" might somehow explain why he'd kept Ellie a secret from her, even as they'd grown closer as friends.

But the reality was painfully clear. Joe had chosen someone else. Someone young and beautiful, someone entirely separate from his football life. Someone he'd wanted to keep private. The "complicated" aspects of his relationship with Ellie didn't change the fundamental truth: he didn't see Y/N the way she saw him.

Y/N: I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

It wasn't technically a lie. She had been planning to visit her brothers sometime soon, and now seemed like the perfect opportunity to gain some distance and perspective.

Joe: If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

She paused, fingers hovering over her keyboard, temptation warring with self-protection.

Y/N: We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Putting her phone away, Y/N finished packing her equipment, her mind already planning her impromptu trip to Louisville. Maybe time with her family, away from the daily orbit around Joe Burrow, would help her find the strength to maintain a friendship with him while accepting the reality of his relationship with Ellie.

Because one truth had become painfully clear: being Joe Burrow's friend, confidant, and trusted colleague was both a privilege and a form of exquisite torture when you were in love with him.

Something had to change. And since she couldn't change her feelings, she would have to change the dynamics of their relationship, for her own sake.

Even if that meant creating distance where she'd once sought closeness.

Part Two

[bueckersbitch]

all the nights spent off our faces, trying to find these perfect places…

perfect places - paige bueckers x reader

ೀ warnings : sexual content, alcohol

ೀ authors note : NUMBER ☝🏽✌🏽 BABYYYYY. i’ll forever be grateful for everything i’ve learned this season, from paige, from the team, and from all my friends i met on here. i love u all. we brought that natty back to storrs.

ೀ taglist : @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary @pboogerswbb @lupinqs @xxloveralways14 @bueckersfive @vamptizm @lovegalor333 @mrsarnold @janaelalfysblunt

You watched from behind the metal barricade, awaiting the team to step off the bus and into the arena. The Tampa sun felt nice accompanied by the slight breeze. You picked at your fingers anxiously. This was it. One. More. Game. 40 minutes for your girlfriend and the rest of the team to leave it all out on the court. One more game for Paige to solidify her reputation as one of the Uconn greats.

The bus doors opened, and the cheers from the fans in blue picked up as the players started to walk out. Jana, Kaitlyn, and Azzi, then came Paige. Adjusting her ponytail, a poker face adorned her features, you knew the loss to Iowa last year was all the fuel needed for her and the team to bring it home this year. She was locked in, deleting all her social media, staying present, working her body just the right amount, seeing a sports psychiatrist to get her into the right headspace. Nobody wanted this title more than her. You knew her want for the title was more than the entirety of South Carolina’s team alone. 

Paige spots you in the crowd, her soul pushing her eyes to find you in every crowd. Her poker face broke a little, her eyes glazing over slightly, bringing her hand up, her thumb, pointer, and pinky finger all going up, signing ‘I love you’.

Signing the same, you watched her walk away. You speed to the mass of people waiting in front of the stairs to get into the arena. Slowly, but surely, you made your way to the security checkpoint of the arena. Spotting Azzi’s family at the bar, you greeted them with hugs, taking a shot to ease your anxiety.

-

The first quarter had ended, Uconn leading 19-14, the Huskies were on fire, playing for themselves, but also playing for the girl they would say goodbye to after this season. You were courtside, watching Geno talking to the girls in between the first and second quarter, the game was still salvageable for the Gamecocks, the arena was scattered with fans from both teams, but the South Carolina fans were anything but quiet, chants of “Go Gamecocks” overbearing the UConn chants at times. Morgan’s eyes peeled away from Geno for a second amidst the South Carolina chant, looking around the arena in awe, snapping back to Geno before you could process the expression on her face.

-

36-26. The score when halftime began. Up 10 points, the girls made everyone aware of their drive, Azzi was playing beautiful basketball, something UConn and South Carolina fans alike could appreciate. Her comeback was nothing short of amazing. 

-

The third quarter came and went, 56-42, the drunk man behind you slurring out a, “It’s over, UConn put belt to ass, they’re not coming back from that.” You exhaled, your thoughts were the same, although it felt nice to hear that others felt likewise. One. More. Quarter. One more quarter of Paige being a UConn Husky. One more quarter to put the cherry on top of her generational collegiate career.

-

Paige checked out. For the last time. Striding confidently over to Geno, embracing him and just melting into him. Tears violently left her eyes, soaking Geno’s shoulder with both gratitude and sadness, Geno’s eyes were squeezed shut, never one to want to show emotion, trying to suppress his feelings about a girl he looked at like his daughter accomplishing her dreams. Your mind flew back to Paige’s slam interview, her naive self rambling about wanting to win a national championship during her time at UConn, then wanting to be drafted number one, unaware of the difficulties, mentally, and physically, that she would have to overcome to achieve her goals. She made it. Losing to South Carolina in 2022 was a beautiful sign from God, whether she knew that at the time or not. The obstacles and adversity she had faced were necessary and needed, for her to come back, better, stronger, more faithful. It all came full circle as she pulled Jana in, now beating South Carolina during her last year. The realization made you sob, overwhelmed with pride for your girl. The most resilient person you knew.

-

The final buzzer sounds. 82-59. She did it. Your girlfriend was a national champion. All the nights when she rewatched film with you, picking apart her every play, crying to you about why they just couldn’t seem to win, the echoes of her sobs in your apartment when she told you she felt like she was letting the Uconn name down, trying to find her perfect season. Those days were over. You rushed over to her, pulling her in, locking your arms over her shoulders, her own hugging your waist to ground herself. You heard her choked sobs into your shoulder, your tears flooded her new national championship shirt, the already dark blue becoming a near black.

Through her tears, her broken voice uttered a soft, “It’s really over.” You brought your hand up to her head, stroking her hair and tugging her deeper into your shoulder. “You did it, baby, you’re unreal.” 

-

Paige held your hand, trophy in the other as you arrived at the hotel, the automatic doors opening to the room of alumni, the other girls, and families. Clapping emerged from everyone as Paige walked through, you dropped her hand and joined them, applauding her. Blush crept up onto her face at the sight of you, the apples of her cheeks more apparent now. She raises the trophy, yelling out, “NATTY CHAMPS BABYYY” The cheering continued, Diana, hollering out a “WHOOP WHOOP” at her mini-me. Paige sets the trophy down on the table in between the couches, reaching for your finger, she yanks you into her. She kisses your nose, using one hand to grab the net from around her neck, lifting it off of her and gently placing it around your neck, pulling your hair free in the process. 

Her eyes start to well again, her emotions hitting her like a truck, she swallows hard, trying to not let the creeping feeling of leaving her second home catch up to her. She fails, and a few stray tears escape her eyes, so you cup her face to wipe them away, knowing the reason for her sadness. “Hey, stay in the moment, remember?” You whisper the mantra she had been repeating the whole season softly, trying not to bring attention to the situation. She nods, you flick her hat up playfully before dragging her to sit on one of the couches.

-

The Tampa humidity had calmed down, everyone was on the rooftop now, you and Paige sharing a dirty shirley by the glass barrier, looking out into the city. You rest your head on her shoulder, the city is quiet, yet lively, with giggles from college kids on the street, and the soft thrum of car engines. “Everything I ever worked for these past five years, it all paid off.” Paige sighs, obviously more than content with the outcome of the game. “I don’t think words could describe how proud I am of you baby, natty or not, you made your mark on UConn.” You say, trying your best to express the admiration you’ve held for her these last five years.

“Pretty cute! Don’t you guys think?” Kayla slides in next to you with. You and Paige look down at her camera, a cute candid of you guys overlooking the city on the screen. “It’s perfect” You smile, hugging her, Paige doing the same. “I’ll leave you guys to it then, have fun tonight.” She winks, Paige scoffing at what she was not so subtly insinuating.

Paige wraps her arms around you from behind, kissing your cheek repeatedly, you giggle at her, knowing how she gets when there’s some alcohol in her system. You feel her breath on your ear, “Y’tryna celebrate wit me baby?” You cross your legs at her words, falling back slightly into her.

You feel her smile on your neck, she utters the last words spoken between you two on the rooftop, “Let's go then.”

-

Paige fumbled with her sweatpants pocket, pulling out the keycard, unlocking the door, and swinging it open. She pulls you into the room by the net around your neck. Eventually sitting on the edge of the bed with you in front of her, gripping the back of your thighs, looking up at you. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, you tug her ponytail a little so she looks up at you.

“I want everything off.” Short and direct, you oblige. You peel everything off slowly, trying to drag the moment beyond her patience. Paige whines out in protest, and you decide not to tease her too much, your outfit pooling on the floor.

You kept the net around your neck though, assuming Paige would take a liking to it. It seemed like she did, because she pulls you onto her lap, her hand grips the side of your neck to pull you into a kiss. 

Her tongue prods at your lips, you open your mouth slightly to let her in deeper. But tonight was about her, she deserved to be rewarded, not just for this game, but for the last five years. You shove her back, she hits the bed with a gasp. “Want tonight to be special, let me get you right first.” You say. Paige nods, not trusting her words with your newfound dominance.

Paige scoots herself up the bed, you spread her legs while she takes off her hoodie and sports bra, eager for you to speed things up.

You strip her legs of her sweatpants, her recent love for sagging her sweatpants didn’t go unnoticed. You were met with the dark patch on her boxers, slightly glossy, the material flimsy where the spot was.

You take your place back on her lap, kissing her sternum, sucking slightly on the swell of her breast, soft hums come from the blonde. You suck her nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, your fingers playing with the other one. Paige started to get a little louder, shifting her hips beneath you in hopes of soothing the ache between her legs. You switched your mouth over to her other nipple, wanting to give them the same amount of attention. Once you were satisfied, you slowly kissed your way down her body, swinging your leg off of her, you settled in the middle of her thighs, working your fingers into the waistband of her boxers, you peel them off of her. Her clit sticks out, throbbing uncomfortably, her wetness already coating her inner thighs.

“Please baby, y’gotta help me” she whines out, bucking her hips in search of your mouth. You cut the teasing act short, persuaded too easily by the need in her voice. Sucking her clit into your mouth, your fingers swipe through her folds, swiping the slick on her clit, you suckle it off of her, kissing it after. You circle her entrance, entering just until the first knuckle, then pulling out. Paige groans, her rough hand pulling you into her, you spread her folds as your tongue encases her clit yet again, the other hand coming up to finally push into her, the blonde whining when you find her spot. You drag your eyes up to look at her, her head is thrown back, and the hat that was mounted to her head all night is now almost fully off, the only thing keeping it from falling is her ponytail which was pulled through the back.

Her back arched shortly after, her moans becoming more frequent now, her head thrashing from side to side. You sighed into her, pushing yourself deeper into her.

“Fuck baby, mouth s’good, I'm not gonna last long.” You hummed at that, sucking her clit harder, massaging her spot in hopes of getting her there.

Shortly after, she cums, loud groans with scattered cuss words in between. Her wetness gushed from her, you lapped it up, resting your head on her thigh.

“Oh baby, you’re in for it tonight.”

-

“Oh, fuck, Paige!” You whined a little too loud. It was now two orgasms later, Paige had your face and chest shoved into the sheets with your ass up. She insisted on eating it from the back, her hat now sat on her head backward. Her large hands spread you open for her. You pushed back onto her tongue, the warmth of her hands making you feel hotter than you already were. She was messy, drunk off of the taste of you. She spit onto your pussy, firmly licking up the expanse of it, following it up by working her tongue into you. The muscle licking your slick clean like she was starving for you, “So wet f’me, best night I coulda asked for.” Then she was back on you like glue, the vibrations of her moans had you gripping the sheets, she was eating you like she wanted to suck you dry.

You cum, hard onto her tongue, Paige cleans it all up with her tongue. You feel yourself dozing off, the activities of the day finally catching up to you.

-

You wake up to the sound of the hotel shower, rubbing your eyes, you lift your phone up, checking your notifications, you see a new post from Paige.

The candid Kayla had taken of you guys. Paired with a caption of; 

got the natty and the girl, a perfect place to be in.

[dollishmehrayan]

# TAKE EVERYTHING AS IT WAS WRITTEN FOR YOU ── .✦ ( batboys x writer!reader who writes ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ౨ৎ: hey so I’m back from the dead apparently, anywaysss omgg I missed you guys Hii and I will posting more content from now on and taking this seriously and these past days I was super stressed out over moving but hey my lovess anyways I decided to base this writer s/o over like anyone, like whether you write fan fic like me or write actual books, it matters to this hcs !! Tags: (batboys x writer!s/o)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

# DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He loves that you're a writer ( listen he just LOVESSS creative women like hello !? God forbid a guy likes creative people 🫠) he's your #1 fan and biggest hype man.

Tries to read your work over your shoulder while you're typing, even if you hate it “Babe, I need to know what happens next!” Like constantly over your shoulder seeing what you’re drafting and etc.

Occasionally offers cheesy plot ideas like “what if the love interest also knows parkour?” (His ideas suck)

Will 100% brag to everyone: “Yeah, my partner’s a genius novelist. Ever heard of them? You will.” OOOOO

Falls asleep listening to you ramble about story arcs and character development. It's his favorite sound.

Writes you little encouraging notes like, “You got this, Hemingway 💪” and sticks them on your laptop / tablet or wtv you have bbg.

# JASON TODD ── .✦

Loves your dark, gritty writing especially if there's violence, angst, or moral grayness involved since a lot of people don’t write angst that casually.

Offers surprisingly insightful edits or plot ideas: “This villain's motivation is weak. Give them a tragic backstory and don’t make them redeemable.”

Low-key wants you to base a character on him but will pretend he doesn’t care.

Has a soft spot for reading your fluff pieces though and will be quietly emotional about them.

Will threaten anyone who leaves bad reviews on your work. "Just say the word. Username 'Booktoklover93'? I got 'em."

He buys you fancy notebooks and pens and acts like it's no big deal, but he's proud of himself.

# TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Absolute king of writing dates you'll both sit in a café typing furiously and sipping terrible coffee.

Helps you fact-check obscure things at 3am without complaint (okay, maybe some complaint).

If you write mystery or thrillers, he treats it like solving a real case. “Wait… that clue in chapter 5…”

He totally has a secret folder on his computer labeled “[Your Name]’s Writing – Favorite Stuff” with all your pieces saved.

You’ve accidentally inspired him to write fanfic once and he WILL take that secret to the grave.

Sends you prompts or memes like “this is so your OC.” (Sorry I just keep cringing at oc 🥲)

# DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

At first, he might not get why you write fictional stories… but then he reads them.

He's completely blown away and demands to know what happens next immediately.

Occasionally critiques your logic but ends up emotionally invested in your characters.

“Why did you kill him off?” Because it served the story—” “You’re a monster.”

Will sit next to you while you write, drawing or sketching your characters in his own style.

Has probably told Alfred he thinks you’re a genius at least once when he thought no one was listening.

# BONUS WHICH MR WAYNE! ── .✦

Loves that you're creative and has the patience of a saint when listening to you rant about plot holes.

He doesn’t read everything you write, but when he does, he’ll quote it back to you at random times like a proud husband.

“Chapter 7 really showed growth. I was impressed.”

Offers to fund your writing career or self-publishing venture without blinking. “You’ll need an editor and marketing team.” SIGN ME UP !!

He also gently reminds you to eat and sleep when you’re on a deadline: “You’ve been writing for 16 hours. Come to bed and go to sleep.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Self-Editing

Editing writing draws upon different skills than creative storytelling, which makes self-editing difficult for many writers. If hiring an editor isn’t an option, you will want to improve your own editing skills to increase your writing’s readability and overall quality.

Tips for Editing Your Own Writing

Print it out. Reading your words on the printed page can help you find spelling mistakes, sentence fragments, and run-ons more easily than trying to track them down on a bright computer screen; you can even change the formatting of the text if that helps you look at it differently. Use a red pen (or any other vibrant color) to track changes or edits along the way.

Read aloud. Hearing how your writing sounds can also help you listen for lines that don’t sound right, like wishy-washy sentences, overuse of particular phrases, and unnecessary words. Sometimes a writer doesn’t realize that their sentence structure is poor or that their main point isn’t clear until they hear it read aloud (you can even use a text-to-speech program or ask someone else to read it back to you while you jot down things you notice).

Take a break. Walking away from your writing project for a period of time and coming back to it with fresh eyes can help you gain a fresh perspective by creating an emotional distance between you and your work. If you’re finding it hard to be objective, give it space—when you return to your own writing, you may find yourself with an entirely new outlook.

Keep your voice active. With active voice writing, the subject of a sentence is performing an action. That action is represented by a verb, which is the part of speech that anchors all complete sentences. While passive voice isn’t completely forbidden in a piece of writing, it’s usually a good idea to keep your tone energized, as it keeps your readers reading.

Edit line by line. A good editor will systematically go through a piece of writing line by line, and that is what you should do as well. It may take time and be a painstaking task, but if you’re editing your own work, you’ll need to look closely at the words you’ve written to find any outstanding issues like grammatical errors or typos.

Get familiar with style guides. Professional editors may come equipped with extensive editing skills, but it’s possible to learn what they know. Look up which writing style guide applies to your writing (if you’re copywriting, you’ll likely want the AP style guide, whereas fiction writing will use the Chicago Manual). Follow the proper guidelines laid out and add them to your editing checklist: Are all the commas where they should be for this particular piece? Are words properly italicized or quoted? Knowing what to look for can not only expand your editing experience but help you become a better writer.

Avoid clichés. While they appear in good writing every so often, clichés are mostly boring unless you have a unique spin on them or can integrate them in a way that doesn’t seem tired.

Embrace re-reading. Editing isn’t a one-off process, and chances are you’ll need multiple read-throughs in order to find all of your weak sentences, grammar mistakes, punctuation errors, and spelling errors.

Mind your syntax. Be on the lookout for issues with grammar and word choice. Certain words can change the whole mood or feeling of a piece, and using weak verbs and weak adjectives will only exacerbate that. Make sure your writing feels strong and clear, and use a thesaurus with caution. If you’re not exactly sure how to use a word, don’t.

Save the proofreading for last. Whether you’re copy editing for content marketing or writing the first draft of a memoir, proofreading is the very last step you should take when self-editing. As you go through your piece, you’ll be re-writing sentences and paragraphs, so searching for grammar errors or doing a spell check before your final draft will only waste more time. It’s okay if you spot errors along the way (you don’t have to ignore them), but don’t make it the first step you take when tackling your own editing.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Editing ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[soulcaketuesday]

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS

[nouearth]

a sticky situation.

peter parker x male reader.

summary: peter has a major crush on his roommate: you. everything unravels when he walks in on you changing.

wc: 4.1k. genre: smut. warnings: holland!peter, sub!top peter, voyeur!peter, college!au, dry-humping, grinding, frotting, handjobs, kissing, peter's first time, dubcon, cumplay, peter and reader are shooters, characters are aged up!

a bite of the cold air shuddered your damp and nude body once you stepped out of the bathroom, cataloguing the tidiness of your shared bedroom after. your shoulders tensed when the heated air and cold draft clashed for an estate of your body. but by the way your muscles eased into the green towel around your waist, you’ve figured which side won the war. a warm cheer to victory buzzed in your head.

god, did i luck out with peter… 

you found yourself repeating that observation often these days. it’s only been two months into the semester, but you’ve already concluded that peter was leagues better than your previous roommate. though, the bar was low—he was kind of a homophobe. that guy was a walking proof of evidence that opposites, in fact, do not attract.

on the other hand, peter had proven that similar interests and personalities were the foundation of beautiful, growing relationships: both platonically and romantically. still, relationships were never that black and white—a grey area. a theory that will forever be tested on, only for the outcome to come out vaguer than before, you’ve realized.

peter was like you: friendly, smart, awkward at times, funny to some. you and him basically have the same qualities of a dog, but there was more to it. 

you both shared the same liking down to the genre of video games, the magic of fantasy novels, the cleanliness of a room, the color-coded organization of study notes, and more. 

from there, the similar line of characteristics began to blur. whereas you’d prefer to learn from experience, peter liked playing by the book—sticking to it if he could. peter liked red, you liked blue. he favored savory snacks, you devoured them, but preferred sweet drinks.

opposites attract—the theory was once again, broad in your honor.

difference and similarities aside, you were lucky to have peter in your life. the bedroom was colder before you went to shower, but now it blossomed with a gentle heat.

he knew you hated the cold after a warm shower.

taking the other towel, you dried off the rest of your body while you checked your phone for notifications: a missed call from a friend and a few emails regarding construction around the building you had your classes in.

seriously? still? it’s been almost a year already…

normally, you wouldn’t have walked into the bedroom like this, baring skin and all. but peter went to get food because you both have become familiarized with what they served as food at parties.

note to self: you cannot get full off alcoholic beverages. you and peter both tried two parties ago, and it ended with you two sharing the toilet bowl, detoxing your insides of that liquid poison the entire night. the only enjoyment that resulted from that night was learning that peter was a drunk-crier, and you, a drunk-dancer. your friendship had only leveled up since.

you slid on your white briefs once you dried off before shuffling to the other side of the room, browsing through your shared closet aimlessly: he took the left side, you took the right. it was always dim at those parties, so a nice outfit would be wasted. also, you somehow became a magnet for other people’s misfortunes. it took hours to get rid of the smell of this one girl’s vomit—you threw it out in the end. 

“no, no… it’s going to be cold later…” you cycled through your clothes again, sighing when nothing caught your eye. “guess i can wear this aga-“

“hey!” out of nowhere, peter’s voice sprung out from the side of the room, followed by a quiet thud, and you twisted your bare body towards the source out of fright.

“jesus, you scared me.” the closet door blocked your view of peter, and vice versa, but you presumed he was leaning against the frame—a habit you noted. “i didn’t even hear you come back.”

“sorry- what was i saying..? oh!” his shadow loomed between you and him, growing as he stepped closer to the closet. “did you want to eat now or-“

judging from the volume of his voice, you should’ve expected how close peter was when you shut the closet. “fuck!” you jumped back, eyes widening when he was practically chest to chest with you. “dude, you really gotta stop doing that.”

on a daily basis, you always looked up at him, but you never paid it much thought to how much taller he was. 

“sorry! guess everyone’s a little antsy with the- oh.” he paused.

“what?” you curiously looked up at him, catching sight of his wandering gaze. you were quick enough to follow it, flickering between glimpses of your bare body and face several times like a tennis ball. somehow, you didn’t puzzle the pieces between his shock and your curiosity until he backed away, skittish in nature.

you were in your underwear. still in your underwear. the barrier was the captor of your embarrassment, heat rosed your cheeks as you stood frozen. and with it, the barrier was also your savior.

 “oh- OH!” the size of your eyes matched his and upon realizing he’s been staring for far too long, peter cowered his gaze to the side, a gentlemanly hand blocking his sight as he further backed to the door frame, then blindly bumped his shoulder into the door. “i’m so sorry-“ 

“no, no! i should’ve knocked. i-“ he groaned out, pacifying the sting to his shoulder with his palm. “that was stupid of me, i’m gonna-“

that was another similarity that you both valued: privacy. 

before you could reply, he scattered off. for a moment, you felt hot in the face, in the neck, even on your chest. but it would only take a few more seconds for your skin to cool, comforted by the fact that you could’ve shown more—you didn’t.

when peter scrambled out of the room, his gaze fixated on the ground, to the stripes of his socks as they shuffled to the kitchen. 

but he never made it very far, because he was easily persuaded. either by his hormones, by the shape of your body, or by his closeted feelings about you. in the end, it didn’t matter because a tightening feeling conjured him back to his original spot—it was always going to be about you. 

he was silent in his footsteps, treading backwards to the bedroom as his throat ran dry—heartbeat equally.

tonight. i should do it tonight. are my feelings that obvious? god, i hope not. wait, no- they are! they gotta be… who the fuck wipes marshmallow off of your roommate’s lips and calls them cute?!

peter does.

as his thoughts ran rampant, clouded his regularly murky mind, you were in his line of sight, perfectly captured in the middle of his gaze—now stilled—awe-strucked while he watched you change. 

quick portraits of your thick thighs and calves came and went before they were completely masked by the slide of your shorts. then your stomach and chest; pliant, moist skin that layered over the contours of your body before being covered by a tee. he exhaled, then inhaled, smelling the scent of your shampoo and body wash, and he was delighted because you own that scent.

enraptured because only peter could have his senses triggered by you on a daily basis.

if peter could frame this moment, it would be an expensive endeavor that would sacrifice all the money in the world to find the most perfect materials that complemented your textured skin. your smooth body. your handsome face. 

you. that was all he wanted. 

peter had been trapped since the day he saw you unpacking your things into the dorm. sweaty from the sun, and you knew that, because you refused to shake hands with him until you insisted on washing up first. he wished you never did—your thighs looked better sweating under those shorts.

he’s had crushes before. one in middle school, three in high school. but they amounted to nothing, he never had the confidence. rather, he preferred isolating himself and admiring from afar. rejections had already been predicted, and he was used to the feeling of defeat. if someone were to accept his advances one day, then that would lead to a disruption of events—a catastrophic end to humanity—he joked.

you were different to peter. he loved how, for once, he didn’t have to be the one initiating conversation. he also loved how you didn’t use him for answers because instead, you would help him out with his assignments.

oh, is that professor warren’s class? I think i still have the textbook for her class… let me look. 

even when it would only take five minutes to grab a drink down the street, you still invited him. not out of pity like everybody once did, but because he was your friend. parties have never been your thing, but you accompanied them with him because it made him feel better—to know someone.

maybe since he’s grown more mature since then, but now that he was off on his own, it was up to him to predict his future. it was an advice you gave him one night, and he’s kept that close to his heart since then.  not the hate that had inflicted his mind, not his peers telling he wasn’t good enough for someone—but him.  

in his imaginary world, peter could feel the walls shake when he was around you. the buildings would then fall apart, the earth would scorch civilians and planetary life with heat, and the thundering rain would only make it worse. it was a morbid image. yet, if it meant that you truly liked him, then…

aliens, come do your thing. we insist upon an invasion!

peter wanted you. point, blank, period. it wasn’t his preferred way to confess, but intense sentiments of like, love, lust—all at the same time—ate him up on the inside, and he was scared of being devoid of feelings for you.

“i want… you,” peter muttered, and you jolted again, turning back around in case you misheard him. you were bewildered at the sight of him. once again, you didn’t hear his footsteps.

“what?” you shuffled nervously on your feet. the tension in the air was thick and hot now with the way he stared back at you, frightened yet assured.

“i want you.” there was credence in peter’s tone, and he neared to the door now. 

your eyes narrowed into the deep abyss of peter’s eyes as you sat on the foot of your bed, putting on socks. somewhere in your endeavors, you found a flicker of that familiar joke. “ha. ha. very funny,” you muttered bitterly.

it haunted you. as soon as you came out, you were taunted by those same exact words by your ‘friends,’ by your previous roommate. what made you different from them became a simple reason to cease empathy and kindness, and you were baffled that this was happening again.

maybe peter was like the others after all.

you avoided peter’s gaze in favor of the floor, the legs of your desk, your rug—anywhere but him—and you could feel the color drain out of your face, out of this room—deja vu. “look, i know it’s funny to you because i like guys and for whatever reason, straight guys like to flirt with gay men to get a reaction out of us,” 

the rug cushioned the weight of a familiar pair of feet, and you looked up, a great frown etched in your face when your eyes met peter’s. he towered over you, bewildered. “but it makes me uncomfortable. and it’s not funny to-“

he didn’t know what roused him. the pain in your voice made him want to apologize without any resort to excuses. the pout on your lips made him want to cradle your head, yet kiss you at the same time. the growing tent in his pants made him want to pin you to your bed, and simply ravish you.

it was all a blur. 

his impulsive thoughts became a reality once he stole the remaining words left in your distress, and clumsily swallowed them with a kiss. you didn’t have time to process his lips on yours because you were then pushed onto your back, stilted and surprised, as peter applied his weight on top of yours—his broader build shadowed you in welfare.

“pete-“ you groaned into the hot, breathy kiss, and despite the light attempts to push him away, you were compelled to return the wet exchange. breathlessly, you repeated, “stop, this isn’t funny-“ he kissed you again. all this time, you could’ve had him, but you deluded yourself into thinking otherwise. 

“i’m not laughing,” peter muttered, and his hips began moving into yours, aimlessly trying to alleviate the stiffness in his pants. “i want you.” his voice lowered—no longer a confession, but a demand. he rocked into you harder once he felt you throb under those tight short, and you slipped out a moan, memorizing the beat of peter that pulsated against you.

you remembered him being bashful when you two talked about your firsts. you weren’t completely inexperienced like he was, but you mentioned that it’s been a while since you’ve done anything remotely intimate. school was your focus, a relationship was your reward.

“peter,” you repeated again, he wasn’t listening. “peter.” he whispered a demand; to keep calling his name, and you couldn’t help but quietly chuckle at the cliché line often heard in soft porn.

then, you cupped your hands around his temples to pull him away. he gazed into you with ardent hunger, almost annoyed that you ruined the trail of kisses he began leaving on your neck. “did you drink without me? because if you did, then i don’t think we should-“

“i didn’t,” he sobered on the softness of your lips, and like a flip switch, he snapped out of his fictional world of you. “fuck- i’m so sorry, i didn’t even ask you if you wanted to- fuck, i even forgot to say that i like you.” he ranted to himself, beginning to pull himself away. “this was not how it was supposed to go.”

infatuation had expanded into something beyond your control, and your feelings for him ignited even more. a wick bursted into powerful flames, and it warmed your body knowing that you two shared the same sentiment.

before he completely peeled himself off your body, you pulled him down by the neck, then pressed your nose to his, grinning. “I like you too.” a peck to the tip of his nose, then the center of his lips. your onslaught of fleeting kisses to his skin drowned him, pacifying every muscle in his body until it became jelly, and also making it all the more easier to roll him under you. 

“not exactly how i imagined my first date with you, but,” you straddled his lap, roaming your hands around peter’s chest, an asset of his you’ve frequently daydreamed about. “you sure?”

the applied pressures to your waist, then bottom should’ve been a definite measure of his answer, but he smiled up at you, guiding a steady pace of your hips to his groin. he was easily distracted, suddenly cascading his other palm up your shirt then down to finally feel the bare skin he had spent long showers jerking off to. fantasies had now been served onto a platter before him, and peter planned on devouring you, piece by piece. “please.”

“must have had a lot on your mind if you couldn’t even confess to me.” it was unusual to see him like this—absolutely enthralled by your presence, high off of it. aching for more of you with the way he pushed his groin into you. “how long have you been thinking about this?” being unusual always had negative connotations to it. 

you pressed into him harder, rubbing at his print with gallant grinds. not in this moment. 

he moaned, “far too long…” then fumbled with the waistband of your shorts before doing the same with the zipper. “you’ve been driving me crazy, especially these days.” it was a simple task, a daily labor that peter was great at, but his hands shook when his finger met metal. you chuckled, and placed a comforting hand to his cheek, stroking the soft skin with the amplest caress. 

take your time. i’m not going anywhere.

“mind sharing what you thought about then?” the only time you peel yourself away from peter’s groin was to help him slide your shorts off, then his jeans. peter lifted his hips, and you two were joined together again. aching together. “just curious.” you joked by pulsating your bulge, and he shyly laughed when he saw the restrictive twitch. 

felt it.

“well... where do i start?” peter’s warm hand rested on your inner thigh, dangerously close to your erection while delicately exploring your soft skin. “there’s been so many times where i just wanted to…” he was too ashamed to finish his sentence, looking away.

“wanted to…?” your body arced over his, placing a persuading kiss to his cheek, then neck. “what was it?” they lingered, sunk deep into his skin with the utmost affection, and he left the deepest, pleasurable sighs as if you withdrew it from him. you commenced his dilemma. “tell me what you thought when you first saw me. saw that i was your roommate.”

 “i...” peter began, and you could tell his nerves got the best of him, so you rocked into him again, begged with your hips. the position made it easier to feel all of him, press into his warmth more, and you couldn’t stop. wouldn’t. “i didn’t know what to feel. i was happy, that i had someone as kind as you…” you gleefully hummed, agreeing as you continued leaving kisses to his neck.

“then i was nervous, because you were so… cute. handsome. beautiful.” he moaned when you began to grind in slow, deep strides. your bulges squeezed and pushed one another, peter did the same, growing impossibly bigger against you. “but when i saw you in those shorts, sweating because move-in day was always on a hot day…”

“yeah?” you beckoned him to finish his sentence because you were closing your eyes now, remembering that very moment because you felt the same. the way peter’s chest, his muscles, were broad and stunning under his own layer of sweat, under his loose shirt, under that naivety that you would never have dreamed to think of him as such a…

“i just wanted to fuck you.”

pervert.

the shy smile he gave you messed with your perception of him. clearly, you’ve underestimated him all this time, and you kissed him again. “so, you only thought about pleasuring yourself.”

he quickly broke the kiss to defend himself. “wait, no! t-that’s not what i meant.”

“peter, relax.” your laugh calmly settled into a comforting smile, and you blindly reached down to his thick print, feeling and squeezing at whatever you can because you were desperate to explore him. “i’m joking.” his chest rose.

for the remainder of time, you spent it stroking peter through his underwear. dryly to his frustration, but he never told you because he wanted to experience you in every way. his lips never left yours, only parted to moan into your mouth when you shoved your hand into his briefs to sate your desire to feel him bare.

peter was big in your small hand. the weight felt suffocating to your palm when you grabbed ahold of his sack, fondling his balls, then stroking his cock again, and you were intoxicated in the way he melted under you, looked into you, begged for you to go faster. 

you did. who wouldn’t when he gazed at you with the most puppy-like eyes?

he had complete control of you now, because every action, every stroke, from then on had been a journey to his personal paradise. you didn’t care that you were left abandoned, that you were aching harder than he was. watching him was more than adequate.

both pairs of briefs and shirts have been tossed to the side now, and you maintained your straddle. it was riveting to watch how much bigger peter was when you took both of your cocks together and stroked. he practically enveloped you with the weight of his length, the girth of his shaft, and you wallowed in the fact that he was incredibly bashful about it. 

peter’s hand never left your body. he charmed you by his neediness. it was clumsy in execution, but he always squeezed a moan out of you with he felt your ass, your chest, your nipples, your thighs. “fuck, pete.”

everything about you was beautiful, incredibly more so when you caved into him as he dealt kisses to your bare skin and took his own turn at jerking the both of you off.

he was eager. delirious. hard, stiffening hard, against you, and you felt every vein pulsate the harder— the faster—he squeezed and stroked. you leaned back, hands planted to the mattress beneath you, then maneuvered your hips to the rhythm of his fist. you found a pace while peter kept you steady, and fucked into his fist, against his wet cock, sliming your dripping pre-cum together with the utmost fervor. 

“wait, (m/n),” he hiccuped, and his hold on you tightened, nails dug into your left waist but you ignored his plea, fucking steadily into his fist. “stop, i’m going to-“ they fell on deaf ears, and mouth agape, peter watched you with incredulity. you can feel his body flex, your balls smushed to his when you grinned up, your pre-cum sticking to his, his to yours, like a sick web. “s-stop, oh god.”

and peter unraveled before you with a guttural moan, finishing the rest of his plea with a blasting of thick and creamy ropes to his chest, like a cannon. the force was strong enough to have a few shots land on his face, then his hair, and then somewhere above because peter was a big shooter—a strong one, you’d passionately testify. “f-fuck, i didn’t mean to cum so-“

“holy shit.” you watched peter in all his glory, then in his embarrassment, while stilted on his lap and sweating, not taking notice of the delay of your climax because it crept up on you quick. a rocket broke the cloud in your thoughts with a boom, and you spilled all over him, shooting like fireworks. “shit!”

peter was your canvas, and it was your duty to paint him. debris of sex splattered everywhere, because you somehow found the strength to continue fucking yourself into the cream of fist, unloading and unloading onto him until you were dry, heaving and dripping.  

“fuck- I didn’t mean to ruin your sheets-” he mumbled, a blush stained his cheeks, and you joined in the warmth with a kiss, panting.

“where’s the fun in all of this if you aren’t going to stain at least one thing.” your brows raised at the wet stain on the wall above peter’s head, right below your wall-shelf, and peter’s gazed followed. 

he groaned, distressed by the evident he made. “fuck, sorry…” his bashfulness only endeared you even more. 

“it’s okay,” you hopped off his lap, stretching your arms into the air. “i’ll clean you up.”

“okay,” peter lay still, his hand cautiously held over his stomach to catch the drips of his cum and yours. it was fascinating to watch the mixture flow together, strands of it melding and un-webbing as he played with the sticky residue. it was the scientist in him. “my towel is on the- fuck-“

without a beat, you took his dripping flaccid cock into your mouth, sucking off any remnants of spunk. an unfamiliar taste you weren’t used to, bitter and salty. it wasn’t until you noticed how peter’s eyes glazed over you, half-lidded because he was in heaven now, that you found the taste of him delectable. peter’s caution for staining your bed sheets was disregarded, because he knew you’d clean the rest of him off. 

after you pulled away with a soft pop, he traced your wet lips with the cum on his fingers, then his knuckles, before he pushed one by one into your mouth. one finger at first, then two, then three, you moaned erotically around his digits as peter pumped, marveling in the eagerness of your mouth. he slowly pushed more cum into your mouth. the creamy residue gathered at the corner of your mouth at first but he made sure to scoop it back in, and continued doing so until he was polished clean. 

nothing was wasted. 

the taste of you and him spread in the warmth of your tongue, and you have never felt more intoxicated.

to peter, you have never looked more beautiful.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter One

Synopsis: You quit. The Guardians of the Globe? What a joke. You are surrounded by assholes. Rex-Splode being the biggest of them all. Except, now he keeps trying to call you. And there's a knock at the door.

Pairing: Rex Sloane x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Chapter: 1/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: alcohol mentioned,

Note: My first attempt ever at a fanfiction. Could not find any Rex x Reader on Ao3, and I am a sucker for a slow burn. Just watched two YouTube videos on how to use Tumblr, and here’s the first draft of chapter 1! Please tell me what you think! Once I have more chapters I’m going to post it on Ao3 as well.

Background: Chapter 2 will character build the MC more, this chapter is meant to be more of a hook.

“Go away!”

The knocking stilled for a moment; you stood just a few feet from your front door. God, he did not know how to take a hint. You had turned your phone off over half an hour ago when he first tried to call you. And you were sure if you turned it on now a litany of notifications would hinder it from running smoothly for at least a few minutes.

The silence lasted a bit longer before a few more knocks rapped against the door. It was dark out; it must be late. But to be honest, you were not sure what time it was. After all your phone has been powered off for who knows how long, and you were not about to just sit in front of the microwave for your time-checking purposes.

“Please-” A soft voice said through the door, followed by a soft thud. The assailant must have just put their head against the door. You could picture it. A sad, pathetic sight. With a sigh and a roll of your eyes you responded.

“Why Rex.” It was not really emphasized as a question, but an exasperation. Running a hand through your hair you turned and put your back against the door. Against your better judgment, your fingers brushed against the cool metal of the lock.

There was another long pause, for a second you thought you could hear his breathing, quick, erratic, messy.

It is odd to think that everything has led to this. Years, months, weeks, days, it did not matter, a lifetime had passed since you had both met. He’s an asshole. Has always been an asshole. It was the first thing you thought when he opened his damn mouth during your first encounter. Never had you ever met something so egotistical as Rex-Splode. God, even thinking his name made you want to rip your hair out. It was insane to you that someone could be so in love with themself that they did not even have an identity outside of their “secret” identity.

Maybe he was ashamed on some deeper level. If he was even capable of being that self-aware. Maybe the only interesting things about him were his abilities. Who he is on a level past that is so disappointing and pathetic, pathetic, that he has erased it. He practically lives in his costume, in fact, you once saw him wearing street clothes and before you could fully be surprised, he disintegrated it to reveal that he was in fact, still wearing that damn costume.

But you had to admit, he was able to jump into the action much faster than you because you had to grab your backpack and pull your own costume on. Which regrettably you still are not great at doing with complete efficiency.

He was a good hero though, you could admit this to yourself internally. As unpleasant as he was as an individual, he made up for it in a lot of ways with his competence. They had definitely gotten their asses beat loads of times, but he was never one to give up.

This was one of the few things you admired about him, but as of right now, it was the bane of your night.

“I… I have to talk to you.” The voice responded finally, “Fuck- Please Joy.”

You found yourself rolling your eyes once again. You hated that nickname. And you made it well known. You held nothing short of disdain for that stupid, stupid-

And then he whispers something, it hardly makes its way through the wood. You cock your head slightly in surprise, pointing your ear towards the door. And then you hear it again, a little louder this time, you had not imagined it. Rex had just said your name, your actual name, not your alias, or any of his ridiculous nicknames for you, your given name. You could count on one hand how many times you remembered him saying it.

Suddenly you’re unlocking the door, bad idea, and you’re pulling it ajar just slightly, bad idea.

His hair is wet, it must be raining outside. It’s too bad you cannot hear it in your apartment, it would be nice to lull off to sleep to the rhythmic tapping. There is also a faint scent of alcohol. Great. Much to your surprise he is wearing street clothes right now, but part of you wonders if even now he is wearing that orange and yellow suit underneath. That cannot be comfortable.

After a few moments of silence, you realize you are just standing there looking him up and down. Is he not going to say anything? Your mouth parts slightly, ready to say something snarky, your brow rising.

“Can I come in?”

Silence again. No, you cannot come in, I hate you and I hate your stupid face and your stupid ponytail, man-bun, whatever it is. You have done nothing but complicate my life and make me feel miserable.

“Fine.” Shit.

You shuffled slightly to the side, letting him come in. He took in your apartment for a second, seemingly forgetting why he was here. In the dim light of your apartment you could see now that not only was his hair wet, but he seemed to be almost soaked, scratch that, he definitely was soaked.

“Did you walk here?” Disbelief is clear in your tone. Headquarters was much too far, a twenty-minute drive on a good day. Maybe he had been drinking at a nearby bar, but that was still quite the walk.

“What? No.” There was that familiar indignation. Most assuredly a lie though, there was no other reason why he would be quite literally trailing water into your entryway. Rex had a way of seeming disingenuous no matter what he said, which made it hard to see through his lies sometimes, but you were starting to be able to pick up on certain cues.

He walked up to a shelving unit in your living room. It had books on it, not that you ever had time to read, they were mostly birthday and last-minute housewarming gifts. There were some framed photos too, well kind of. There were picture frames that still had the generic stock footage in them from the store. A sad reminder of the fact you could not have a normal life, and now Rex was staring at them.

“You like the family tree?” You finally quip, sighing as you leave to go get some towels from the other room “You’re making a mess everywhere.” You state dryly, handing him a towel and drying up the trail he left from where he was standing to the front door.

Rex simply gave an absent-minded hum. He never shut up for this long usually, it was nearly impossible to get a word in without him feeling the need to have the last word during your first. Even if you were not saying something that could be argued with, he always seemed to find a way. He hesitated for a moment just standing holding the towel before he tried to dry off the ends of his pants which were the major culprit of the indoor mess.

You could not deny your mind was racing, and he was apparently in no hurry to explain why he wanted to come in. After spending far too much time making a sad attempt at banging down your door, he was suddenly docile. He was not looking at you and his hands were fiddling with the damp towel. If you did not know better, you might even think he was nervous. Had he even looked at you since entering?

“I like your apartment, the interior design in here is… nice.” He finally said.

What.

“Oh, thanks?” What? “It actually came mostly furnished; I did not want to search for furniture while also trying to settle in with the Guardians you know? Kinda…busy.” What is happening right now?

“Oh.” He seemed almost disappointed. “Well, it’s nice.”

Great talk.

“So-”

“Uh-”

“Oh sorry-”

“No, you go first.”

YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WAS JUST BEGGING ME TO LET YOU IN WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘No, you go first’ WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

“Not to interrupt your sightseeing in my apartment, but what exactly do you want Rex?” Silence. Again. Is he drunk? He’s not swaying, but you definitely caught the scent of it earlier. He was not usually the poster child for moderation either. But he was also not slurring, then again, he has said approximately seven words since walking in so how can you really know.

“You have to come back to the Guardians of the Globe-”

“No.”

Theres the eye contact, first time since he walked it, but now it felt weird. You wish he would go back to staring at the embarrassing frames on the shelf.

“You’re a strong asset to the team-”

“Oh do not give me that rehearsed bullshit. Is Cecil feeding that to you right now? Because that’s a new low for him.” That was not a new low for Cecil, he has definitely gone much lower. You knew this after learning more about the ReAnimen.

“Fuck, Joy what do you want me to say?” He held his hands out in exasperation, taking a step towards you.

“I am not going back; you’re wasting your time. I am sure that you have better ways to spend your evening than being here beating a dead horse. Also, I am getting tired of you calling me that.” You step back towards the door, grabbing the handle to escort him out.

“Half the Guardians just left on some bullshit expedition to Mars, only Rae, Kate, and I stayed behind.” He folded his arms and did not budge. “If anything happens-” He gritted his teeth, man it must have almost physically hurt for him to admit that you were a good member. It was not too long ago that he practically threw a fit when Cecil introduced you. “At least wait until the others get back to go on this pity party.”

Rude.

“Seriously?” You could not believe the nerve he had to beg to be let in and then pull whatever this was. “If you need back-up so bad ask Mark.”

“He left with them.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Honestly Rex, I do not care. You’re a big boy, I think you can hero without me holding your hand for a little bit.”

“What is your deal!” He glared but then closed his eyes taking a breath. “I did not come here to fight or force you.”

Cute, he’s doing self-affirmations now. Okay, time to go. Out.

“Alright this has been fun, bye Rex!” You started to open the door just to feel it slam shut again. Your gaze snapped up to his hand pressed against the door. He moved fast.

“Fuck this isn’t-” He was a little too close for comfort. You back away, your hand trailing off the door handle. His eyes follow you closely.

“Rex, you’re drunk-” You start, your arms crossing over your chest.

“No-”

“It is really late-”

“No-”

“I am tired, it’s been a really long day-”

Your name, said loud, for the third time tonight, finally shuts you up for a second.

“You’re not listening.” There’s a tense silence now, his hand is still against the door even though you have stepped away. “I’m not drunk.” He almost whispered, shaking his head as if even he did not know where he was going with this.

Right… sure…

If there was one more long silence you were going to do something violent.

“Do you need me to call a car to drive you back?” You said quickly, turning around to go get your phone. He did not say anything, but you could hear him impatiently tapping his foot behind you. After a second of holding down the power button your phone flashed to life. As you expected it struggled for a bit, once fully on a litany of messages flashed across the screen and your notification sound went off an obnoxious amount of times. You turned around to see Rex now pinching the bridge of his nose. It was such a bizarre situation you almost wanted to laugh. But instead, you ordered a car. Five minutes out.

“You did not really leave because of me, did you?” It takes you off guard, his voice is soft, there is no layered sarcasm. It is almost vulnerable feeling.

“What do you want me to say?” You mirrored his words from earlier back to him, raising your eyebrow. Was it one hundred percent his fault? No. Was it approximately ninety-two-point-eight percent his fault? Yeah, that sounded about right. But what productive would come from telling him that?

“Say it wasn’t my fault.” He rasped. He stepped towards you again. You stepped back again.

He almost looks hurt.

“The car is going to be here soon, let me show you out.”

“Goddamn it.” His jaw tensed and he looked away, but did not say anything else, and stepped aside so that you could open the door.

The tense feeling did not stay behind you in your living room, it followed you down the hall. The other apartment doors one by one make you feel like you were in a box of mirrors. Did it always take this long to get to the elevator? If you lived in an apartment building with less stairs you would have jumped at that. Quickly running down the stairs with only the footsteps resounding in your head. The idea of the two of you standing side by side in the elevator as 13 floors passed was not one you were fond of.

You shook your head to yourself remembering his outburst about not being drunk. You were getting very tired of the lies. Pressing the elevator button there was nothing left to do but wait in more silence.

Maybe you should go back to the Headquarters with him.

If he was telling the truth about the Mars trip, then it might be better for you to be around. Even if Rex was lying through his teeth earlier about you being an “asset” in his eyes, you actually were. Even if he did not truly think so.

God, no what are you thinking? You have not even been gone twenty-four hours; you haven’t even been able to sleep on it. No way.

But a part of you wanted to make sure Rex got back safe. Even if he made horrible decisions and bruised your pride more often than not, you had been through a lot of fights together. And he does not seem to be thinking clearly.

With a ding, the elevator door opened, and you stepped in, Rex following behind. You pressed the button for the first floor.

Begrudgingly, you had to admit he had even saved your skin more than once, not just in the field but to the team before as well. He was not one to step down when he thought someone was being unrighteously lectured. Even if he did not like the person being lectured very much. He must have had some sense of loyalty. God forbid you defend him though, or he would get upset you did not let him handle it himself. Now you were getting irritated all over again at several unpleasant memories.

If you were one hundred percent honest you were probably going to go back to the Guardians after a week, maybe less. It would be embarrassing after the scene you made about leaving “for good” but you were meant for it. What good were you if you were not a hero? A week. Maybe less. Rex gave you approximately fourteen hours.

You glanced over at him without turning your head. He was biting the inside of his cheek, staring straight forward. No readable expression. Why was he so quick to try hauling you back? He could hardly stand being in the same room as you for more than five minutes. You used to pride yourself on being mostly likable, you had very few enemies. You were even nice to Rex for quite some time, but it did not make a difference. He was just an ass. An ass who thinks to come to your apartment when he’s drunk? He turned his head slightly and you faced forward again with a snap.

The elevator dinged again, ground level.

Hurriedly, you leave the elevator, a certain discomfort you couldn’t place enveloping you. The glass doors are an entryway ahead of you, showing clearly how much it was pouring outside. No wonder he was unintentionally giving your floor a spot clean. You could see the car waiting outside, the rain showing even more clearly in the beams of the headlights.

You could hear it now, the thrumming of the rain. It immediately made you feel more relaxed. You did not hold the glass door for Rex.

It was very cold outside; you should have grabbed a coat. I guess you had more pressing matters on your mind. You sighed to yourself, not able to hear it over the rain. The windshield wipers of the car squeaked as you got closer. You waited a moment for the driver to open the passenger window, telling them where to take him, and to make sure he gets inside fine. If the driver was just some random guy this would have been highly irregular and definitely not in their job description. But it was one of Cecil’s guys, so they knew exactly where to go.

The passenger window closes, and you go to open the back seat for Rex. Once again, his hand stops the door from fully opening and you prepare yourself for another short-lived argument. But you glance up and he’s just… looking at you.

There’s that feeling again, from when you left the elevator. Was it apprehension? Waiting for him to say something stupid? You shifted back slightly; he leaned forward slightly.

Odd.

“The driver will take you to the headquarters.” You say finally, your gaze jerking from his eyes to his shirt collar. You could see a sliver of orange and yellow and for a second you thought triumphantly that you knew it. He is wearing it still, typical. Focus.

“Come with me.” His brow is furrowed, he must be angry. Angry he was not able to force you into submission, into coming back.

“No.” You said softly, managing a sympathetic smile. You needed at least twenty-four hours of not being around that ridiculous team.

He leaned forward slightly more; you were very close now. That feeling again. Manual breathing is now the only thing that enters your mind. How do you remember to breathe when you are not actively thinking about it? How did you manage for so long until right now? Because this is taking a lot of effort to make sure you’re breathing normally.

“Please.” He’s not looking you in the eye, his eyes have flickered down for a moment, a blink and you miss it moment. You did not blink, and you did not miss it. His lips are slightly parted, and he edges forward what could not have been more than a millimeter. Your gaze returns to his eyes. There is no way. He is drunk and you are imagining this, go to bed.

“Goodnight Rex.” You finally say, but you do not back away immediately. He is entirely in your personal space. But a small insignificant voice in your mind is screaming at you not to move, not to go back to your apartment. You had to know why he was there. For Pete’s sake, it had only been fourteen hours. Why were you now standing here feeling crazy wondering if he was actually leaning forward more. You needed him to explain.

And then you stepped back.

If you did not know better the emotion that crossed his face would have looked a lot like disappointment.

Rex got into the car and closed the door. You turned around to watch it drive off. A shiver ran through your body. Damn rain.

He’s an asshole. Has always been an asshole. It was the first thing you thought when he opened his damn mouth during your first encounter.

Divider credit: @/ saradika

Chapter two

[nubiawrites]

chapter 3

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Black Original Character

Warnings: Slow burn. Kissing. Thigh riding. Dry humping. 18+

Summary: Upon finding that the development process of her script moving along, Iriye gets more than one greenlight when Aaron and her go over the script.

Notes: Remember how I said this was a slowburn? It still is but you get a little treat for being patient. If you want to be tagged to be notified, like, reblog or reply to this. Let me know what you think!

MASTERLIST

It had been a trying three weeks, waiting to hear what the studio would say about the latest draft. But Iriye was more worried about what the woman in front of her thought than a bunch of studio execs.

Iriye paced a little as she watched Tamara read the last few pages of the latest draft of the script. For as long as the two had known each other, her friend still reading anything of hers filled her with nerves, excitement, and wonder. Not out of fear but knowing that whatever she wrote was safe with her friend. 

“How do you do it?” Tamara asks, putting the pages down. Iriye smiled at her, shaking her head.

“You’re flattering me too much,” Iriye took a sip of her water, her friend moving to sit up.

“It’s never too much flattering when it comes to you. As someone who remembers the short film scripts you were begging your professor to accept when you had the chance to write anything, I have always known how talented you were and how you would keep growing in that,” Tamara spoke into Iriye. “You are magic. You’re that girl,”

Iriye giggled. “Okay, I believe you. But tell me again, one time for the one time,” She joked. Tamara shook her head. 

“You’re an alien superstar. Especially after all those notes those white people gave,” Tamara shook her head. “That’s two hours of my life I will never get back. Two hours I could have spent looking at self-tapes for actresses,”

“With great power comes great responsibility. RIP Uncle Ben,” Iriye chuckled.

Tamara chuckled just as Nelly came into the office, practically bubbling with excitement.

“We got it!” Nelly practically screamed. “Did you check your email?”

Iriye pulled up her phone and braced herself as she clicked, seeing an email from Davis.

“The execs are very impressed with this draft. We’re sending it over to talent,” Iriye read aloud, the biggest smile taking over her face.

“We going to Hollywood, y’all!” Nelly yelled out. “Let me get the bottle of champagne we’ve been saving,”

“Not so fast! We’re not greenlit yet,” Tamara pointed out before Nelly could run to their mini fridge.

“And you’re not allowed to pop any more bottles within a twelve-foot radius of us. I’m almost lost an eye,” Iriye reminded. “But did you lose one?” Nelly said. “If I can’t do that, what can I do?” 

“You want to send over the script through the studio system to Aaron,” Iriye asked. “I know you love any interaction you can have with him,” She teased.

“You say that like I’m not passing notes between you and him,” Nelly admitted.

“Passing notes?” Tamara chuckled. “I need to hear more,”

Iriye rolled her eyes before settling back on the sofa in Tamara’s office.

“You want the truth or what I'm reading between the lines,” Nelly sat beside Iriye, sending her a playful side-eye.

“Anything you have to say for yourself, Iriye?” Tamara asked. Nelly pretended to hold a mic toward Iriye before the latter swatted it out of her face.

“It’s nothing! He asked for my number when we had lunch,” Iriye mumbled.

“You guys had lunch together? Where the hell was I?” Tamara asked. 

“Having lunch with some film bro,” Nelly shot out. “What? I manage your calendar,”

“It was just the both of us discussing film stuff. He wants to work with us,” Iriye shrugged. “It was friendly but professional. Trust me,”

“Then why did he say in his email to call any time?” Nelly mentioned. “I think you two forgot I was cc’ed on that email,” 

Iriye shook her head. “I’ll go send that script,” she said, trying to leave, but Nelly pulled her back down to sit.

“Aaron is fine. You can admit that right,” Nelly asked.

“She can. She's just trying to be professional,” Tamara chuckled.

“Aaron is handsome. There, I said it,” Iriye huffed, seeing the twinkle in the two other women’s eyes. “And he smells good, too,” She said before she rushed out of the office. Hopefully, that would tire them over, even if she heard Nelly’s calling out the word bitch.

After calling it a short day at the office, Iriye had gone home and spent the rest of her afternoon vibing to music as she looked over other scripts she had put on hold when tackling the feature Lanoire Productions wanted to take on first with their deal. Paradise Lost. A black rom-com with influences of the nineties and two thousand films that bonded Tamra and herself into a sisterhood. It wasn’t a dream deferred any longer. 

Just as Iriye was laughing at a line she wrote in a pilot, her phone began ringing. She looked over to see an unknown number appeared on her screen. Lowering her music, she hit the talk button, preparing to tell them they had the wrong number.

“Hello?” Iriye asked, holding the phone to her ear.

“I’m guessing you didn’t save my number,” Aaron spoke through the phone, his voice running over Iriye like scotch.

“I swore I did,” Iriye lied. She had been distracted, her brain trying to come up with excuses. “Are you calling to give me shit about it?” A deep chuckle rolled through Aaron’s chest, sitting in the seat in his trailer. “I come in peace as I always have. I got the script, and I wanted to see if I could come over to the production office to talk to you about it,”

“Too bad I’m not in the office,” Iriye admitted. “I gave myself the rest of the day off,”

“Good for you,” Aaron stated. “Since I got the script, the execs are ready to go. You should be proud,”

“I am. Thank you,” She said. “But I can’t celebrate until they give us the green light, which means attaching some talent. And from what I’ve heard, you got some competition,”

“Competition? If you don’t want me, say that,” Aaron stated.

“Boy, stop,” Iriye let out. His chuckle rang through the phone. “Shouldn’t you be shooting something right now,”

“Lucky for you, I wrapped for the day,” Aaron said. “I’m about to pack up and head out,”

“Lucky for me?” Iriye rolled her eyes at this man. “How so?”

“Well, I wanted to talk more about the script. I read it during lunch, and I wanted to discuss it some more,” 

Iriye sat up, moving her laptop off of her lap. “You read it during lunch? You must have had a long lunch,”

“I’m a quick reader when something captivates me,” Aaron admitted. “I want to discuss this more because I have so many questions. Maybe I can pick your brain over dinner if you’re up for it,” He asked as he smoothed out his pants leg and waited for her to say something.

“I hate to admit it, but I’m already lounging around. I don’t think I can get myself together to go out,” 

“Then I’ll come to you,” Iriye chuckled at Aaron’s words. “Send your address. I’ll pick something up and bring it over,”

“Aaron,” Iriye breathed, looking at her place. 

“Have you eaten?”

“No,” Iriye admitted.

“Send me your address. And if you have any allergies,”

“I don’t,” Iriye bit her lip. “Check your phone. And honestly, please do not bring anything healthy. I earned it today,”

“Got it, Miss Edwards,” Aaron spoke, his deep voice making Iriye’s stomach nervous. She said goodbye and hung up, her head falling to the back of the couch. 

“What the hell,” Iriye spoke aloud. She moved to get up, figuring he would be here within the hour. Iriye wasn’t playing when she said she had been lounging around, wearing booty shorts, no bra, and a baggy shirt. 

Iriye went to her room and stripped her clothes to change into high-waisted jeans and a concert t-shirt, tucking it into her jeans to make A Victoria Monet concert t-shirt look more hip.

She went to her bathroom, pulling her goddess locs out of her ponytail. She shook her locs out and grabbed her makeup bag, looking in the mirror.  If her mother could see her now, trying to make herself up for some man she hardly knew… she would at least be proud.

Iriye put on some mascara, forgoing foundation because she wasn’t about to do all that for an hour with Aaron. They were going to eat—that was all—eat and talk. She found a lip gloss that was not too much and swiped it on her lips.

She looked at her reflection; her brown skin still looked good from the skincare routine she did earlier after she watched her face. She looked at her foundation; Fenty-four twenty would have to wait.

Iriye quickly swept her place to make sure it looked good, stacking books she had strewn around and fluffing the throw pillows. As she moved to put her shoes on the shoe rack, she nearly tripped over them.

After more nervous tidying up, she went to the little bar cart in her kitchen and decided she needed a shot of something strong to quell the nerves. She grabbed a glass and poured a shot. 

It was a matter of time before there was a knock at her door, and she headed to the door, shaking the nerves out, and opened it. 

“Hey,” Iriye breathed, seeing Aaron standing in her doorway, hoodie and glasses on. He had to lean down some to come into her doorway. 

���Hey,” Aaron put his backpack down, and Iriye took the two takeout bags from him. “I got Chinese. It felt like a safe bet,”

“You made a good choice, Mister Pierre. You might earn that conversation about Paradise Lost after all,”

Iriye placed the bags on her coffee table, trying not to watch as he turned to take his shoes off, his ass hugged nicely by his khaki pants.

I am no better than a man. Iriye headed to the kitchen to grab some forks and plates. When she returned, she saw Aaron pulling out all the take-out containers, so she moved to sit by him.

“Is this all for me?” Iriye joked.

“For us. I didn’t know what you wanted or liked,” Aaron stated. A genuine smile came over her face as she looked at him.

Once they finished their feast, Aaron pulled the script and a journal out as Iriye moved the take-out containers out of the way. 

“I hope you know you’re not getting any of that kung pao chicken leftovers to take home,” She muttered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love,” He stated, and Iriye had to ignore the nerves he was causing. Aaron opened his journal as Iriye returned and peeked to see what he had written.

“That’s a lot of notes,” Iriye chuckled. He let her see more of it, and she caught a whiff of cologne again, clearing her throat. He looked over at her, his greyish-green eyes bright and beautiful. “Okay, hit me with it,”

“Isaiah is probably the most raw character I have ever read in a script before,” Aaron started. “His passion. His being. Everything about him… I was hooked within the first few pages. But by the end of Act One, I was rooting for him,”

As he spoke, Iriye was caught in his words about how he could grasp the character entirely. It was hard enough to focus on his actual words when she noticed how sharp his jaw was or the veins on his hands. 

“But this character… he’s so lived in. So real. You really outdid yourself, Iriye,” Aaron praised.

“Thank you,” Iriye felt the wall she was desperately trying to keep up with him coming down a little. But she needed to put some space between them. “You want a drink?” Aaron relaxed back on the couch as she moved away from him.

“Yes, I’ll take whatever you’re drinking,” Aaron said.

Iriye headed to her bar cart and began making them a whiskey sour, feeling like she could kill even more nerves with liquid courage, especially if he were going to seduce her with how insightful he was in talking about Eric and the story of Paradise Lost.

Iriye brought back their drinks, and Aaron thanked her as he took his drink.

“Cheers to you and this getting greenlit,” Aaron held his glass up to hers. She tapped her glass to his and took a sip; the liquor burned, making it slip easily down her throat. 

“Like I told Nelly, we’re not greenlit until talent gets attached, and the execs are cool with it,” Iriye explained. 

“You’ve been saying that for weeks. It’s going to happen, Iriye. I always keep my word,”

Iriye just shook her head at Aaron’s words, watching him take another sip and lick the liquor off his lower lip.

“Can I admit something?” Iriye asked. He nodded. “I went down a rabbit hole of your previous roles,”

“Oh. I wasn’t expecting that,”

“Neither was I, but if anything, Nelly is to blame,” Iriye pointed out. Aaron chuckled. “She sent me a clip from Foe, and I have Prime, so I decided to watch it,” He nodded along, listening to her. “That’s the only one I watched. I didn’t want to get you even more stuck in my head,”

“Can I admit something?” Aaron responded. “Nelly sent me the short films you and Tamara have made. I wanted to know more. So she sent me a few,”

“Of course she did,”

“Nelly is always at the scene of the crime,” Aaron chuckled, Iriye joining in. “But I can tell why she is so passionate for Lanoire. For Tamara. For you. You’re an artist. You care about your work. It’s breathtaking to me. You’re breathtaking to me,”

“Breathtaking on paper. We gotta see it on film now,”

“You will. I already told my team I want to sign on for Paradise Lost,” Aaron stated. 

“Stop playing,” Iriye shook her head, taking another sip of her drink.

“I’m serious, Iriye,” He replied.

Iriye blinked twice at Aaron, looking at her with a slight smirk on his face. His smile grew as Iriye realized he wasn’t joking. She downed the rest of her drink and stood up, needing to pace and calm down.

“You good?” Aaron watched in concern.

Iriye just continued pacing as she heard his words. 

“No, not really,” Iriye stated. Aaron got up and moved to her, stopping her so she could face him. He saw her deep brown eyes, a sense of fear running through them as he moved to cup her cheek, her so aware of his rough hands on her cheeks. “What are you getting out of this?”

“A chance to bring something beautiful you created to life. The script is something I’ve never gotten to do before. To be a part of that would be an honor,” Aaron said, his thumbs stroking her cheeks softly, and she felt herself calming down.

“You’re nothing like I expected,” Iriye closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and smelling his cologne invading her senses.

“Good,” Aaron tilted her head. Iriye opened her eyes, seeing him staring her down intensely. She was so drawn to him as he surrounded her senses.

Iriye saw the thought flicker across Aaron’s eyes as he looked down at her lips and felt him lean close to her. His head touched hers, her hands traveling up his arms to grasp him.

“Aaron,” Iriye breathed and he pulled her close. “We shouldn’t,”

“We shouldn’t what?” Aaron repeated, tempting her to say it. 

“This… We can’t do this,” Iriye trailed her hands to his on her cheeks. She was trying to find the urge to pull away, but it went all out of the window as he was warm and present with her.

“What’s stopping you?” Aaron brushed his nose against hers softly. “Give me three good reasons,”

“One, you’re tipsy,” Iriye pointed out.

“I only took one sip,” Aaron said, one of his thumbs slowly reaching her chin.

“Two, we don’t know each other well,” Iriye stated, not even caring if his thumb traced over her bottom lip.

“I want to get to know you. I’ve been showing it for the past couple of weeks,” Aaron reminded her. With every email and chance, he had to chat with her. 

Iriye had to keep a clear mind, but it was hard when he was so close to her. Her hands trailed down to his side, resting there to try and focus herself.

“Three, we’re going to be working together now. So, it would be completely unprofessional. A total conflict of interest,” Iriye was trying to stay firm in her decision, but it was going out the window as he pulled her closer. Her body was pressing against all the sinewy muscles that made Aaron.

“It would be wrong,” Aaron nodded. “Does this feel wrong?” He pulled back, his hands moving from her face to her waist, where they stayed politely, brushing against the little sliver of skin between her shirt and jeans.

Iriye was ready to say fuck it so badly. He hadn’t kissed her, frustrating her as much as it turned her on.

“No,” Iriye admitted.

“As much as I want you to kiss me first,” Aaron’s hands went to squeeze the softness of her sides. “I don’t want to compromise your resolve. So if this helps,” He leaned down, and those full bow-shaped lips pressed softly against hers.

Iriye was shocked. How could he be so tender, his lips pressing softly against hers? He was waiting for a reaction because he got one from her. She kissed him back.

The softness that was shared between them was beginning to become intoxicating. Aaron trailed his hands up her arms and placed them around his neck. The movement had her breast pressing against his hard chest, and though she wasn’t trying to make it sexual, a sensual whimper escaped her.

To her surprise, Aaron pulled away first. He took a deep breath as Iriye realized she was in a daze, her arms around his neck. She was about to unwrap herself from him when he stopped her.

“No,” Aaron breathed, the command light on his tongue. He pulled them back to the couch, moving to sit. He pulled his hands off of her body to take his glasses off, setting them on the coffee table. But Aaron again placed his hands on her hips, looking up at her. The hues of his eyes darkened with lust, and she liked it. Liked him having to look up at her from her seated position.

“What do you want right now, Iriye?” He asked her. Talking was too much for Iriye. She needed to show. She let her legs slip between his as he sat on the couch, straddling his thigh some before leaning down. She used one hand to hold onto the back of the couch while the other hand trailed over the nape of Aaron’s neck. She softly dragged her nails and heard a groan vibrate through his chest. “I’m going at your pace,”

“I want… if I do what I want right now, we’re going down a road we can’t come back from,” Iriye whispered. “But I want to. I really want-” Before she could even say another word, Aaron took control and pulled her down till her jean-covered core hit his thigh. “Aaron,” She gasped.

“We’re already here. Trust me, I don’t think I wanna go back now,” Aaron stated. Iriye raised an eyebrow at him. “Take what you want from me,”

Iriye swallowed as she settled onto his thigh. His thigh was muscular and pressing against the seam just right. She gave an experimental rock of her hips, a breathy gasp coming out as Aaron held her hips still in his hands. She felt a bit uncoordinated as she still had one leg pressing between his crotch while the other was on the couch. She paused for a moment, pulling back before she properly straddled him.

“Is this okay?” Iriye let her weight rest on Aaron, and he let out a groan as her center met his. God, it shook her to the core.

“Yeah, much better,” His British accent became more assertive in his voice with those words. Iriye watched him as she rolled her hips forward, seeing the breathy groan he let out. She discovered he was vocal quickly as she began a pace, moving her hips deliberately to see what sounds he made.

When Iriye knew she was doing something right as she ground on Aaron, his hands would flex or grasp her hips.

“Stay right there,” Aaron begged. Her face was pressed against his temple as she ground, the pressure delicious as it caught her clit, and she felt her core growing wet.

“Yes,” Iriye whimpered. His right hand trailed up to cup her ass cheek, and she looked at him shocked. He pushed his hips up against her as he pulled her down onto his throbbing bulge through his khakis.

Iriye had to suppress the cry that left her lips by kissing him, and the two of them began to move their hips in sync, their kisses matching just as close. Her hands moved to cup his neck and cheeks as she worked with him to dry hump him. But there was nothing remotely dry on her side.

Aaron licked the seam of her lips, and Iriye gave him entrance, his tongue licking the roof of her mouth. 

“Shit,” Iriye moaned into his mouth. That movement alone made her wonder what it would feel like to have him doing that to her lower set of lips. He pulled away with a grin.

“It feels good, doesn’t it,” Aaron trailed his lips down her chin and neck. She nodded, letting her nails dig slightly into the nape of his neck. She felt him retaliate with a nip to her neck and her breast pressed into his chest, nipples starting to strain her bra. “God, this isn’t even enough,”

“I know,” Iriye moaned, riding Aaron a little faster as she wanted to chase the feeling deep inside her. One that would quell her momentarily with a release. Aaron kept up with her pace, cupping her ass cheek harder as he moved her more.

“You’re right there, aren’t you?”Aaron grunted against her neck. Iriye nodded. “Take it. I know you want to. Use me,” He leaned back, studying her face. He wanted to take in every sign of her impending pleasure. Seeing he was serious, Iriye rolled her hips even faster. 

Aaron’s moans and groans just served to turn Iriye on even more, especially feeling his bulge against her core. She rode him harder, her clit catching on the inseam of her jeans, and she pressed her head into his neck as she felt the telltale signs. She was close and about to cum in her jeans from dry humping. As immature as it probably was, this was the hottest thing to happen with the opposite sex and her in a while.

“Just like that, Iriye,” Aaron groaned. 

“Aaron…” Aaron gripped Iriye’s ass harder and whined. It took him lifting and gripping her ass so close to her core, causing her to cry out, her body shaking as she came. She didn’t even have time to cry out fully as Aaron pressed his lips against hers and ate up every single whimper and moan. She was sensitive, but he helped her by keeping moving till the waves subsided and the tingle in her stomach subsided.

Iriye felt the kisses Aaron and her share become pecks and his length hard against his pants. 

“Fuck,” Iriye said as she realized he didn’t get off. “I didn’t mean to be selfish,”

“I wanted you too,” Aaron said, his voice deep and strained. She kissed him again before hiding her face on his shoulder.

As the haze of lust came down from her, Iriye had to ask her: What the hell did I just do?

@bluewatersfairy @coquitobby @honeysilkandcinnamon @insaneevanity @meleekabenjamin @theogbadbitch @slowlysteadycoffee @ashanti-notthesinger @thisbeautifullifeofmeandyou @mysticalbiscuitalien3 @irishmanwhore @alonahh @grooveoftiro @gabriellalover @ovohanna24 @ticalsstallion @strawberrymoon45 @hi888888sworld @msuncensered @yurfavdealer @honeys-archives @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theunsweetenedtruth @blackpinup22 @niggaronnn @aritannahrocks1300 @htnqueen305 @333symone @appelle-moi-si-tu-te-perds-numb6 @bombshellbre95 @wildwomanalereyia @teenage-aria @skvrpion @absentmindeddreamer @blackpinup22 @liv10002 @styleismyaddiction @jungwonsgfs @hooliemooliedonutshawp

[imtaashu]

She Waited. I Didn’t.

POV: Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: He asked for space. You gave it. He thought you’d always be there. But love doesn’t wait forever.

Genre: Angst | Regret | Lost Love

Word Count: ~950

Warnings: Emotional repression, heavy guilt, themes of self-sabotage, missed chances

💌Author’s Note: this piece honestly wrecked me while writing. slipping into bucky’s head and exploring his guilt, his silence, and the way he breaks without her… it hurt in all the right ways.

i’m still new to writing from this kind of POV, so thank you if you took the time to read it 🖤

if you’d like to see a reunion i’d love to continue this little heartbreak universe. just let me know ;)

your support—likes, reblogs, even the tiniest tags—means everything <3

This is part 2 of a story! You can find part 1 here. 💕

I thought she’d wait. That’s the truth.

I thought—She always did.

When I woke up screaming, she stayed.

When I pulled away, she pulled closer.

When I said I couldn’t do love, she said she’d do enough for both of us.

So when I said “I need space,”

I thought she’d still be there when I came back.

But when I came back…

She wasn’t..

——————————

The first time I met her, I didn’t believe in softness.

Not for me.

Not after what I’d done.

Not after what had been done to me.

But she sat across from me on that rooftop, legs swinging over the edge, and asked,

“What scares you the most?” And I said, “Loving someone who deserves better.” She didn’t flinch didn’t run. Just whispered, “Then let me be brave for both of us.”

God, I think that was the first time I wanted to live for something that didn’t involve survival. She made space for me and I used it to push her away.

Every time she held me, I told myself I didn’t deserve it. Every time she looked at me like I was worth the world, I looked away. Because if I met her eyes for too long, I was scared I’d believe it.

——————————

The night I left, she didn’t cry. She didn’t beg.She just nodded. Softly. Quietly.

Like someone watching the tide pull away the thing they love most.

I didn’t know it then—but that was the last time she looked at me like I was hers. I told myself it was for her that I was protecting her. But that’s a lie. Iwas protecting me.

From the weight of being loved that deeply.

From the responsibility of being someone else’s heart.

——————————

I thought she’d wait. But love isn’t a hotel room with the light on. It’s a heartbeat and even the strongest ones can’t keep beating for someone who doesn’t come home.

I came back two months later, flowers in one hand, some shitty excuse in the other. I knocked. No answer. I tried again the next day. Still nothing..

By the third day, I found the courage to check the doormat—where she used to leave me spare keys in case I came over late.

There was nothing.

Just a dead love fern on the windowsill and her hoodie wasn’t in the hallway anymore. Mine still hung on her chair.

I asked Natasha if she’d heard from her. She looked at me with a kind of sadness I hadn’t seen since the war. “She waited, Buck,” she said “for weeks then she stopped.”

I found the article she wrote. Unpublished.

Buried in her drafts folder online.

“He walked away, and I let him. Not because I wanted to. But because you can’t make someone stay. You can only make it hurt less when they don’t.”

I sat there for hours. Just staring.

——————————

I still dream of her sometimes of the way she used to trace the scar on my collarbone like it wasn’t ugly of the way she always made two cups of coffee, even when I hadn’t stayed the night of her sleepy voice, whispering, “I hope one day you forgive yourself enough to stay.”

If I could go back, I’d choose her. Every single time even if it broke me even if I was scared because now? now I’m haunted by the sound of a door I closed—and the echo of her not opening it again.

-end

[annicht]

teamwork

Kuroo Tetsurou x reader | very suggestive fluff

word count: 1.8k

Warnings: post timeskip Kuroo x coworker! reader, fluff nsfw-ish language

@ anni says: I'm Kuroo Tetsurou's whore. neways, this was just another self indulgent drabble that was lost in my drafts. [cover by loony, go give her some lov]

the lingering stares, the coffee excuses, the light subtle touches while exchanging papers, the gossipy chatting every lunch break,

the way you look so goddamn hot when you’re focused in your work and how that sometimes distracts him from his own work…

and also the inhuman strenght he needed to gather to divert his stare from your plump thighs when you cross your legs under the desk… the privileged view from his desk across from yours can be also a burden sometimes

and then there’s that damn high heels you use… not often, though. only when there’s important meetings. makes you feel more confident, you said once. but god, when you use it he just want to lay on the floor for you to step on him

there’s more and more and so much more about the office bond he shares with you that irks him both in the right and wrong ways.

working in the JVA marketing implied that your most strong stakeholder was the promotion division, once the areas needed each other to thrive

therefore, makes total sense that you and Kuroo were so close to each other, right?

so it’s normal when you’re training a new intern and he tags along with the excuse to help you, but spends the whole time glaring menacingly at the guy when he stares at your cleavage a little to much, isn’t it?

or when he passes by your desk, leaving a chocolate every other week, with his handwriting in a note thay says “that presentation was sick, congratulations ;]” or “you deserve a raise, but take this chocolate in the meantime >:)” or some other silly thing that makes you smile

your eyes always dart to him, flashing a playful smile

but you also can’t help but think to yourself that he wanna fuck you so bad— and the thought itself is so entertaining that you shake your head, snorting, as he eyes you puzzled

the tension is clear for you as much as it is for him… he, too, checked all your boxes. a handsome smoking hot smart and competent man that has his eyes set on you? you’d be crazy not to enjoy

so, eventually, you would throw paper balls at him while he’s focused, making him roll his eyes and smirk

but also, you bring him coffee when you go get it for you. you know how he likes, he works so close to you, why wouldn’t you bring him one too?

and the glint in his eyes makes it worth it every damn time

neither of you were making the first move so soon, but everyone in the office knows about the unspoken bond you share, gaining some attention in gossip groups around the floor

but then, one day, you were working until very late, apparently alone at the office.

and suddenly, he popped up back in the office after having left already, with a can of beer, a loosened tie, two buttons opened, walking torwards your desk, placing the beer on your desk, beside your papers

you looked at him tilting your head puzzled

“Where did you get that?”

“At the bar across the street”

you tilted your head even more

“You were at the bar across the street and came back to the office to hand me a beer?”

“Exactly”

he said matter-of-factly, making you snort. his words were subtly slured, indicating he drank enough to get at least tipsy

“Why?”

“Why not?”

he answered shrugging, and you read through his attempt to divert the topic. but you also know he’s very stubborn, so you just brush it off

“How did you even know I was still in the office? It’s late…”

you say, while opening the can and looking at the hour on your computer

“It’s the first Monday of the month, you always stay late finishing the monthly report… Besides, I saw the light on from across the street… just put two and two together”

“Damn, you’re good—”

you say, amazed at how he memorized your routine by now, while sipping your beer, sighing as the cold liquid soothes your tense muscles, feeling the last motivation to end the report today getting obliterated

he watches your every move like a hawk, walking sneakly behind your chair to rub your shoulders

you sigh, feeling a chill down your spine with his touches, humming softly with the massage

“You’re done with the report?“ he asked, his fingers rubbing circles in your back muscles, sliding to your shoulders. you lean in his touch

“No… But I think I can finish it tomorrow morning,” you reply, trying to suppress the pleasure in your voice from his magical touch.

he chuckles lightly, lowering his torso to lean closer, his breath hitting your neck, making you shiver embarrassingly

“That’s what I thought,” he says softly, his hands never ceasing their movements, the tension that’s been building between the two of you for months feels like it’s finally reaching a boiling point

before things get awkward, you start to stand up from your chair, closing your laptop on the desk, sipping your beer casually,

he took advantage of the moment to pull your chair away, leaning closer, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth on your ear

“Don’t I deserve a… reward… for the beer and the massage?”

he whispered, his words borderline suggestive, the warmth of his breath making your heart race, his arms encircling your waist in a new way… despite your supposed closeness, it’s the first time you feel him this close.

his voice is like velvet, seductive and irresistible, making you question if this was a good idea.

you pathetically place your free hand on the desk to anchor yourself, feeling the weight of the intensity that has been building between you

”Is that what you’ve been thinking about all this time? Pinning me on the desk when there’s no one around?“

you whisper back, your voice dropping to a sensual tone as you lean back in his chest, looking at him through your shoulder

the tension is palpable, your mutual attraction finally coming to a head. you put your beer down on the desk, meeting his gaze with a daring look, ready to cross the line you’ve been flirting with for so long.

“And what if I have?” he whispers back, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. “What are you going to do about it?”

his challenge hangs in the air between you, a gauntlet thrown down, waiting for you to pick it up.

and that’s exactly what you do.

you turn around to face him, raising your chin to line your mouth with his, as his hands unconsciously sneak around your waist and your hands rests on his chest

“I might just finally kiss you… would that be bad?”

his eyes darken when he realizes you’re on the same page, his hands working to pull you closer.

“That might be the best idea you’ve ever had,”

and just like that, you two give up, succumbing to the tension building for months,

he leans in, or you lean in… its indistinguishable who kissed who first, but you capture each other’s lips in a heated intense kiss, your tongues already seeking each other’s and you taste the faint malt of the beers he had earlier, sighing with the deliciousness of it all

he gives one step further, boxing you on the desk behind, making you lean back, his hand traveling down your hips

you retaliate, taking his bottom lip between your teeth and biting softly, making him groan

he pushes his tongue inside your mouth again, and you gladly take it, sucking on it, kissing him back with the same passion

it feels almost relieving having him like this after so much tension building. it feels right.

he parts the kiss, but keeps his lips on your jaw, leaving a trace of wet kisses down, reaching your neck

you lean your head back, giving him free reign there, which he gladly take it, switching from kisses to bites, making you moan softly

your moan unlock something primal in his brain, and one of his hand on your hips travel down your thigh, reaching the back of your knee, pushing up on his waist, while the other arm encircle your waist, pushing you flush against him

all that while assaulting your neck with languig nibbles, and you can’t help but let out a chuckled moan with a smug smile

“Fuckk… eagerrr, are we?”

you say, low and purring, and the way you draw the words from your mouth goes straight to his pants, making his cock twitch, unconsciously grinding his hips against your thigh.

he grins, groaning a little in your neck, the tone vibrating against your chest

it takes you the damn last bit of strenght to knock some sense into him

“Mmhm… Kuroo… there’s cameras in the office… ”

you say slightly breathless, threading your fingers in his hair, gripping, trying to pull him away from your neck

“Call me Tetsurou”

he say lowly and you can’t help but huff a breathy chuckle

“Tetsurou…” you say, rolling his name from your tongue, liking the sound of it “there’s cameras—”

“They’re not gonna check the cameras unless something gets stolen…”

“We’re not fucking in the office,” you say categorically, your last ethical straw working doubled against the wetness in your panties

he parts from your neck, looking straight at you with hazel hazy eyes, his lips curling in his famous lazy smirk with a hint of smugness

“Oh? So we are fucking then?”

you narrow your eyes, he got you now.

you snort, grabbing his tie and pulling him for another kiss, mumbling a quick “Shut up”

he kiss you while chuckling against your mouth, his hand on your thigh progressing further, sliding your skirt up and invading under the hem of the clothing, feeling the soft skin he drooled so many times before—

“Not here, Tetsuro—”

he grumbles, releasing your thigh and raising his hands in mocking surrender

“Okay, okay… I get it” he says, then he takes your hand, pulling you closer to him “but you’re coming to my place now, and I’m not taking no for an answer”

as you two leave the workplace giggling and holding hands, your coworkers on the bar across the street watch the scene, all ready to let the gossip spread, but also knowing it was bound to happen eventually

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

thin walls - a Dave York blurb

summary: the wall between your hotel room and the room of the handsome man is pretty thin.

warnings: explicit, no y/n, not too descriptive masturbation (f), mention of a sex toy, allusions to allusions to masturbation (m)

a/n: what this is? idk. idc. i just want Dave to jerk it to me rubbing one out. no beta, typed out in the drafts because I like to live dangerously

imagine entering an elevator. there's already a man inside and he slowly turns towards you, deeply in thought, plush lips slightly agape, notebook in hand. way out of your league. a golden glint on his ring finger. of course he's married. he's stunning. "which floor?" he asks, his index already hovering over the brass buttons.

"yours," you croak after checking the floor the elevator is headed to. he smells good. expensive, subtle, clean, warm, maybe cedar and neroli?

he nods his head, too tired to make smalltalk. which is sad, because you are pretty. and nervous, because of him, he assumes. he always likes making people a little more nervous, likes to see them squirm. but not tonight. he had a long fucking day.

you glance at him, the sharp curve of his nose a stark contrast to his hair, a few soft curls jutting out above his forehead, gently bouncing when he looks up and meets your gaze.

he smiles. you smile back, squirming on your two feet because he caught you staring. a soft ding redeems you and the elevator doors glide open.

"bye," you say shyly, turning to the right the moment you step into the hallway.

"bye," he answers, also turning right. watching you hurry down the hall until you reach the door to your room. squirming again when you look into his direction and see that he enters the hotel room next to yours.

he smiles, smugly now. he can make you nervous even without the smalltalk. he still got it.

"the walls are pretty thin, you know." he's already one step into his room. "i hope you're not watching a sad movie again tonight. could hear you sob. was pretty heartbreaking."

your cheeks feel like they are smoldering. you weren't sobbing last night. you had an orgasm. you know it, he knows it. maybe jumping out the closed window was an option now.

"sorry. won't happen again," you say shakily and bravely hold his gaze.

he cocks a brow, his smug smile becomes a shit eating smirk. "good night, then."

you make an effort that night to muffle your moans. face down on the bed, hand between your legs, slowly riding your favorite travel toy. one single moan escapes when you turn your face from left to right on your pillow. you hold your breath. you listen. nothing. and just when you start moving your hips again you hear a knock on the wall. then something like a groan. then another groan.

could be anything. could be the stunning, married man next door having back pain. could be the stunning, married man next door masturbating to you masturbating. could be a coincidence. your body twitches, desperate for a continuation of the slow self-fucking. you clench around the toy, hard, and you moan again. he groans in response.

jesus, is he really jerking off? you can't tell. could be, could not be. but your body doesn't care. your mind is absolutely sure about that he's getting off on you. and you're getting off on him. so you edge yourself tonight because this is the closest to real sex you've come in a while. you make it count and then you make yourself come. it sounds like the stunning, married man on the other side of the wall does just the same. or he has back pain. you'll never know. and you hope you'll never meet him again because the embarrassment might kill you on the spot.

the next morning you find a piece of paper, pushed through the small gap underneath the door. it's folded in half neatly, straight lines in black ink on the inside when you open the note: "my pleasure!"

smug motherfucker.

this blurb on ao3

Dave York masterlist here

another, more explicit Dave blurb here: feasting

[illbegottenfaith]

hey!! i loved ur handwritten fic with the notes it was absolutely amazing, do u think u could make a pt 2 of that or just another fic with that format? thank u!! <3

handwritten pt 2 - theo nott x reader

yours and theo's story as told through notes passed in class

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n - thank you so much for this lovely!! it gave me the motivation I needed to clean up the dribs and drabs I had drafted out so here it is <3 I have plans/ideas for future chapters too (similar format but might not be restricted to just notes 👀) but I'm not sure how long of a series it'll actually end up being. enjoy!

tropes/warnings - fluff, a little more angst than the last chapter, newstudent!theo, estranged friends to lovers

word count - 1.9k

Saturday, 9.48 pm, The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

You okay?

Yeah, why?

You’re awfully quiet. And you’ve been staring into your empty butterbeer for the past ten minutes, so either it was terrible or you’re plotting something.

Ha-ha.

You hate this, don’t you?

They’re just not the kind of people I hang out with.

Let’s get out of here.

Are you kidding? This party is for you, Theo.

Look at them. They’re drunk off their tits. No one’s going to mind.

No, stay. I might call it a night soon, though.

Are you sure?

Yeah. Don't worry about me, I’m just not used to hanging out with these kinds of people.

What kind?

I don’t know. Quidditch players. Hooligans. It’s not really my scene.

I didn’t know you felt that way.

I didn’t want to spoil your night.

Listen, it’s getting late. I should probably head back.

Okay. Get your coat, I'll settle the bill.

No, it’s fine, I can pay for my drink. Besides, you should stay.

At least let me walk you back.

Stay. I mean it.

Fine, but I’m paying for your drink. And before you say anything, it’s one lousy butterbeer. Consider it compensation for ruining your evening.

You didn’t ruin my evening. I liked the part when we walked here together. I don’t mind this too much either - scribbling on napkins.

Let me walk you back. Please.

Saturday, 10.19 pm, Ravenclaw Dormitories, Hogwarts

What's with the notebook?

Sorry, Ivan's finally passed out and I don't want to wake him. He hasn't been able to sleep all week, can you imagine? It's that stupid Herbology project - y'know, the one that Katie's been simmering those mandrakes for - I swear, he's so tense in the shoulders. I finally got him to nod off after dinner and it just seems cruel to wake him up and make him go allll the way down to his dorm :(

Fine, but Merlin help you when Katie wakes up and finds him still here. I still can't wrap my head around how much he lets you baby him. He's a Slytherin, for God's sake.

Please, he knew what he was getting himself into. If anything, I think the babying might have been a motivating factor. Anyway, how was the party?

Okay, I think. I kissed him. On the cheek.

YOU'RE going to wake Ivan. Have some goddamn self-control.

OH I KNEW ITTT I knew it the moment he walked into Charms class and you looked up and your eyes met and you lost your tongue and when you looked back he had that shy sort of smile I just KNEW he was going to be so good for you. Because he is, Y/N. He might be the best thing that's happened to you.

Gosh, relax. It's not like it meant anything. What's a little friendly peck between friends here and there? I just did it so he wouldn't follow me back to the castle like a lost puppy. Besides, he's not that perfect.

A real human being with real human flaws? You don't say.

It's hard to explain. He's only being this nice because he knows what he's done.

What has he done?

Some pretty hard-to-forgive stuff. I don't want to get into it right now.

Have you?

Have I what?

Forgiven him.

I don't know. I mean, I see him trying to reach out, but every time, even now, with the party - something stops me from...fully connecting. Something holds me back.

I don't think I have.

Monday, 9.13 am, Charms

Did you get back alright?

Yup.

I wanted to come check, but the guys...

I told you they weren't going to let their guest of honour run off. So how was the rest of the night?

Middling. They started up a game of strip poker when we got back.

Oh.

Allegedly, normal poker was too ordinary for a night as special as that.

You're kidding, right?

Oh my fucking god, you gamble??

Who said the poker had anything to do with gambling?

So you don’t gamble?

I didn’t say that.

Theo.

OUCH enough with the pinching! I've already had ten years too many of it.

I can't help that it's the only way to get you to behave.

I don’t see what the problem is. It’s my money to use as I see fit. Plus, I'm very careful about the people I play with. Merlin knows we have too much anyway.

Unbelievable. Gambling, really? Why not just drop out of Hogwarts and live slot machine to slot machine, huh? Why don't you just set up shop at some casino in Las Vegas?

I'm very confused. Do you want to go to Vegas?

You have the attention span of a fruit fly.

Because that's not a half-bad idea. We could make a whole trip out of it over the summer.

Your friends need to introduce you to more legal forms of recreation. What are you doing Wednesday night?

Nothing yet.

Good. I'm teaching you Exploding Snap.

Isn't that a kid's game?

FUCK I'm SORRY but DO NOT pinch me in the same place twice.

Oh, quit whining. You'll live.

Barely. If you keep this up, I'm going to start sitting far far away from you and those PINCERS you call fingers.

Wednesday, 1.02 pm, Potions

I ran into Katie on the way here and Merlin, she was in hysterics. I'm out of the room for one night and I miss you making out with Loverboy in our dorm??? Geez, at least put a sock on the door.

We were not making out!!! Katie just walked in at an unfortunate time.

Uh-huh.

Look, he was the one who showed up at the window on his broom, drunk out of his mind.

Drunk??

I know! What was he thinking, risking his neck all the way up there at the Ravenclaw dorms?? It was like he didn't even notice too. I thought I was hallucinating at first, but then I opened the window and nope, that was him, and then I screamed and he nearly fell off his broom so I hauled him inside. He practically faceplanted on the floor. I was terrified - I thought he was poisoned or something, but then I tried to prop him up and he had this dopey look on his face and he reeked of firewhiskey. Ugh, it was so annoying. I don’t want to talk about it.

You know what he said to me? After all that?

I thought you didn’t want to talk about this?

Uh-oh.

Uh-oh?

Uh-oh. Like a goddamn Looney Tunes character.

Looney Tunes?

Never mind. He was all ‘uh-oh, you’re mad at me’ while I was trying to get him to drink some coffee and I was like yeah, no shit, you look like you’re seconds away from puking all over my dorm. And then he started…he started talking about the party, and me leaving, and how sorry he was he brought me in the first place.

Aww.

I know, right? I felt like crap. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal to him.

Of course it was a big deal. That was him introducing you to his new friends.

Exactly, new friends. What does he want with me?

Y/N, are you daft? Do you not see the way he looks at you? He so clearly cares what you think about his friends.

What on earth are you talking about?

Ivan's on the team so they hang out together sometimes and he says Theo's a lot different around you. He doesn't swear as much, he drops his voice a little and he's extra attentive. Hell, he nearly got into a fight with some dunce in our year over the way that guy was talking about you. Y/N, he obviously cares about you so, so much. Please tell me you didn’t say anything too harsh.

I called the whole lot of them hooligans.

NOOOOO

But t's true!! Have you seen their matches? How they don't rip each other to shreds is beyond me. But I didn't mean that he was like that. Theo could never be like them. He'd play a good, fair, clean game.

Yeah. Sure.

What's that supposed to mean?

You haven't watched a single one of his practices, have you?

No. Should I?

Never mind. What happened next?

That's when things started going downhill. He started trying to remove his shirt because it was so hot from Katie’s blasted simmering pot of mandrakes. I was trying to stop him, only he wasn’t listening, and apparently he gets rather clingy and touchy when he’s, y’know, tipsy, and then…Katie walked in.

Damn.

Of course that's when he decides to sober up, so I look like an idiot while everyone in the room - yes! even him!!! - wants to know what I’m doing in his lap. He was sooooo polite too, as if he hadn’t just rudely breaking-and-entering’d his way into my room. ‘Oh, hello, Y/N. What a tastefully decorated room you have, Y/N. Is there a reason we’re sitting so close, Y/N?’ As if I want to be sitting in his lap!

Right.

Because I don’t.

Okay.

‘Cause that would be so weird.

Mhm.

Like…ew.

Okay, okay. I get it. I believe you.

He wouldn’t even let me get up or anything. Just kept talking to Katie about the weather with his hand on my thigh, casual as ever. I swear, if that teammate of his - what's his name, Mattheo? - hadn't come looking for him, I don't know how I would have gotten him down to his dorm.

What a thriller of a story, from start to finish.

Yeah, well, I could do it with a little less thrill in my life.

Aw, I think it was sweet. That disaster of a party was clearly eating at him.

Yeah. I mean, we're friends. It should bother him if I've had a shitty night, right? But also...we're just friends.

For the record, you're a different person around him too.

Psh. Yeah right.

Different how?

Ivyyyy

Thursday, 3.07 pm, Defence Against the Dark Arts

How’s your hand?

Doing very badly, thank you very much.

I have to say, I didn’t take you to be this sore of a loser.

My fingertips have been singed off. Forgive me if I seem a little sulky.

Aww. Was the kid's game a little too hard for the big, manly, Quidditch player?

You tricked me. You didn't even tell me all of the rules before we started playing.

Oh, come on. You knew enough to play.

But not to win!

Yes, well, I wasn't about to hand you a victory on a silver platter. I thought Slytherins were supposed to be clever, or something. Maybe you're the 'something.'

Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. We'll see who's laughing after next week's chess match.

Does it hurt a lot? Your fingers?

For a lesser man? Perhaps. I think I'm dealing with the pain quite well, actually.

So if we didn't have class, you'd be -?

Writhing on the floor of my dorm.

Ah, I see. Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?

Promises, promises.

But you still had fun, didn’t you?

It is quite the adrenaline rush.

I knew it.

Alas, my fingertips…

Oh, sod off. You always were the biggest drama queen.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Hiii I think it would be soooo adorable if you could write a waitress reader x Logan where he's only soft with her and protective and the story is like tooth rotting fluff ❤️❤️❤️

I absolutely loved this request and it helped get me out of my writing block! I have been sick so it isn't proof read but I hope you still like it <3 request are open and so is my messages if anyone just needs to talk

He's your regular. Not the restaurants. Truth be told, he couldn't stand the food that was on the menu, but he bared it and ordered the same thing every time just so he could get a glimpse of you.

The two of you started to talk after the third or fourth time he came in, and he learned a lot about you. Usually, you wouldn't talk to regulars, especially about personal problems, but something about him made it easy to talk and not feel judged. With him coming in so often, it was easy for him to see if something was bothering you, and if something did, he made sure to take care of it.

As soon as you saw him walk in, you made sure to put in his order and grab his black coffee before going to sit him in your section. You were hoping he would come in today if you were being truthful. Earlier, there was a customer that was very flirty, and when he realized it wasn't going where he wanted, he left without paying. He did leave just a wonderful tip though...his number.

You sat Logan's coffee down in front of him and gave him a weak smile. "Your food will be up soon." You said as you started to turn to check on your other tables. His hand quickly grabbed your arm softly to stop you. "Can you add an order of fries to that?" He asked innocently. When you gave him a confused look, he just smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "They sound good...?" You giggled and wrote it on a ticket. "I'll go put that in right now for you."

Soon after, you returned with his order and sat everything down for him. "You need anything else?" You asked, not sounding as upset as you did when he first sat down. He nodded and pushed the plate of fries towards you, "sit down and eat, tell me what happened earlier, bub." You looked around before sighing and sitting down across from him once you noticed there was no one else in your section. "It's really nothing serious, just this customer..." You explained the whole situation, and Logan took note of how you described the man. Took note of his height, his hair color, his built, how he seemed like a cocky businessman. Logan made a promise to himself that he would handle anything that bothered his little waitress, and this was no exception.

Taglist:

@userchai

@mahi-tamashi

@100percentlazybonez

@lanassmarty

@western-pyro

@misscrissfemmefatale

@marit332

@navs-bhat

@fluffy-b33z

@chaimshelii

@aoi-targaryen

@eyes-ofhell

@sad0ni0n

@fries11

~~Note~~ happy new year!!! I hope 2025 is a great year for everyone! 2024 was tough for me but you guys really helped me in many ways and helped me find my love for writing again! Thank you to everyone who ever requested anything, I do still have some in my drafts that I'm working on but request are still open! I am starting student teaching soon so it might be slower uploads but I am determined to write as a form of self care this year 🩷

[glowettee]

✧・゜: self-discipline doesn't mean hating yourself into action :・゜✧:・゜✧

hey lovelies! ✧

i've been thinking about this a lot lately… how did we all collectively decide that being mean to ourselves was somehow the path to getting things done? like, who started this toxic rumor that self-discipline means internal screaming and punishment? because honestly? i spent years believing that the only way to accomplish anything was through this weird self-bullying technique and it was literally the least effective approach ever.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the wake-up call ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

last semester i hit a wall with my essay project. i had been doing that thing where you stare at your laptop, call yourself lazy in your head, promise to work for 8 straight hours to "make up for it," then get overwhelmed and watch netflix instead. but one night at like 2am (why do all realizations happen at 2am??) i wondered what would happen if i just… stopped being mean to myself about it?

what if self-discipline was actually about being the most understanding friend to yourself instead of the worst drill sergeant?

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ what actually works ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

start ridiculously small, i'm talking embarrassingly tiny steps. want to write that paper? commit to just opening the document and typing a single sentence. need to clean your space? just put away three things. the magic is that once you start, continuing feels so much easier.

create environments that make things easier, not harder. i rearranged my desk so everything i need is within reach and visible. stopped trying to work in my bed (even though it's so comfy) because my brain associates it with sleep and tiktok scrolling.

acknowledge the resistance instead of fighting it. when i feel that "i don't wanna" feeling, i literally say to myself "i hear you, and it makes sense you feel that way. what's one tiny piece we could do?" talking to myself like i'm my own bestie changed everything.

use curiosity instead of judgment. instead of "why am i so lazy?" (which never helps), try "i wonder what's making this hard for me right now?" sometimes the answer surprises you. maybe you're actually just hungry or need better lighting.

build in rest BEFORE you crash. i started scheduling actual breaks before i felt desperate for them, and somehow i get more done? it's like my brain knows it's not going to be held hostage forever.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the permission slip approach ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

my favorite technique lately has been what i call "permission slip productivity" where i literally write myself little notes giving permission to:

work imperfectly (first drafts can be messy!)

take breaks without guilt

change my approach if something isn't working

celebrate small progress instead of only the end result

acknowledge when something is genuinely difficult

there's something so powerful about physically writing yourself permission. it sounds silly but it works because it interrupts that mean inner voice that's been programmed into us.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the results speak for themselves ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

the wildest part? i actually get MORE done now that i've stopped the self-hate productivity method. turns out your brain works better when it's not being constantly criticized? who knew!

my essay (very big essay) got finished early. my room stays cleaner. i actually enjoy my study sessions now instead of dreading them. and most importantly, i don't feel that heavy cloud of shame following me around everywhere.

self-discipline isn't forcing yourself through misery, it's creating systems that work WITH your natural tendencies, not against them. it's about making things easier, not harder. it's about treating yourself like someone you actually care about.

and maybe the real glow-up isn't just checking things off your to-do list, but doing it without sacrificing your relationship with yourself in the process.

what about you? have you been trying to hate yourself into productivity? might be time for a gentler approach. you deserve that kindness from yourself. (and honestly? it just works better.)

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Self-Editing

Take a Break Before Editing

One of the most effective self-editing techniques is to distance yourself from your writing before diving into the editing process. After completing your draft, give yourself some time away from the text – a few hours, a day, or even longer if possible. This break provides a fresh perspective, allowing you to approach your work with a more critical eye.

Read Aloud

Engage your auditory senses by reading your work aloud. This not only helps identify grammatical errors and awkward phrasing but also allows you to assess the overall flow and rhythm of your writing. Awkward sentences are more apparent when heard.

Focus on One Element at a Time

To avoid feeling overwhelmed during the self-editing process, concentrate on specific elements in each round. Start by checking for grammatical errors and punctuation, then move on to sentence structure, coherence, and finally, style. This systematic approach ensures a thorough examination of your writing.

Add Dimensions

After you are finished with your first draft, flip to the beginning and start anew. As you write and edit more of your story, you may add different aspects to a character that might need to be mentioned in a section you already edited. You might add a part of the plot that should be alluded to earlier in your book.

Fill in the Gaps

Re-reading your first draft might reveal plot holes that will be addressed via revisions. It may expose logical inconsistencies that must be buttressed with enhanced detail. If you, as the author, know a lot of details about a character’s backstory, make sure your reader does as well.

Mend Character Arcs

Audiences want engaging plots, but they also want detailed characters who undergo change during the events of a story. Use a second draft to make sure that your main character and key supporting characters follow consistent character arcs that take them on a journey over the course of the story. If your story is told through first person point of view (POV), this will be even more important as it will also affect the story’s narration.

Track the Pacing of your Story

Find ways to space out your story points so that every section of your novel is equally compelling and nothing feels shoehorned in.

Clean up Cosmetic Errors

When some first time writers think of the editing process, they mainly think of corrections to grammar, spelling, syntax, and punctuation. These elements are certainly important but such edits tend to come toward the end of the process. Obviously no book will go out for hard copy publication without proofreading for typos and grammatical errors, but in the early rounds of revising, direct most of your energy toward story and character. If you consider yourself a good writer who simply isn’t strong on elements like spelling, grammar, and punctuation, consider hiring an outside proofreader to help you with this part of the writing process.

Inject Variety

The best novels and short stories contain ample variety, no matter how long or short the entire manuscript may be. Look for ways to inject variety into your sentence structure, your narrative events, your dialogue, and your descriptive language. You never want a reader to feel like s/he’s already read a carbon copy of a certain scene from a few chapters back.

Check for Consistency

Consistency is key to maintaining a professional and polished tone in your writing. Ensure that your language, formatting, and style choices remain consistent throughout your piece. Inconsistencies can distract the reader and diminish the overall impact of your work.

Eliminate Redundancies

Effective communication is concise and to the point. During the self-editing phase, be vigilant in identifying and eliminating redundancies. Repetitive phrases and unnecessary words can dilute your message and hinder clarity.

Verify Facts and Information

If your writing incorporates facts, figures, or data, double-check the accuracy of your information. Providing accurate and up-to-date information enhances your credibility as a writer. Cross-referencing your sources during the self-editing process ensures the reliability of your content.

Consider Your Audience

Keep your target audience in mind during the self-editing process. Ensure that your language, tone, and examples are tailored to resonate with your intended readership. This step is crucial for creating a connection with your audience and enhancing the overall impact of your writing.

Utilise Editing Tools

Take advantage of the various editing tools available to writers. Spell and grammar checkers, and style guides can serve as valuable companions during the self-editing journey. However, remember that these tools are aids, not substitutes, for your critical evaluation.

Seek Feedback

Engage with others to gain fresh perspectives on your writing. Peer reviews or feedback from mentors can offer valuable insights that you might have overlooked. Embrace constructive criticism and use it to refine your work further.

Be Ruthless with Revisions

Effective self-editing requires a degree of ruthlessness. Don’t be afraid to cut or rewrite sections that do not contribute to the overall strength of your piece. Trim excess words, tighten sentences, and ensure that every element serves a purpose.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ On Editing