#assignment writing checklist

[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

[bloomzone]

10 signs that you're totally disorganized and how to fix it:

📓. Your notes are scattered everywhere – You have piles of papers, sticky notes, and notebooks, and you can’t find what you need.

Fix: Start by spending 10 minutes organizing what you need for the day n group everything by subject, and toss what you don’t need.

📓. You forget to pack your stuff the night before – You’re rushing in the morning, and you forget books, pens, or even your calculator.

Fix: Prepare your bag the night before. Lay out everything you need and check it before bed to avoid the morning scramble.

📓. You can't remember what subjects you have the next day – You keep checking your schedule last-minute and feel behind.

Fix: Write it on a visible spot—use a planner, whiteboard, or sticky notes to remind you of your schedule. Keep it somewhere you see every day.

📓. Your study materials are not separated by subject – You’re mixing up your revision notes for math, history, and science all in one place.

Fix: Use different folders or binders for each subject. If you don’t have that, color code your notes so it’s easier to grab what you need. ( I personally use binders for subjects with detailed notes like philosophy or french and normal plastic folders for other subject notes cuz I don't trust digital notes 🤫)

📓. You can’t find your previous exams or assignments or some past papes u did – You want to go over old exams, but you can't find them because they’re lost in a sea of papers.

Fix: Set up a folder for past exams and keep them organized by subject. You can even use digital apps to scan and save them.

📓. You end up studying the same chapter over and over – You keep revisiting the same material instead of moving on to what’s next.

Fix: Make a study checklist pleaaaase. List all topics you need to cover and cross them off as you go. Stick to the plan, even if you want to revisit things.

📓. You never know what your next task is – You jump from one thing to another without any clear direction, and everything starts to feel like a mess.

Fix: Create daily to-do lists and prioritize tasks. Break your study time into manageable chunks and u will feel productive

📓. You procrastinate organizing your study time – You think “I’ll organize later” and keep pushing it off until you’re overwhelmed.

Fix: Set aside 10 minutes every morning or evening to plan out your study session, even if it’s just a rough outline of what you’ll focus on.

📓. You keep putting things off until the last minute – You’re leaving study materials scattered until the exam is nearly here.

Fix: Start with the basics ,set small goals, like organizing one subject per day, to get back on track before you get too stressed.

📓. You end up cramming without any clear plan – You try to study everything in a rush, but it doesn’t make sense because you haven’t organized anything.

Fix: Use a timer (I highly recommend an app calls FLIP) put a goal for each 1h session and only focus on one thing at a time. This will help you study in chunks without feeling overwhelmed and understand more the topic u are studying .

@bloomzone

[gloomglimmer]

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄  𝐓𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 ( estimated set up time: 10-20 mins )

For  all  you  visual-based  roleplayers  out  there,  I  just  have  to  share  this  amazing  "idea  board"  site  I  found  Milanote!  this  is  a  tutorial  so  you  can  make  something  similar  to  the  video  above!  It’s  perfect  for  organizing  your  character  ideas,  worldbuilding,  or  even  plotting  out  entire  storylines.  I  can  see  it  as  a  potential  replacement  for  a  minimalist  based  carrd!  Here’s  the  Milanote  website  to  check  out,  and  here’s  an  example  of  a  live  board  to  give  you  a  feel  for  how  it  works. please like or reblog if this helped you!

(  1  )  Sign  Up  or  Log  In

Visit  app.milanote.com.

If  you’re  new,  click  “Sign  Up”  to  create  a  free  account.   

(  2  )  Create  a  New  Board

Once  logged  in,  you’ll  see  the  Dashboard.

Click  on  the  “+  New  Board”  button  to  start  a  new  project.  

(  3  )  Add  Content  to  Your  Board

Add  Notes:  Drag  the  Note  icon  from  the  toolbar  or  double-click  anywhere  on  the  board  to  write  ideas  or  plans.

Add  Images:  Drag  images  from  your  computer  or  click  Upload  Files  to  bring  visuals  into  your  board.

Add  Links:  Paste  a  URL  directly,  or  use  the  Link  option  to  organize  references.

Organize  with  Columns:  Use  columns  to  categorize  content 

Create  Checklists:  Add  checklists  to  track  tasks  or  progress.

(  4  )  Organize  and  Style

Drag  and  Drop:  Move  items  freely  to  arrange  them  however  you  like.

Connect  Items:  Use  arrows  to  link  related  elements  for  better  visualization.

Color  Coding:  Use  colors  to  highlight  or  differentiate  ideas  and  sections.

(  5  )  Collaborate

Click  “Share”  at  the  top-right  corner  to  invite  collaborators.

Assign  tasks,  add  comments,  and  share  feedback  in  real  time.

[kawoala]

omggg for ur event, can i do a workplace romance w atsumu where ur a new hire that he lowkey has a crush on?? blended would be cool :3. thank you!! <33

RAN THROUGH; atsumu miya. burger—haikyuu. drink—workplace romance.

contents word count ; 746. blended; smau/traditional. reader + tsumu work at a restaurant. minor profanity. DON’T PAY ATTENTION TO THE TIMESTAMPS, THANK YOU! sad undertone? implied fatherless atsumu.

authors notes MAKATTACK!!!! i loved writing this lowkey………………..

the restaurant is empty. it’s 9 o’clock—about an hour past closing—but you’re still here, cleaning. you’re not sure how the customers are capable of dirtying something so fast, but the tables and floors are always filthy by the end of the night.

your movements as you wipe down the last table of the night are sluggish and lazy, your mind is miles away from anything vaguely related to the restaurant. your hand moves almost absentmindedly, wiping the same spot over and over again. you know you should move on, finish this up quickly, but your mind won’t let you move. you’re paralyzed by your thoughts.

class tomorrow. need to visit your mother. do laundry. assignment due tonight. answer email. car needs an oil change. apply for the part-time job at the convenience store on the corner? rent due soon. need groceries.

you go through the thoughts like they’re a checklist. they play in your head like a loop. class tomorrow. laundry. oil. class tomorrow. oil. rent due. class tomorrow. assignment tonight. oil. groceries. laundry. class tomorrow.

“you okay?”

you spin around quickly, grasping the rag to your chest. “atsumu!” you exclaim in a breathless whisper. you hit him with the rag lightly and shake your head. “you scared the shit out of me. i thought you went home already?”

he snickers, and shakes his head as well. “nah. i was going to, but then i remembered i’d rather bother you instead.”

“har har,” you drone sarcastically, giving him an unimpressed look. “seriously though, go home. i can close by myself. all that’s left is this table.” you pause, then narrow your eyes. “did you do the bar? you know the afternoon shift hates it when you don’t put the cups where they’re supposed to be.”

“yes, manager y/n,” he mocks, plopping down in the booth. he puts his arms across the back of it and lets his head fall back, eyes falling shut. “my feet hurt so bad, dude. i think i need to get some new shoes.”

you hum and sit down across from him. you put your elbow on the table, and your cheek in your hand, thoughts drifting back to all the things you need to do. you don’t notice your brows furrowing until atsumu reaches a hand forward and presses his thumb in between your brows.

“what are you thinking so hard about?” he asks, leaning forward, head tilted. the look in his eyes is so genuine, you have to look down at the table. “it’s, like, nine o’clock, dude. you should be thinking about your comfy bed.”

you don’t answer immediately, choosing to pick at a scratch on the varnished wood. “i have a lot to do tomorrow,” you mumble. your voice drops down to a whisper when you say, “too much.”

“like what?”

you look up and meet his eyes again, but not before catching a glimpse of that stupid smile that’s so atsumu you kind of want to punch him. “uh, just college stuff, mostly. i have to pay rent, get my oil changed—it’s gonna cost a lot of money.” you shake your head and laugh humorlessly. “sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about my money problems.”

“ah,” he hums softly, nodding. “i can, uh, change your oil for you if you want. for free. just so you don’t have to worry about it anymore.” he gives you a shrug.

“you know about cars?”

he shrugs again. “a little. my dad was a mechanic before mom had me and my brother, so he taught us how to do basic shit. change a tire, change oil, stuff like that.”

his eyes dart away from yours at the mention of his dad. you want to ask about it, but refrain. you know what it’s like to have family problems—how hard it is to talk about that stuff.

“that’s cool,” you say. “and, yeah, that’d be nice. thanks.”

suddenly, he clears his throat and shuffles his way out of the booth. “come on.” he vaguely nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. “we’re done, let’s get outta here.” you can practically see the hesitation on his as he asks, “you wanna come over? watch a movie, or something? i can make food, too. i’m freakishly good at cooking.”

you laugh at the way he emphasizes his sentence. you stand and wipe the nonexistent dust off your pants and nod once. “yeah, food sounds pretty good right about now.”

[salemoleander]

I am growing increasingly tired of the way certain sections of the MCYT fandom treats QPRs and non-romantic relationships as if they're inherently within Creator Boundaries. This is both ignorant of what QPRs are, and willfully avoids considering boundaries as anything beyond a useful checklist to bludgeon other fans with.

QPRs can look like friendships, friends with benefits, kink relationships, life partners, and a million other things. They can appear identical to romantic relationships from the outside. They can include sex. It's frustrating seeing QPRs morphed into Schrodinger's Platonic Relationship in fandom, where people write what is functionally just traditional romantic ship fic but still get to yell at other people for Breaking Creator Boundaries.

It feels like the assumption is "Romance might upset creators, but as long as it's platonic it's fine." As if a QPR fic where characters spend the whole time cuddling, or even a fic where they're assigned as family and are written to have a non-existent sibling relationship, wouldn't also be deeply weird & off-putting to creators. (I know many people don't approach creating fan content with creators in mind, but for those who evidently do it seems deeply odd to pretend that romance is taboo but cuddling/whump/etc are inherently unobjectionable.)

A fic where someone gets Overcome By Instincts and kidnaps another character to (platonically!!1!1!) force them to cuddle is way weirder than just having them kiss. Which is fine! It's fine to be weird! The problem is assuming that an ABO fic w/ the serial numbers filed off is inherently More Pure and palatable to creators just because it uses an & instead of a /, and in incorrectly redefining an entire complex relationship category to 'sexless off-brand romance that won't get me cancelled on Twitter'.

[marvelousels]

THE GRAVITY OF YOU

FIRST CONTACT | 1

authors note: currently obsessing over that one caitvi nasa fic, so i just decided to write a quick little something, lmk if yall want me to continue (probably no one)

pairings: caitlyn x vi 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

hello? by clairo (ft rejje snow) playing!

Vi had never been one for rules, which was why it was kind of hilarious that she now worked for an organization with "Aeronautics and Space Administration" in the title. NASA wasn’t exactly known for its leniency when it came to reckless behavior, but somehow, she’d landed a spot as a mission specialist. She blamed Vander. He always said she should put her energy toward something bigger than herself.

And space was pretty damn big.

But she wasn’t the only one who took this job seriously. Caitlyn Kiramman, lead flight director, was a stickler for protocol. She was precise, intelligent, and—to Vi’s eternal amusement—completely incapable of tolerating her disregard for rules.

The first time they met, Vi had been leaning back in a chair at orientation, arms crossed, smirking while the trainers droned on about safety regulations. She caught sight of Caitlyn, standing at the front of the room in her neatly pressed uniform, dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Everything about her screamed discipline. The way she listed off procedures, her sharp blue eyes scanning the room, the way she carried herself like she could handle anything NASA threw at her.

Vi had made it her mission to make her crack.

“You look like you got the stickiest stick up your ass,” Vi had whispered during a break, sidling up next to Caitlyn at the coffee station. “Must be exhausting.”

Caitlyn had barely spared her a glance, stirring her coffee with infuriating patience. “And you look like you take nothing seriously. Must be dangerous.”

Vi had laughed. “Only for people who don’t trust me.”

That was months ago. Now, Vi was one of the best mission specialists NASA had, and Caitlyn—whether she liked it or not—had to work with her on almost every assignment. Their relationship had settled into something of a routine: Caitlyn scolded her, Vi teased her, and somehow, everything got done perfectly in the end.

But something was different about this mission.

This time, Vi wasn’t just another cog in the machine. She was set to be part of Piltover-9, an upcoming lunar mission that had everyone at NASA buzzing. And Caitlyn? She was the one leading Mission Control.

“Piltover-9, this is Mission Control. Status check.”

Caitlyn’s voice crackled through Vi’s headset, cool and professional as always.

Vi smirked, adjusting the panel in front of her. “Control, this is Vi. All systems are green, looking good.”

A pause. Then, a sigh. “For the last time, you need to use proper protocol.”

“You’re no fun, cupcake.”

“I have a job to do, and so do you,” Caitlyn shot back, irritation laced in the crisp accent Vi had grown to adore. “Now, confirm your final diagnostics before launch.”

Vi rolled her eyes but scanned the numbers anyway. Thrusters were good, oxygen levels optimal, everything running smooth. It was kind of a miracle, considering how fast she’d had to run pre-checks. Not that she’d admit it, but Caitlyn’s meticulous nature saved her ass more times than she could count.

“Diagnostics confirmed. We’re golden, Control.”

“…Thank you,” Caitlyn said, and Vi could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“Don’t sound too happy about it, now.”

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to contain my enthusiasm,” Caitlyn deadpanned. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t improvise the checklist.”

“Come on, you know I like to keep you on your toes.”

“More like give me a premature heart attack.”

Vi chuckled, stretching in her seat. “If you wanted my attention so bad, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

Caitlyn went silent for a moment, and Vi swore she could feel the exasperation through the comms. “I will personally ensure you remain on Earth for the rest of your career if you keep this up.”

“Oof, that’s cold. And here I thought we had something special.”

“Vi.”

“Yeah, yeah. Focusing.” Vi grinned, biting back another remark, and let the silence settle. The countdown had begun, and her heart pounded faster. Adrenaline surged, thrumming in her veins. Through the static and the distant, muted voices of mission control, Caitlyn’s voice was the only one that mattered.

Then, quieter, almost as if she didn’t want the others to hear—“Be safe up there, Vi.”

The words settled in Vi’s chest, warm despite the void she was about to plunge into.

She grinned, strapping in as the engines roared to life. “Always, cupcake. You better miss me.”

And then, with a force that stole the breath from her lungs, she was gone—propelled into the stars, Caitlyn’s voice still echoing in her ear.

[musings-ofthe-unamused]

Professor's Best Stress Relief (Zayne X f!Reader)

A/N: Imagining Professor Zayne with his messy hair and glasses... ugh <3

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, slight power imbalance, cunnilingus, fingering, desk sex, size difference, squirting, unsafe sex

Word Count: 3.1k

Ask Box: Open

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Being a graduate student was a pain. You were buried in research papers, a thesis, finding internships, and being a teaching assistant. The field you were studying, biomedical engineering, required long and sleepless nights. It wasn’t odd for you to be constantly buried in books or grading papers from students in the professor’s office.

Class had just gotten out. You finished helping a student find the right resources to search for when writing the term paper. Your mind flitted as you went over your checklist for the day. You needed to grade assignments and then head to the lab to see if your slides were ready to be examined.

”You’re good at teaching.”

You blinked, getting pulled out of your thoughts. You looked upwards at the man speaking to you. “Thank you, Professor Zayne.”

He gave you a curt nod. “Of course. You’d even do good at my job.”

”Oh, please.” You snorted and rolled your eyes. “You’re the best professor in Linkon. I wouldn’t be as good as you.”

Zayne was nothing short of a genius. One of the greatest minds in the biomedical engineering field, he made great contributions through his groundbreaking research as well as his amazing ability to teach even the most complicated theories in a way that everyone understands. He was the best of the best and you strived to be as good as him. That’s why you had to work as hard as possible.

You walked over to the desk and grabbed a stack of papers. Zayne followed you. “You can let me grade those.”

”It’s fine. I need something to do as a TA.” You gave him a brief smile.

”You’re already busy.” Zayne grabbed the stack out of your hands. He leaned down, his eyes studying yours. “I don’t mind.”

”I’m getting paid for this, Professor. I’d rather do something than nothing at all.”

He let out a small sigh as you took the stack again. His eyebrows furrowed. You ignored and grabbed your bag. You would have to hurry up with grading if you wanted to make the lab while it wasn’t busy. You walked out of the classroom, noticing that Zayne was following you. 

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

You shook your head. “No, thank you. I have to get these graded as quickly as possible and then get to the lab.”

“You need to eat.” Zayne sighed. “You’ve been in the classroom since eight in the morning.”

”I’ve had snacks.”

”That’s not enough. Let me take half. That way you can get it done faster and then-“

”I’m sure you’ve done just as much as me when you were a graduate student. I’m seriously fine with my workload.”

Zayne closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm going to get us some food."

You didn't fight his words. Despite Zayne's cold and unapproachable exterior, he was attentive and caring. You've heard tales that despite Zayne's natural aptitude in teaching, he was a difficult person to please. He gave hard deadlines and hardly allowed for makeups or extensions unless the circumstances called for it. You even heard that his last TA had to talk him into making some exceptions. And yet, he always made sure everyone passed his class. He always made sure everyone understood every single concept.

You were nervous when you first started working for him. But surprised when he didn't even hesitate to make you feel comfortable and welcome. That was the real Professor Zayne. You've heard horror stories of how other professors treated their TAs. You had gotten lucky.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Three nights. Three nights of working nonstop. Grading, lab reports, thesis research, and helping out during classes. The irritation was building inside of you until every single little thing got on your nerves. You weren’t proud of how you were acting, but you were frustrated that no one else seemed as rushed as you were.

Professor Zayne was taking his sweet time. He shuffled slowly through the stack of papers. He glanced up at you every so often. He always did a quick second check of your grading. Quick. For some reason, Zayne was taking his sweet time. Your arms were crossed as you tapped your foot anxiously. Your eyes kept flickering over to the clock hanging on the wall above his head. 

“Professor Zayne, can you just email me to let me know if I made any mistakes?”

”No.”

You started tapping your finger against your arm. “I need to go to the lab.”

”Again?” He lifted his head. “Didn’t you go there yesterday?”

”Yes. And I need to go again today.”

Zayne sighed, and to your dismay, set down the stack of papers. “When’s the last time you got a full night of sleep?”

”Uhh…” You shrugged.

”Have you been eating well?”

”That’s–“

Zayne stood up and slowly made his way around the desk. “When’s the last time you took a break? Went out with friends? Had fun?”

You frowned and looked away. “I don’t have time for fun. In fact, I don’t have time to be lectured like this.”

Before you could step back, Zayne moved in front of you. “You will make time.”

”I can’t!” You sighed in frustration and uncrossed your arms. “I’m so close to finishing the research part of my thesis. If I go to the lab tonight-“

”Absolutely not.”

You stared at Zayne in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

”Sit.”

”Professor, I really don’t have time-“

”I said sit.”

Zayne shoved you down so you were sitting on the edge of the desk. He then pushed your hips backwards, sliding you further onto the desk. Your eyes were wide as you watched him loosen his tie. His breathing was heavy and looked almost angry. You’ve never seen him angry. The fact that it was pointed towards you sent a shiver down your spine.

”You’re going to sit here and listen to me. Am I clear?”

”Y-Yes, Professor.” You whispered.

He let out a harsh breath. He leaned in, his hands placed on both sides of you. “I’ve been trying to get you to look at me for more than three seconds the whole time you’ve been my TA.”

Your eyes automatically flicked away at his words.

”Look at me.” He hissed, roughly grabbing your chin and tilting it back. “I am tired of seeing you run yourself thin. I’m tired of seeing you too stressed to even take care of yourself. I’m tired of you not paying attention to me.”

”I’m sorry.”

He scoffed and shook his head. He leaned in until his lips were ghosting against your neck. “Sorry isn’t enough. You’re going to need a better apology.”

“What…” A sigh left your lips as he kissed your neck. “What do you want me to say?”

”I want you to say that you want me.” Zayne licked up your neck before nibbling your earlobe. “That you need me. And you can’t stand another minute without feeling my touch.”

His words made you want to melt into a puddle. You would have never ever expected any of those words to come out of Zayne’s mouth. The most you thought he would do is force you to eat and then go home and sleep. Not force you to admit how badly you wanted him.

And you wanted him bad.

It was no secret that Professor Zayne was one of the most attractive people on campus. Students didn’t just want to take his class because he was good at teaching. It’s because he was complete and total eye candy. But you’ve been too preoccupied with your own path that you barely gave it any mind. You’ve been so preoccupied that you didn’t notice he’s been vying for your attention— for you this whole time.

You swallowed thickly. “I…want you.”

”And?” He started to push your skirt up your legs.

”And…” You were staring at his hands. “Touch.”

He had a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Use full sentences.”

”I want- no, I need your touch.”

“Good girl.”

This was happening. This was actually happening. Professor Zayne was actually pushing your skirts up around your hips. He was staring up at you with a darke gaze filled with hunger. And you were sure your expression had just as much hunger. Screw all the work you needed to do. This was way more important. The lab would be open tomorrow anyway. 

He moved up and cupped your cheek with one hand. His lips were passionate yet firm as he pressed them against yours. You found your eyes fluttering closed as you melted against his touch. The stress started to slowly melt from your muscles as Zayne continued to make you focus on him and only him.

”You taste like coffee.” He murmured against your lips.

You let out a breath, looking away shyly. “That's all I've been drinking."

"You need to relax.

You didn't answer. Your eyes focused back on him as he slowly went back down on his knees. Zayne's hands were freezing cold against your thighs as he spread them apart. His breath wasn't any warmer. It brushed against your skin, his mouth getting closer and closer to your panties. Your hands gripped the edge of the desk tightly. His nose brushed against the fabric. You jolted in surprise. 

"You're soaking wet." He murmured. "I haven't done anything yet."

You swallowed nervously. "K-Kissing is doing something."

"And it made you like this?"

You didn't say anything for a moment before speaking in an embarrassed whisper. "I haven't had sex in almost a year."

His eyes only grew dark with hunger. "It looks like I need to change that."

Zayne obviously didn't want to waste time. He tugged down your panties, his cold breath now tickling your bare skin. A whine left your lips as his tongue slowly swiped up your wet pussy. Your cheeks flushed at the desperate sound. Zayne smirked before going back in more eagerly.

"Z-Zayne, slow-" You closed your eyes and leaned your head back. "Fuck."

"Just relax and focus on the pleasure."

You nodded and let your shoulders drop. Zayne's tongue focused on your clit while he slowly inserted one finger inside of you. It was almost embarrassing how easily you just sucked him in. He hummed in satisfaction before adding another. No one's ever eaten you out like this before. The icy feeling of his tongue mixed with the slow curl of his fingers had your mind reeling. You reached down with one hand and carded your fingers through his soft hair. You pulled him closer.

It wasn't going to take much to make you come undone. You've admittedly been dying to masturbate to relieve at least some of the stress you've been accumulating, but you haven't had the chance. You felt the pent up damn inside of you slowly start to crack as Zayne sucked on your clit and plunged his fingers even deeper inside of you. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head. His fingers brushed against you, making you moan out.

"Close?" He murmured against you.

"S-So… just a l-little more."

Zayne hummed. The vibrations made your hips move forward, seeking out his touch. He started to move his fingers even more, his tongue moving back to your clit. Your lips parted as if to say something, but all that came out were desperate moans. A buzzing spread through your body. Your toes curled and your hand pulled at Zayne's hair. He looked up at you as you came undone, his glasses slipping down his nose. He didn't look away for a single moment.

Zayne pulled back. He licked his lips and used one hand to push up his glasses. He licked your juices off of his fingers. You were breathing heavily. You leaned back and tried to catch your bearings. Your legs felt weak. You couldn't even remember the last time you felt that good. 

"That was…" You started to pull your skirt back down. "Amazing."

Zayne suddenly reached out and grabbed your wrist. "What are you doing?"

You blinked. "Uhm… A-Aren't we done?"

"You've only cum once. That's not enough to get rid of all your stress."

"B-But–"

Zayne let go of your wrist and reached down, unbuttoning his pants. "What did I say? Relax and focus on the pleasure."

Your eyes moved down to the very obvious bulge in his pants. You've never cum more than once before. That said more about your partners than you, but you guess you didn't have a choice. You needed to listen to your professor. So you pulled the fabric of your skirt back up. Zayne smiled. He unbuttoned his shirt.

Your hand reached out, trailing along his abs. "I didn't know you worked out."

"Mmmh." He grabbed your hand and moved it up to his chest before placing your palm on his face. He moved in between your legs. "I like to keep my stamina up."

Your whole body felt hot. Your legs wrapped around him, and your finger brushed against his bottom lip. His green eyes shone with lust. You pulled him down and kissed him passionately. He moaned softly, pressing his hips against yours. You were practically dripping at the feeling of his large bulge. His tongue pushed into your mouth, cooling down the heat that you felt pulsing through you. His hands moved down to his pants, tugging them down along with his boxers.

"Ready?" Zayne pulled back.

Your mind was hazy. You blinked and nodded your head. "G-Go ahead."

"I'll start slow."

He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead. The sudden softness had your heart pounding. But before you could even think about it, Zayne's cock eased into you with an embarrassing squelch. Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. You were so wet, so aroused, that it was like your pussy was drinking him in. You clenched around him and bit your lip. Your sensitive body shivered as he adjusted the angle.

"Good?"

"No~" You whined, looking up at him. "I c-can't last long like this."

He chuckled and placed his hands on your hips. Your eyes shut as he slowly started to move his hips. HIs cock was thick and long. It stretched you out, hitting you in the right spot to have you whimpering with each thrust. You panted heavily and tried to hold on. You didn't want to cum so early, not when it looked like Zayne was doing this with ease.

He nudged your chin up with his fingers. "Let go for me, darling."

Your body reacted to his words like you were wrapped around his finger. Darling. It repeated in your mind over and over. You let out a cry of pleasure and buried your face in Zayne's neck. The scent of his cologne along with the hint of sweat made you go insane. Your hips started to buck against his as you came again. Your pussy was throbbing, each thrust driving you more and more over the edge.

"Fuck~" Zayne hissed, his nails digging into your hips. "You're sucking me in."

"Ngh… feels… it feels good."

"You can cum one more time, right?" His thrusts started to speed up. "Can you do that for me, darling?"

"Mmh!"

"Good girl. So good."

Zayne's face was flushed. His breath came out in short, cold puffs. His eyes kept flitting to your face down to where his cock pounded into you. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed as if he was hanging on by a thread. You left kisses and small bites all along his shoulder and neck. He grunted and reached down. A loud moan echoed in his office as his fingers rubbed small, firm circles against your clit.

"I'm gonna cum." He breathed.

That was about as much warning you got before he pushed you down so you were laying on his desk. His hips pounded into you relentlessly. You couldn't take it anymore. The feeling of his cock hitting your g-spot constantly along with the feeling of his fingers against your sensitive clit had you seeing stars. All the air left your lungs as you came for a third time. You felt something wet pool beneath your legs. The sounds of Zayne fucking you only got louder. With several quick thrusts, Zayne came inside of you. You felt his seed spread through your hot walls.

"Oh, fuck." He groaned. 

His hips slowed down to a sensual roll. Your body was completely weak. You opened your eyes and propped yourself up on your elbows. When you looked down, you realized what happened. You squirted. That was new. Zayne was fixing his glasses. His whole body was flushed, sweat dripping down his chest. His hair was all tousled, his normally neat clothes wrinkled. He met your gaze.

"Uhm-" Your voice was hoarse. You cleared your throat. "I feel much better."

He chuckled and leaned over you. He brushed your hair away from your face. "Good. We'll do this again next week."

"Again?!" Your eyes widened in surprise. 

He nodded. "We can't let your stress get so high again. To perform at your best, you need a low stress level."

"Is this how you relieve your stress?"

"I read. But I do this too."

"With…" You trailed off, suddenly curious.

"Alone." He kissed your forehead and then your nose, and then your cheek. "Imagining you exactly like this."

You shivered. "I never knew."

"Because you were too caught up in your work. So from now on, pay attention to me too. I'm only here to help."

"Or you just want to bend me over your desk again."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you offering?"

You snorted. "I can't go another round. I think I'll die."

"Then next week. This time exactly."

"Yes, professor."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The cool spring air felt nice against your skin as you happily walked across campus. There was a small bounce in your step. Things have been going well recently. Your thesis was finished and ready to be proofread. Everyone enjoyed you as a TA. And you found that you had more time for yourself. To think that two months ago, you were on the brink of a breakdown. Now you were thriving.

"Professor! I'm here!"

You knocked on his office door before opening it. Sitting at his desk, he looked up from his papers and gave you a soft smile. Your relationship with Professor Zayne changed completely. It was obvious you were more than just his TA. There wasn't a label for it. But you didn't need one. You liked the way things were. Because of him, you didn't have the weight of the world on your shoulders. Professor Zayne stood up.

"Just on time. Ready to begin?"

[klarolinexluv]

Jock/secret-not-so-secret nerd James and Jock/nerd Regulus.

In the way where James is natural smart, he can read something once or twice and then understand the subject. He has never gotten anything below an E on his assignments/exams. James doesn’t need to study but he does because he gets a little panicky before exams thinking he has forgotten everything (which isn’t true) the moment he sits his exams, he flies through it and finishes early (just after Sirius every time)

James is constantly doing some sort of physical activity, he goes for runs in the early morning, he pushes himself at quidditch training, he does extra training whenever the pitch is free. James is constantly moving. When he is standing around waiting, he isn’t just standing still, he’s stretching, moving around on the spot. He just has so much energy that he has to expel it somehow.

James definitely has ADHD and Quidditch is one of his hyperfixations but that’s not necessarily good all the time, seeing as he works himself to the bone and forgets to take breaks. He is in constant need of reminders to look after himself on some days. (Despite this, he does have a routine for meals he just sometimes forgets them because he is so zoned in to what he is doing that the thought of feeding himself doesn’t pass his mind until he is exhausted and half dead on his feet).

He writes little notes and leaves them around for himself to remind him of things. If he is really struggling to find focus and stay on task, he writes lists. They aren’t overly detailed, just simple checklists to keep himself on task and he takes satisfaction when he can cross things off and mark them complete. Further than that, if the list doesn’t give him that sense of achievement he also gives himself rewards and/or goals that he can aim for.

I just know that James made an extensive detailed plan on how to befriend Regulus to the point that he is so oblivious to his feelings for him until after they are friends and then he has to make ANOTHER plan to woo Regulus. Little does James know that Regulus is already half head over heels for him.

Now Regulus is also natural smart. Problem is he is very worried about his academics and succeeding that he is ALWAYS seen with a book in hand. From fictional novels to large tomes on a topic that is not even related to anything they are studying.

Regulus spends ALOT of time in the Library. Usually alone because studying around other people frustrates him and distracts him to the point that he can get overwhelmed and annoyed.

Regulus studies hard, he studies until he has mastered the topic. He doesn’t mind how long it takes him just so long as he can master it. However, this can lead to frustration for himself and self hatred for he feels he is continuously failing and that leads to thinking he is a disappointment and further a lot of very bad thoughts that aren’t true but he believes them anyway.

Regulus is the type of person to NEED academic validation. Praise for his work. If he gets an E, he will beat himself up over it and push himself harder to the point, where like James, he forgets to look after himself. (His friends would argue that he sometimes forgets on purpose and that would also be true but 50% of the time, he has actually forgotten)

Flying for Regulus is an escape. Frustrated? Flying will fix it. Annoyed? Flying. Overwhelmed? Flying. Tired? Flying. A letter from home? Flying.

If Regulus isn’t in the library then he is on the pitch, and if the pitch is taken then he is sitting under a tree closer to the forbidden forest by the Black Lake.

Regulus owns a practice snitch and he carries it with him absolutely every where. Sometimes you will catch him fidgeting with it in his pocket but that is rare (he is only doing it in private and alone because he is so conscious of his image/reputation).

When he is on the pitch, there are a few things he could be doing. Flying around the pitch in circles, speeding up and slowing down, just flying lazily or at break neck speed. He will practice certain seeker moves, pulling off risky plays that few attempt and even fewer pull off. Or he is seeking the practice snitch.

Regulus doesn’t have an extensive work out routine like James does but he is passionate about Quidditch to the point where he thinks about it a lot of the time, things he wants to try, ways he can improve. He is also very good at analysing the play. I can see him going on to bring the youngest captain Slytherin have had for a long time in 5th year, I can also see him declining the position if Dorcas wanted it (and if he does give the position to Dorcas, that does not mean Dorcas isn’t talking with him about everything. Dorcas would ask his opinion on plays and shit and Regulus would break it down so throughly and Dorcas is quite proud that Regulus agrees with what she is doing).

Regulus with ASD (or Autism as it’s more known name) is so special to me. Like James, Quidditch is also a hyper fixation for Regulus. Regulus is also hyperfixated in a way on his perfect pureblood persona. He is ALWAYS masking. Always. The only time he is not is when he feels safe and comfortable. Of course he has little tells in his mask but they are very hard to notice unless you are looking for them. (Sirius is probably one of the only people who can read Regulus even when he is masking… but he has to be looking and sometimes Sirius doesn’t look).

Regulus also uses lists. Constantly. All the time. He doesn’t usually need to give himself further rewards after the satisfaction of crossing something off a list unless it’s an assignment of exam. If Pandora is with him and sees him cross something off a the list, she makes a small comment of praise that Regulus allows because it’s Pandora (I say allow but really Regulus is so happy about the praise that he hoards it. When Barty, Evan and Dorcas notice Regulus needs praise to feel yay! Yk they also start doing it but not like excessively because that would just piss him off but like smiling at him or messing up his hair, things that show that they noticed him and are proud of him without saying it).

When James starts coming around him, Regulus LOATHES it at first. It’s not part of his daily routine. (Because yes, Regulus has a daily routine that he sticks to religiously as best as he can. Regulus is the type to despise change, especially big change).

However, Regulus never tells James to leave him alone. Yes, he is mean and rude and not open minded about James and his presence at first. But James learns what makes Regulus tick very quickly and notices that Regulus prefers quiet when he is studying (James also needs quiet when studying) so one day, James just asks to study with Regulus after having sat quietly with him in the library for a few days.

Regulus agrees and this is how their tentative friendship starts. It evolves to practicing Quidditch at the same time. To helping eachother practice (giving eachother observations and then ways to improve) which both of them adore. James is praising Regulus subconsciously the entire time and eventually Regulus also praises James (and insults him at the same time but James likes that so)

It gets to the point where they just hang out with eachother for no reason. It started with James being the one to ramble and ramble and Regulus just listened to Regulus allowing himself to ramble and James listening.

Then of course, James realises his feelings and then the wooing starts (but Regulus is already half in love with him) and Regulus does not stand a chance. By the end of the year, the two of them have started dating.

Sirius is low-key relieved about it because James has been none stop talking about Regulus the entire year and Sirius is happy that they are happy.

Barty is also relieved because Regulus kept having minor crisis about it to him (Barty also threatens James with Evan and Dorcas which James is both terrified about and amused. Then Pandora threatens him and James is actually shitting himself and mental reminds himself to never piss off Pandora).

ANYWAY

Jock/secret-not-so-secret nerd James and Jock/Nerd Regulus.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Essays

Writing essays can feel unnatural to some of us. Unlike talking and having a conversation, essay writing requires structure, referencing, and research.

5 Tips: Essay-Writing

PLANNING/PREPARATION

Planning involves selecting what to include in your essay and determining the overall structure. Helps you put your thoughts together, making your points clearer, more logical, and thoroughly explained.

Depending on the type of essay you are writing, formulating your plan can vary.

However, assignments are usually given in one of the following:

As a question.

A statement that you must create an argument for or against.

A task to ‘outline,’ ‘discuss,’ or ‘critically assess’ a particular argument or point of view.

The Process of Essay Planning

Everyone writes and plans differently. However, it’s important to find a process that suits you. Here is an example of a planning process you might find helpful:

Break down the assignment question: Understand what the question is asking you to do. Identify whether it’s asking you to ‘discuss,’ ‘argue,’ ‘describe,’ etc. This will help you develop your main ideas to answer the question.

Brainstorm everything you know about the topic: Identify your thoughts on the subject and your initial response to the essay question. Narrow down key topics to research further. Remember to review your class notes, as they can remind you what was covered during lectures and seminars.

Research: Use your reading list, if provided, to skim through recommended texts. Identify key points that will help you answer your question, and compile these in a mind map or on a large piece of paper.

Organise your points: Once you’ve done your research, organize your points that relate to your question. Begin structuring your arguments and include evidence you’ve gathered.

Decide on your main points: Summarise each point you’ve researched. Use cards or sticky notes to arrange these points, finding the best flow for your argument. Ensure that each point links to the next and builds on your overall argument.

Once you have a clearly defined essay plan, the task of writing it becomes more efficient.

ESSAY INTRODUCTION

A good introduction generally consists of 3 parts:

General statement: This part shows the reader why the topic is important and captures their attention, leading them into the essay question.

Thesis statement: This is your response to the question and is the most important part of the introduction. It tells the reader what your essay will be about, briefly explaining both sides of the question.

Outline of the main points: This part tells the reader what to expect from the essay’s body and outlines your arguments.

Here’s a checklist to ensure you hit all 3 aspects of a good introduction:

Does the essay begin with a general statement introducing the topic?

Does the introduction include the thesis statement?

Does the introduction outline the main points?

Does your essay have a clear, well-organized structure?

CREATIVE WRITING TECHNIQUES

You can use creative writing techniques to strengthen your essay.

Incorporating these techniques can make your essay unique and engaging.

Here are a few techniques to consider:

Think About Your Reader

Your reader is likely your teacher or lecturer, who will be marking numerous essays.

You need to answer the question effectively and get straight to the point, ensuring they easily find the information they need to mark your essay highly.

The Three-Act Structure

The three-act structure is commonly used in creative writing, films, and TV.

These acts flow seamlessly to give a natural movement of motion and plot.

For essays, you can adapt this structure:

Setup: Establish what you are talking about and set the scene. Create an introduction by opposing the essay question, and highlighting your main concerns with evidence.

Confrontation: This will be the longest part. Introduce all surrounding problems, develop your arguments, and ensure you relate back to the original question with evidence.

Resolution: Summarize your arguments with your point of view, including evidence supporting your conclusion. Offer alternative explanations for counterarguments.

CRITICAL WRITING

Critical writing involves analyzing and evaluating text and supporting your arguments with evidence to prove how you reached a conclusion.

Here’s a process to succeed at critical writing:

Examine a source: Read it carefully and critically.

Organize your thoughts: Identify the core claim and evidence, and research secondary sources.

State a thesis: Make sure it has both a claim and details sustaining it.

Write an outline.

Write a draft.

Edit and improve your essay.

Examining a Source

Practice smart reading by identifying specific details and claims, and describing how the author presents them.

Highlight parts that support your arguments and identify strengths and weaknesses.

Stating a Thesis

Direct your evidence towards the thesis question.

Avoid saying “in my opinion” or “I think.”

Express your opinion using the third person.

Using Evidence

Evidence is the foundation of an effective essay.

It provides proof for each of your points, helping the reader see your point of view.

Critical writing tests your thinking skills, analysis, and argument-building process.

Don’t fear critical writing. With practice, you’ll develop a structure that works best for you.

READ WIDELY

If you’re writing an essay for a university module, you’ve likely chosen a subject you’re passionate about.

This brings enjoyment to the activity and deepens your understanding.

However, if you’re not familiar with the topic, it can be challenging to know where to start.

Using the Reading List

Your course usually provides an extensive reading list, including core and recommended readings.

Engage with these texts; they are often referred to during lectures and seminars.

Going Beyond the Recommendations

Search for book recommendations online, browse the ‘People Also Bought’ sections of bookstores, scroll through journals, or join discussion forums.

There’s no shortage of secondary reading material to enhance your essay.

Setting Reading Goals

Before you start reading, ask yourself:

What you are reading and what you aim to achieve.

This will guide your research and help you find topics that build your essay.

Here are some tips to read according to your motivations:

For general interest & background information, read widely without much depth.

For essay writing, focus your reading around the essay question and dive deeply into small areas of the subject.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

[oonajaeadira]

@jolapeno is encouraging us all to list the favorite things we've made this year. And @sixhours and @jeewrites are superlative humans and they have tagged me and I am grateful for that!

I'm not gonna lie, y'all. When I'm asked to reflect on what I've created in the fandom this year...well, "depressed" is a word I could use.

But. It's been such a lovely year in the fandom. We were treated to a Fox, a Roman general, a boy-who-never-grew-up, and a penis collector, not to mention the promise of a very flexible scientific-genius wifeguy and sneak peeks of everyone's favorite melancholy apocalypse survivor.

Thank you to everyone who was helping us keep a lookout for nasty folks and helping to combat deplorable behaviors, and thank you to everyone who did their part keeping spirits bright.

And I will be forever grateful for @pedroscouts and @pedrosummercamp ...it literally gave me something to focus on when my days were running away from me and introduced me to some really sassy and hilarious new friends. <3

Still. 2024 put me through a professional and emotional wringer. So. Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna list my wins. First, we'll start with what Jo asked for!

PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTER FANFICTION

Okay. So the rules said it had to be a finished project. Playing by the rules, I would have nothing to post. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Poop. So, in the interest of choosing joy, breaking the rules it is!

Fluffbruary Six-Sentence Ficlets - multiple I tried, y'all. I tried real hard. I got through 15! And I was making a new header for each one! And then life got real busy and I had to stop. But I have every prompt assigned and I decided I'm gonna reblog the first half and post the second half this February. I know they're not a popular series, but they make me happy, so they're getting doing!

Leave Off Your Wandering - Joel Technically, I did finish this one, since I had always planned for it to be just the four parts. But at the end of the Winter chapter, I realized it needed an epilogue, so there's another chapter coming. And it's not far off. I may finish it before the end of the year and then it will really not be a lie. But first.....

That Awooo Inside You (Part 1, Part 2) - Fink This may not qualify yet, but the final chapter will be finished before the end of the year. I have it half written and there's a chapter pic ready to go. Proof:

.

And that's mainly it. I did write some pieces for @morallyinept's spooky moodboards as well and really enjoyed that! But that's been what I've been able to do. So to combat the whomp whomp in my heart about it, I include here another list after the tags.

tagging! @katareyoudrilling @secretelephanttattoo @fromthedeskoftheraven @goodwithcheese @walkingaline

And you!

Your Favorite Things 2024 with Jo

PROFESSIONAL CHECKLIST OF 2024

(Pedro girlies can stop reading here. This is solely for me to really take account of and be proud of everything I accomplished this year, but also to let it soak in that I do not want another year like this again.)

JANUARY:

Researched, wrote, developed, costumed and constructed [solo show]

Performed [solo show] in Minneapolis for a limited group

Performed one night in an Off-Book quest slot performance

Performed [solo show] in Tuscon

FEBRUARY:

Prepared for the hellish year to come

MARCH:

Helped to develop new script for [indie company]

APRIL:

Directed new script for [indie company]

Developed, costumed, constructed and performed a short detailed piece for a fundraiser by a company I dearly love and hope to work for

MAY:

Continuance and opening of new script production for [indie company]

Both managing and guest performing in a large fundraiser show for my work

JUNE:

Performing [solo show] in Atlanta

Performing as part of a trio in a long-form improv production in Atlanta

Directing a brand new set of 5 trateau pieces for a company I dearly love

JULY:

Trateau rehearsal continues

AUGUST:

Trateau performances

Huge annual arts event that my work actually centers around

SEPTEMBER:

Travel to Sweden and Finland for work

Travel to Sweden and Denmark for pleasure (first time out of the US since 2019, so it was an accomplishment for me)

Start work on a project that will require me to direct, create, costume, design, manage, market, and help write five separate 60-mintue shows that will all perform within one week of each other

OCTOBER:

Aforementioned 5-show nightmare rehearsals and marketing continue

Performed in all 5 shows

Coordinated an 11-day pop-up market during that same week which included a complete (floor, ceiling, walls) set-dressing of a small room, while being the proprietor and coordinator of all sellers and wares

NOVEMBER:

Died a little inside

Cleaned my studio for the first time in a year

DECEMBER:

Started rehearsals for a show I'll act/sing in this spring, one that will be stress free and a fkn joy and everything that 2024 was not.

[storytimewithtibby]

warnings: vaginal fingering, hendrick easterman x fem!reader word count: 1205 work - a paraphilia a day

Sophophilia Learning a/n if this seems targeted, it 100% is. love y'all xoxo

     Pen dragging across the page, writing yet another note on yet another reagent. A failure, but they kept pushing them back in hoping for better results. You’d gotten the same debriefing everyone else did, had the same checklist to go over as you walked between the windows watching as the anxiety blossomed into terror. Some of them were evolving, you could see it, becoming everything Easterman had assured the higher ups was possible.

“There you are…’ 

     Who knew a voice could feel like a touch, a low whimper escaping you at the crooned praise. It wasn’t even aimed at you, but one of those malleable clay forms being molded by the trials. You watched as one of the technicians pressed another button, knowing what was coming as you shifted restlessly.  

“My little how high.’ 

     Did they know how much you all learned each trial, the updates to therapy made as you watched them crawl and scurry like rats? Every movement, every action, was a lesson in human behaviour. Releasing an ex pop near traps could train a reagent to avoid them better than the low noise that occurred when it was disturbed. Causality, manipulation, all of it was working so well. 

     Even their confrontations with the Prime assets were valuable, using them like grinders to smooth out those rough edges the reagents came in with. Just today a reagent had found a way to send Coyle into a rage that had left him useless the rest of the trial as he focused solely on trying to find the faraday ex pops around the map after the first had jumped him.

     Most people went to work already tired, already looking to the clock hoping for haste. Not you. Your work… stimulated you. It was the only word for it, eagerly rushing down the halls to take up your assigned post for the first trial. It wasn’t the blood on the walls so much as how it got there. It wasn’t the broken whispers in the dark but what they said, being able use that information to learn more. 

     Fingers cuffed your wrist as you set down the reports you’d finished, and you almost jumped out of your skin. Why was he sitting in the dark? Trying to slow your racing heart, you couldn’t make yourself pull away. It would probably be the smarter thing, but what if he wanted to tell you something. Needed you to know something. He was head of the trials for a reason. 

“You were watching today?’ 

     You nodded even though you weren’t sure he could see you. When he didn’t respond, just sat there, silent, god was he observing you? That shouldn’t send tingles racing across your skin. What did he learn looking at you, watching your expression in the dim lighting. The gentle tug felt like gravity, and you let yourself fall into its grip with nary a thought to the contrary.

     Guided onto his thigh, you sat and subconsciously straightened your posture as his hand settled on the arm of the chair behind you. It could be considered a comfortable silence if not for the fact that you could hear the soft wheeze to his breathing. So it was true that he’d been ill. Had he recovered? Were you able to ask?

“Tell me.’

     Unsure which reagent he was keeping an eye on, you started from the beginning. There’d been the young girl from Chicago, she’d excelled during the trial in terms of athleticism, but there was a pesky level of altruism you found concerning. He didn’t stop you as you elaborated on that point, tip of his thumb stroking your lower back when your words began to spill out too quickly. 

     Or at least that was your assumption, because the touch fell away when you slowed. His other hand lightly resting on your knee only briefly managed to penetrate the haze as you struggled to make sure that you forgot nothing. Every detail was important, every moment could be something crucial to unlocking potential. All that knowledge pouring out of your mouth, each syllable precise, and that hand moving higher by millimeters.

     It was only when you stammered slightly that it stopped, moving lower, testing the waters so to speak. The harsh ache when he squeezed as you listed your observations regarding the Prime assets would have sent you spilling to the floor if you weren’t already seated. He just kept absorbing, offering nothing in return outside the occasional shift of his hand. Loathe to feel the absence you struggled to think of anything else you’d observed. 

“What a keen eye you have.’ Your thighs pressed together against his hand then spread when it shifted upwards. “And your mind is fascinating, look how you sift through the filth to find the pure ores needed to stoke the Murkoff’s furnace.’

     Breath stuttering as questing fingers skimmed the junction of your thighs on the word stoke, you were rewarded with the feel of his forehead resting on your shoulder. The feverish touch of his skin felt like a brand, fingertips seeking and rubbing in circles as your hips rocked. 

“Keep talking.’

     Right, you could do that. There had been information in one of the reagent’s files that had interested you. They could be more valuable as a Prime asset. They’d shown remarkable charisma in the trial, not only quickly securing the leader position among the other reagents, but managed to confuse Barbi leading to his firing on the ex pops that were meant to be his allies. 

     Clenching around his fingers as he crooned the word good, you tried to remember when he’d inserted not just a digit but two. What else did you know about the possible misplacement of a prime asset? It was getting harder to think, but when you stopped talking his fingers stopped. Each time you were so close your thoughts scattered like pages caught by the HVAC vent pushing air into the room. 

     Pleas wouldn’t get you what you wanted, he needed to know what you’d observed, what you’d learned. He murmured his own begging against your cheek as you reached down to catch his wrist and keep his hand in place. The feel of his thumb grinding down against your clit stole your breath after mentioning observations about him. What you’d learned by the sound bytes used on the reagents, how it effected them. 

“Good, good, just like that.’ 

     Wasn’t that supposed to be your line, your thoughts sparking and popping like fuses in a blown box. You weren’t even sure if you were coherent any longer, sentences half finished, the pitch of words varied. Rising and falling as your fingers dug into his wrist feeling the orgasm just out of your reach. Like a beast resting its teeth against your skin but unwilling to bite down. 

“That’s my little how high..’

     Starbursts behind your eyes, thighs pressing against his hand as his thumb sent electric bursts ricocheting through your system. That had been unexpected, trying to steady your breathing. Though maybe it shouldn’t have been, taking the handkerchief from his breast pocket and cleaning the hand that was slowly pulled from between your legs. 

“Thank you, sir. I try.’

[therealcocoshady]

Kinktober - Day 23 - Cockwarming

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

A/N : so, my first attempt at doing Kinktober taught me that one of the pros of using someone else’s prompts is that you don’t have to come up with them by yourself. Sadly, it has also taught me that one the con of using someone else’s prompts is that… well, you end up having to write things you’ve never tried before 🤣. Anyway, this is my attempt at writing something « cockwarming ». Shoutout to people on Reddit who shared their experience on various posts. Really couldn’t have done it without them 😅. Oh, and this is Dom!Marshall x Sub!Reader !

CW : Smut? - Cockwarming - Anxiety

It had been a couple of months since Marshall had agreed to show you more of what being a submissive entailed. He was a great teacher, willing to answer any question, offering detailed explanations, putting the emphasis on consent and safety. Obviously, this brought a shift to your friendship dynamic. You weren’t just buddies anymore. There was something deeper there, something based on trust and intimacy. Both of you had access to parts that each other kept hidden. In the past few weeks, Marshall had gotten to know your body like the back of his hand, as well as your mind. He was able to anticipate your needs, knew exactly when he could push you further or when it was time to hold back. And, in spite of the rigid structure inherent to the weekends you spent at his place, that the untrained eye would identity as some distance between the two of you, he had become some sort of safe place for you. Not only as a close friend but also as your Sir.

You’d had a really rough week at work. Not only was your boss even more of an asshole that usual, but you had been assigned to some big project that had you stressed out. The anxiety was paralyzing and the tension followed you home, too. Even out of the office, that thing remained on your mind. And for the first time, you weren’t sure you’d be able to last a whole weekend with Marshall. You had texted him a few days earlier, letting him know how you were doing (as part of your agreement). You had been pretty straightforward and expected him to cancel, but he seemed pretty adamant on having you come over as usual. And when you showed up, as soon as he opened the door, he took notice of how disheveled you look. Big dark circles, eyes glistening with exhaustion and a drawn out stance. It didn’t take a genius to tell you were a mess. You looked down, bowing your head as he had taught you, waiting for him to invite you in.

Contrary to what was usual, he pulled you into a warm embrace, one that reminded you of the ones you’d shared as friends who showed up for each other during hard times. You leaned into it, closing your eyes, though you had a hard time letting go of all the tension. He seemed to notice it and gave you a reassuring smile before kissing your forehead. « I know you had a rough week, » he said in a tone that with both firm and gentle at the same time. « You don’t have to worry about anything now. You’re here with me and I’m in charge ».

His tone did not leave room for argument or doubt. You nodded, anxiously hoping that he wouldn’t go too hard on you. He had never given you any reason to doubt the fact that he’d make your comfort and wellbeing a priority, but you were the one you didn’t trust. You weren’t even sure what your own limits were. Everything in your mind was blurry, noisy and messy. You took a deep breath and entered the house. And as was now usual, you put down your bags and knelt in the foyer, waiting for him to properly greet you and give you your instructions. He stood before you, his hand gently patting the top of your head. « Good girl. Welcome home. » he praised in that low voice of his. « You may go to your room and get ready. Your checklist is on the bed », he instructed.

You nodded and did as you were told. It was the same start every weekend : you’d kneel, he’d greet you and you’d go to make yourself at home in the guest bedroom next to his. Then, you’d take a shower, put on the clothes he instructed you to wear and read the checklist he had prepared in advance. Most of the time, it was the same thing : you were in charge of making dinner for the both of you, as well as doing some reading on submission. Some other tasks included helping him sort out his cassette collection or library. On occasion, if he had a specific event coming up, he tasked you with outfit recommendations. This time, however, the checklist was pretty brief : «Put on comfy clothes - No chores - Rest - Obey».

When you walked back downstairs, you found him on the couch, scrolling on his phone. He glanced and your direction and gave you a nod, signaling he was happy with your outfit choice. He gestured for you to have a sit and you noticed that a cozy blanket and a cup of herbal tea were waiting for you. « Figured you’d need this. Take a moment and have some tea. I’ll be right there. » he instructed. You settled onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders and cradled the mug into your hands, the warmth seeping onto your skin. You took a sip, the comforting taste calming your nerves, and let out a small sigh. Normally, simply being in the house would be enough for your mind to go quiet but not this time. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on your surroundings, the comfy couch, the familiar smell… but you kept on replaying moments of the past week. Your boss yelling at you. Your colleague pressuring you about the deadline. Instinctively, your hands clenched around the mug. You felt Marshall’s hand in your back, rubbing comforting circles. None of you spoke for a while, before Marshall cleared his throat, signaling for you to look at him.

« This weekend, I want you to let go and rest, understood? », he said, his gaze meeting yours with quiet intensity. « You’ve been pushing yourself and now, I’m going to take care of you », he added. Your eyes softened at his words and, though you found yourself nodding, you were met with a surge of anxiety. You didn’t want to be a burden. And you didn’t want him to think you’d given up on your progression as a sub either. « Thank you, Sir. But you don’t need to-», you began. He silently raised an eyebrow, making you shut up instantly.

« Who am I to you right now ? » he calmly asked. « You’re my dom, Sir », you replied softly, looking down. « Which means you are…? » he asked again. « Your sub, Sir », you replied. « That’s right. You’re my sub. Mine. And I take care of what’s mine. » he said firmly, in a tone that didn’t leave room for you to second-think. You nodded and he cupped your face, his thumb gently brushing your skin. You finished your tea and he led you to the movie room where he put on a movie, in an attempt to distract you. He was sitting on the couch while you were at his feet, sinking into the soft carpet, your head resting gently against his leg. One of his hands was in your hair and his presence grounded you.

You enjoyed the movie, but it still wasn’t enough to put your mind to rest. Contrary to your habits, you were fidgeting, nervously biting your lip, the skin around your nails. Marshall kept on swatting your hand but you couldn’t stop, much to his exasperation. « Stop doing that », he scolded. « Sorry, Sir. Can’t really help it. », you apologetically replied, to which he rolled his eyes. « It’s stressing me out. And you’re going to hurt yourself.» he continued. « Sorry », you mumbled, without really stopping. He firmly grabbed your wrist and watched you intently. « Y/N » he said sternly. « It’s an oral fix- » you began, though he cut you off with a loud sigh. « Do you need me to help you with that ? »

You looked at him, trying to scan his face to make sure what he was implying. Your eyes traveled to his crotch, then back to his eyes. You were about to make a comment about him just needing to tell you to get on your knees if he wanted you to satisfy him when he clarified it. « Not asking for a blowjob » he said. You looked at him, slightly confused. « So, uh, what is it, Sir? » you asked with a raised eyebrow. « Just you, keeping it in your mouth. Ever heard of cockwarming? ». You nodded. You’d vaguely heard of it but you had never found it too appealing. In your opinion, it kind of lacked the fun of an actual blowjob and you didn’t quite see the point. « Some people like it. They say it’s soothing,» he continued. « We can give it a try if you want. It’ll be less disgusting than… you biting your nails or whatever ». You nodded after a couple seconds of consideration. Worst comes to worst, you’d find it disgusting and wouldn’t try it again. Plus, if there was anyone you trusted with this, it was him. And in the best case, it might actually work. « Words, doll » he ordered. « When it comes to anything like that, I’d rather have you verbally consent », he added. « I consent to trying it, sir », you said with a slight smile, finding it quite endearing, the way he always made it feel safe. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. « So, uh… I just… put it in my mouth and not move? » you asked. He chuckled and shrugged a bit. «That’s the idea. You can gently suck and lick if you feel like it, too» he nodded. « But is that going to be… enjoyable? » you asked again with a raised eyebrow. « For me? Yeah. It’s agreeable. Pretty intimate, too. Might be enjoyable for you too. Apparently, it does a great job satisfying oral fixations. You’ll tell me. If you don’t like it, we stop. And you know the safe words and moves anyway, don’t you ? » he said with a smile and you nodded.

He moved a bit on the couch, before lowering his pants and boxers, letting his cock spring free. It was in a semi-soft state in which, not to toot your own horn, you weren’t use to seeing it often. You almost found it unsettling, not seeing it fully erect. He gestured for you to come and you settled between his legs, comfortably curling up and wrapping your mouth around his dick. You looked at him for a few seconds, as if to make sure you were doing it right. He gave you a small nod and a reassuring smile, before running a hand in your hair. « Good girl », he praised softly. « Now, try and relax, ok? ».

Much to your surprise, you didn’t find it as weird as you thought you would. Sure enough, you’d never had a cock that wasn’t fully hard in your mouth, nor were you used to not doing anything to it once it was in. But it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as you expected. And it wasn’t disgusting either. In fact, he was right : it did do a good job at satisfying the oral fixation. As someone who had always been sort of « orally centered », there was something relaxing to holding him in your mouth. Soon enough, you let your mind wander, shifting your focus from work to your dom, who gently stroked your hair and neck. You instinctively suckled, not exactly on purpose, but you could hear Marshall humming lightly. You stayed like that for a while, enjoying the contact and intimacy of it, while the TV show played in the background. «All good, doll? », Marshall asked after a while. You let out a soft hum, your mind kind of elsewhere. He let out a soft chuckle and a « Good girl » escaped his lips. His fingers found the back of your head, stroking in soothing motions. You found yourself in some kind of meditative space, halfway between relaxation and submission. Finally. What you enjoyed the most. The point where the noise in your head went quiet and nothing outside really mattered.

You’d had enough conversations with Marshall to know what sub space was but you had never experienced it. In the back of your mind, you wondered if, perhaps, that was it. You were feeling both vulnerable and connected to your dom, your body feeling as if it were « floaty ». You were not exactly sure where you were, or how long you stayed like this and, frankly, you didn’t care. You felt serene, as if you were exactly where you belonged. Marshall’s fingers traced your scalp, your forehead, your cheek, grounding you, reminding you of his presence and him being in charge.

You could feel him twitch slightly in your mouth, hardening and softening at times. You went with the flow, instinctively shifting your position. At some point, however, it became too challenging for you to hold him in your mouth, to even breathe. It kind of took you out of your zone and you took it out of your mouth as you came to your senses. You looked at Marshall, who was seemingly zoned out. He gazed at you with a smile, his eyes full of silent praises. «All good, sweetheart ? » he asked in a low voice. You nodded, smiling at the sweet pet name. « All good. Thank you, Sir » you replied quietly. He cupped your face and let his thumb stroke your cheek. «There it is. That smile. Missed it. » he teasingly commented, making you blush. « So? I take it that you didn’t hate it? » he asked with a grin. « I didn’t » you agreed. « It was nice ».

« I’m glad » he hummed. « Wanna keep going? ». You lowered your gaze, noticing he was still fully hard. « Don’t think I’ll be able to hold it, Sir. Not like… this » you softly commented. He looked down and let out a chuckle. «Ah. Sorry. Side effect. » he replied with an unapologetic smirk before putting his boxers and pants back in place. « Means you’re a good girl », he added with a wink. You felt a familiar warmth through your body and for a second you wondered if he was aware of the effect his praises had on you. You let out an involuntary giggle before blushing and looking down apologetically. « Didn’t think you’d find me so funny » he said with a raised eyebrow. You shook your head, indicating it wasn’t that. He crossed his arms and stared at you. « Why don’t you share, then ? » he suggested with a smirk. « Before I punish you for laughing in my face », he added in a low voice. You looked at him and blushed slightly before tentatively explaining. « I, uh… I was wondering if it was an acronym, sir », you awkwardly replied, failing to hide a goofy smile. « An acronym? » he repeated, clearly not getting the pun. « Because it stands for me », you mumbled, trying not to let out the goofiest snort. He stared at you intently, sternly for a few seconds, before breaking character and face palming himself, letting out a loud chortle. « Oh Jesus Christ, Y/N » he sighed with a laugh. « Sorry » you giggled before looking down. He pulled you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You exchanged goofy smiles, both of you enjoying the moments when your friendship bled into the dynamic. «If the bad jokes and lyric references are back, I think it means you’re feeling better » he chuckled. You nodded and gave him a sincere smile. « I do. Thank you Sir. You’re a good dom. And a great friend. » you said with a heartfelt gratitude. He chortled and nodded. « I mean, it’s nothing special. Friendly cockwarming. It’s a thing. » he deadpanned. You couldn’t resist playing into it. «Makes sense. I might remember that next time work brings me down and ask my office buddy for a friendly favor » you playfully replied. The humor in your voice was unmistakable but it didn’t prevent him from squinting and his eyes from going darker. « oh yeah? Anything you want to share, doll ? » he asked sternly.

You gave him a smile and shook your head. You were well aware of the rules : the whole dynamic was basically a friends with benefit arrangement and, if you wanted to date or be involved with someone else, you were free to, but it would mean his domination would become strictly platonic. « There’s no one else, Sir. » you hummed. «I’m all yours », you added in a whisper, though you knew he could clearly hear it. « Good. I like the sound of that. You’re my good girl » he praised in a low voice, his face inching closer to yours. « I like being yours, sir » you added under your breath. You saw a smirk form on his face and, without adding anything, he pulled you to him and his lips crashed into yours, sending jolts of electricity through your whole body. You thoroughly enjoyed him having such a primal reaction. And it was quite rare, too. Most of the time, your dynamic didn’t involved a lot of flirting and teasing. Kissing, too, was quite rare. That being said, you found it quite exhilarating.

His kiss was possessive, not leaving room for doubt. His hands moved to your waist, his hold on you feeling fierce and raw. Though you were used to letting him be in control, this time, you couldn’t resist responding eagerly. Your body melted into his, your lips soft and insistent against his. Marshall’s hand slid up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, a quiet growl escaping his throat as he claimed you fully. It was empowering and intoxicating, noticing the way he reacted to your submission. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy him being territorial. As your mouths parted, in order to allow for some much-needed breathing, you slightly pulled back, realizing that, regardless of how enjoyable it was, you might be overstepping. « Sorry, sir », you whispered before lowering your gaze. He shook his head and cupped your cheek before capturing your lips in another kiss, this one slower and deeper that had you surrendering, melting against him. The kiss deepened, your bodies pressed close as you lost yourselves in each other. You already knew he was rock hard, obviously, and you could feel it through the fabric of his clothes. You were slowly grinding against each other, as you let him take the lead and instinctively followed his movements. « What can I do for you, Sir ? » you asked as you bit your lip. Your desire had you feeling as if you were burning from the inside, and you were dying to have him telling you to get on your knees and get to work. He smiled and placed a tender kiss on your lips before shaking his head. « You’re not doing anything for me, this weekend. I’m taking care of you, remember ? » he reminded you. « What do you have in mind, Sir ? » you asked. « At least a couple of orgasms, and maybe some more friendly cockwarming. There’s more holes for us to try », he replied with a promising smile.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The art of Daniel Danger

[Image ID: Daniel Danger's art print, 'To all who home to this happy place,' depicting a ruined Disneyland castle in a post-apocalyptic landscape with a statue of Walt and Mickey in the rubble.]

There’s this behavioral economics study that completely changed the way i thought about art, teaching, and critique: it’s a 1993 study called “Introspecting about Reasons can Reduce Post-Choice Satisfaction” by Timothy D Wilson, Douglas J Lisle, Jonathan Schooler, Sara Hodges, Kristen Klaaren and Suzanne LaFleur:

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/240281868_Introspecting_about_Reasons_can_Reduce_Post-Choice_Satisfaction

The experimenters asked subjects to preference-rank some art posters; half the posters were cute cartoony posters, and the other half were fine art posters. One group of subjects assigned a simple numeric rank to the posters, and the other had to rank them and explain their ranking. Once they were done, they got to keep their posters.

There was a stark difference in the two groups’ preferences: the group that had to explain their choices picked the cartoony images, while the group that basically got to point at their favorite and say, “Ooh, I like that!” chose the fine art posters.

Then, months later, the experimenters followed up and asked the subjects what they’d done with the poster they got to take home. The ones who’d had to explain their choices and had brought home cartoony images had thrown those posters away. The ones who didn’t have to explain what they liked about their choice, who’d chosen fine art, had hung them up at home and kept them there.

The implication is that it’s hard to explain what makes art good, and the better art is, the harder it is to put your finger on what makes it so good. More: the obvious, easy-to-articulate virtues of art are the less important virtues. Art’s virtues are easy to spot and hard to explain.

The reason this stuck with me is that I learned to be a writer through writing workshops where we would go around in a circle and explain what we liked and didn’t like about someone’s story, and suggest ways to make it better. I started as a teenager in workshops organized by Judith Merril in Toronto, then through my high-school workshop (which Judy had actually founded a decade-plus earlier through a writer in the schools grant), and then at the Clarion workshop in 1992. I went on to teach many of these workshops: Clarion, Clarion West and Viable Paradise.

So I’ve spent a lot of time trying to explain what was and wasn’t good about other peoples’ art (and my own!), and how to make it better. There’s a kind of checklist to help with this: when a story is falling short in some way, writers roll out these “rules” for what makes for good and bad prose. There are a bunch of these rulesets (think of Strunk & White’s Elements of Style), including some genre-specific ones like the Turkey City Lexicon:

https://www.sfwa.org/2009/06/18/turkey-city-lexicon-a-primer-for-sf-workshops/

A few years ago, I was teaching on the Writing Excuses cruise and a student said something like, “Hey, I know all these rules for writing good stories, but I keep reading these stories I really like and they break the rules. When can I break the rules?”

There’s a stock answer a writing teacher is supposed to give here: “Well, first you have to master the rules, then you can break them. You can’t improvise a jazz solo without first learning your scales.”

But in that moment, I thought back to the study with the posters and I had a revelation. These weren’t “rules” at all — they were just things that are hard and therefore easy to screw up. No one really knows why a story isn’t working, but they absolutely know when it doesn’t, and so, like the experimental subject called upon to explain their preferences, they reach for simple answers: “there’s too much exposition,” or “you don’t foreshadow the ending enough.”

There are lots of amazing stories that are full of exposition (readers of mine will not be shocked to learn I hold this view). There are lots of twist endings that are incredible — and not despite coming out of left field, but because of it.

The thing is, if you can’t say what’s wrong, but you know something is wrong, it’s perfectly reasonable to say, “Well, why don’t you try to replace or polish the things that are hardest to do right. Whatever it is that isn’t working here, chances are it’s the thing that’s hardest to make work”:

https://locusmag.com/2020/05/cory-doctorow-rules-for-writers/

But if I could change one thing about how we talk about writing and its “rules,” it would be to draw this distinction, characterizing certain literary feats as easier to screw up than others, having the humility to admit that we just don’t know what’s wrong with a story, and then helping the writer create probabilistically ranked lists of the things they could tinker with to try and improve their execution.

Which is all a very, very long-winded way to explain why I bought a giant, gorgeous art-print at Comic-Con this weekend, even though I have nowhere to hang it and had sworn I would absolutely not buy any art at the con.

I was walking the floor, peeking into booths, when I happened on Daniel Danger’s booth (#5034, if you’re at the con today), and I was just fuckin’ poleaxed by his work.

http://www.tinymediaempire.com/

[Image ID: Daniel Danger’s ‘It stopped being about the panic,’ depicting a ruined mansion interwoven with the skeletal branches of a tree, with a weeping statue and two human figures]

Now, see above. I can’t tell you why I loved this work so much (and that’s OK!), but boy oh boy did it speak to me. I just kind of stood there with my mouth open, slowly moving from print to print, admiring works like “It stopped being about the panic.”

https://tinymediaempire.myshopify.com/products/2022-sdcc-it-stopped-being-about-the-panic-v4

[Image ID: Daniel Danger’s ‘headlight in the path of,’ depicting a ruined mall with a pair of stags standing at the top of the escalator.]

On the surface, this is moody, post-apocalyptic stuff, heavily influenced by classic monster/haunter tropes, but it’s shot through with hope and renewal and the sense of something beautiful growing out of the ashes of something that has toppled. There’s real “(Nothing But) Flowers” energy in “Headlight in the path of”:

https://tinymediaempire.myshopify.com/products/sdcc2023-headlight-in-the-path-of-v2

[Image ID: Daniel Danger’s ‘We are no longer able to protect you,’ depicting a ruined factory with a coming-apart sign reading ‘We can no longer protect you forever,’ and a statue of a sword-bearing angel.]

Danger isn’t just a

very

talented artist, he’s also an

extremely

talented craftsman. As a recovering pre-press geek, I was (nearly) as impressed by the wild use of spot color and foils as I was by the art, like in “We are no longer able to protect you”:

https://tinymediaempire.myshopify.com/products/sdcc-2022-we-can-no-longer-protect-you-forever-v3

[Image  ID: Daniel Danger’s ‘made of smoke and chains,’ depicting a ruined landscape with a pair of derelict subway trains at the foot of a hill on whose peak is a rotting mansion. A pair of human figures, holding hands, are approaching the mansion.]

Danger himself calls this work “weird sad hyper-detailed artwork of dreamy buildings of ghosts and trees,” which is a very apt description of this work, as you can see in “Made of smoke and chains”:

https://tinymediaempire.myshopify.com/products/made-of-smoke-and-chains-mist-preorder

So I looked at this stuff and sternly reminded myself that there was no way I was going to buy any art at the con. Then I walked away. I got about two aisles over when I realized I had to go back and ask permission to take some pictures so I could put a little link to Danger in my blog’s linkdump, which he graciously permitted:

https://www.flickr.com/search/?sort=interestingness-desc&safe_search=1&tags=danieldanger&min_taken_date=1687478400&max_taken_date=1690156799&view_all=1

[Image ID: Daniel Danger’s art print, ‘To all who home to this happy place,’ depicting a ruined Disneyland castle in a post-apocalyptic landscape with a statue of Walt and Mickey in the rubble.]

But then I got all the way ass over to the other ass end of the convention center and I realized I had to go back and buy one of these prints. Which I did, “To all who come to this happy place,” because fuckin’ wow:

https://tinymediaempire.myshopify.com/products/sdcc2023-this-happy-place-v6-foil

This was unequivocally the best thing I saw at this year’s SDCC, but I also got some very good news while there, namely, that Emil Ferris’s long, long-awaited My Favorite Thing Is Monsters Vol 2 is finally on the schedule from Fantagraphics:

https://www.fantagraphics.com/collections/emil-ferris/products/my-favorite-thing-is-monsters-book-two

It’s coming out in April, which gives you plenty of time to read volume one, which I called, “a haunting diary of a young girl as a dazzling graphic novel”:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/06/20/my-favorite-thing-is-monsters-a-haunting-diary-of-a-young-girl-as-a-dazzling-graphic-novel/

If you are or were a monster kid or a haunter, this is your goddamned must-read of the summer. It’s a fully queered, stunning memoir for anyone whose erotic imagination intersected with Famous Monsters of Filmland.

(Also, if you’re that kind of person and you’re in the region, you should know about Midsummer Scream, a giant haunter show in Long Beach; I’ll be there on Sunday, July 30, for a panel about the Ghost Post, the legendary Haunted Mansion puzzle-boxes I helped make:

https://midsummerscream.org/

Now Favorite Thing book two was the best news, but the best experience was watching Felicia Day get her Inkpot Award and give a moving speech:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inkpot_Award

And then learning that Raina Telgemeier also got an Inkpot; I love Raina’s work so much:

https://memex.craphound.com/2016/10/04/ghosts-raina-telgemeiers-upbeat-tale-of-death-assimilation-and-cystic-fibrosis/

[Image ID: A photo of me with Chuck Tingle, who wears a pink bag over his head on which he has written ‘Love is Real.’]

To cap yesterday off, I also ran into @ChuckTingle, which is as fine a capstone to a successful con as anyone could ask for:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53065500076/in/dateposted/

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/23/but-i-know-what-i-like/#daniel-danger

[ametrictonofaudacity]

Gaps Interlude

Warnings: stalking, implied violence, obsession, manipulation, written through yandere’s pov, delusion.

I’ve decided to do a short interlude for Gaps! All of the interludes will be told from one of the Batfam’s prespective, so enjoy!

Dick meets you in one of Gotham’s many coffee shops in the tourist section. The place is homey and warm, a personal favorite of his since it always seemed to lull Tim into a relaxed enough state that his little brother could be cajoled or bribed into sleeping when he got home, and the people are the same. Which is why you catch his eye so quickly.

You look exhausted. The sort of exhaustion that causes droopy eyes and a tired slump to the shoulders, that made your face seem dull and listless. You were pushing through it, though, staring at the laptop in front of you with a tired focus that reminds him of Tim on the days when his little brother simply had to finish a project. It’s barely even a brief thought, that flickers in the back of his mind.

(Later, Dick will wonder if that thought is what started all of this. Later, he will card his fingers through your hair as you sleep peacefully in your bed, unaware. Later, he will wait as Jason and Bruce bring home his newest sibling.)

But at the time, he doesn’t think much of the concern blooming in his chest. He approaches you, an easy smile on his lips, carefully keeping his body language open, so that he didn’t frighten you.

“Hey. You look a little out of it, everything alright?” He calls gently, and tired eyes glance up at him, lips pulling down into a frown. Now that he was closer, he could see your ragged appearance, more than just the lack of sleep.

Your clothes weren’t threadbare, but they were definitely old, the fabric of the joints stretched and worn. A grey hoodie, jeans, common wear for just about anyone in Gotham. If it wasn’t for the way you were clearly struggling, Dick doesn’t think he would’ve noticed you.

(Later, the thought feels impossible. Of course he’d notice you, you were his little sibling, even if neither of you knew it yet.)

“Oh, um.. working on a paper for my classes. I’m supposed to do an informative paper on how vigilantes have influenced measure of force laws.”

“Are you taking criminal justice? I had to write something similar when I was in college for my degree. Mind if I sit?”

“Nah, sure, go ahead. And no, it was a randomly assigned topic. I think she picked something so specific to see how good our research skills are.”

“Would you like some help?”

The offer surprises you. It surprises him, really. He doesn’t mean to say it, it sort of just slips out, which should alarm him because he hadn’t been this impulsive around new people since he got B’s training. It doesn’t.

You accept, even with your surprise.

And Dick helps you.

He keeps helping you, helping you when you needed to do a paper, when you needed to do just about anything.

(Later, he will continue to help you, even if you think you don’t need his help anymore. That’s okay. You were his little sibling, and he would help you whether you wanted him to or not.)

Over time, he notices things. He doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but there’s only so much you can ignore when you’ve been trained by Batman and been through all the things he has. And it’s not like you do a very good job hiding it.

The first time he visits your apartment, there are meds in your bedside drawer, which is cracked open. He makes a note to read the scripts, later, so at the very least he could help you in the ways you needed him to. He waits until you are out of the room, sliding the drawer open silently, and looking them over. Meds for anxiety, depression, ADHD. A planner full of notes and reminders, a checklist of all the tasks you had to do to take care of yourself.

A journal, hidden in the back.

He slides it into his jacket without a thought, putting all the other items back.

Every word from the journal just makes the overwhelming need to protect you grow. You wrote about your memories, your struggles. You wrote about how hard it was to stay alive and sane in a city that so often turned out criminals and murderers. You wrote about how much it hurt, sometimes, being alone. You wrote about how you couldn’t trust anyone, even though you wanted to.

And you write about Dick.

The first time he sees an entry about him, he feels something curl in his chest, pleased and content. You had called him caring, had called him nice. You had called him sweet. Had admitted to wanting to be able to trust him, to appreciating his calls and his texts and his reminders.

And even Dick can admit that it makes him worse.

He calls you more often, talking about anything and everything. He reminds you to eat, or drink water, and even though you don’t like it, you listen, often complaining you were an adult even as he could hear you filling a glass.

(Later, Dick would look back on it fondly. You’d acted exactly like an irritated little sibling.)

He doesn’t start to follow you until later, and he’s amazed how quickly it becomes routine.

He just.. can’t help it. You’re all alone, in an apartment in Gotham, struggling and on your own. Any instance where a threat gets too close to you, it’s quickly dealt with.

He introduces you to his family. Damian first, of course, because he wouldn’t have it any other way, and it goes amazingly. You’re involved, treating his little brother kindly but without pity, and it makes him so happy to see his little siblings getting along. You tell Damian about a kitten you had, a Maine Coone named Momo, talk to him about past and current pets. By the time the conversation is over, he can tell Damian must adore you as much as him and the thought makes his heart soar.

He introduces you to Bruce, next. His adoptive father takes one look at you and he can practically see the man filling out the adoption appears already. He doesn’t think he expected anything less.

Jason introduces himself by breaking into your apartment, making you food, and having a two hour long conversation with you about literature.

And every sibling that meets you falls in love with you, and every one of them adore you, and it just makes Dick want to take you home even more because they’ve never all agreed on anything but they all agree you should be at home with them.

So when Bruce sends Damian to steal your ID, he doesn’t protest. When Bruce changes your meds from an anti-anxiety med for sleeping to a mild sedative, he says nothing. They had a plan after all. And a part of that plan was to make it so that you wanted to go home with them.

When Jason and Bruce bring you home, slumped in Bruce’s arms as the man watched you with a gentle expression, he can’t help the rush of joy in his heart.

He had never really been a patient guy, anyways.

[matrix-fairy]

💫 MATRIX OF DESTINY COURSE

At home, on the go, during a break…

This course is designed to be fully accessible anytime, anywhere. With written materials and guided support, you’ll learn the Matrix of Destiny system step by step — at your own pace.

✔️ We don’t stop at theory.

✔️ You’ll practice through real-life examples, case studies, and hands-on exercises.

✔️ And you’ll never walk alone — every step comes with personalized guidance.

📘 Course Structure

• The course will be delivered entirely through written content.

• All materials will be provided as PDFs, explanatory texts, and visual guides.

• Each topic will be explained step by step in a clear and simple language.

• At the end of each section, practical mini-assignments will help reinforce your understanding.

• Each participant will receive individual attention. You will get personalized feedback and guidance throughout your learning journey.

• Communication with participants will take place via Telegram, and all questions will be answered in writing.

• Periodic checklists and supporting materials will be shared to help track your progress.

• By the end of the course, you are expected to have the knowledge and practice needed to fully analyze a Matrix from start to finish.

• To support this goal, a final project will be required: you’ll conduct a full Matrix analysis based on a selected birth date.

• The course is conducted exclusively via Telegram — no additional apps or platforms are necessary.

• You will have lifetime access to all materials. You can revisit and review the content anytime you wish.

During the course, you will learn to:

• Understand what the Matrix system is, its origins, and how it works

• Explore the meaning of the 22 energies and their roots in Tarot, numerology, and esoteric systems

• Convert numbers into energy and reduce values above 22 using the Matrix logic

• Analyze a person’s innate talents and spiritual potential

• Discover past-life karmic debts and how to resolve them

• Identify the root causes of current life challenges

• Decode how someone interacts with society and their environment through energy patterns

• Spot financial blocks and unlock abundance potential

• Analyze recurring relationship patterns and karmic ties

• Understand soulmate energy and how to identify compatible partners

• Determine ideal career paths based on energetic signatures

• Interpret ancestral karmas from both maternal and paternal lineages

• Examine inherited emotional patterns and family cycles

• Dive deep into the positive and negative traits of all 22 energies

�� Apply behavioral tools to balance each energy

• Distinguish between personal, generational, and daily karma

• Recognize karmic patterns in parent–child and partner dynamics

• Calculate your 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th life purposes and what ages they influence

• Align with your life path, social role, and soul-level contribution

• Understand 10-year energetic cycles and how they shape transformation

• Track 5-year rhythms that support change and realignment

• Calculate your yearly Matrix and read the energetic tone of the year

• Track month-by-month and day-by-day energetic influences

• Prepare for crisis years and major turning points

• Check energy suitability for events like marriage, separation, or new beginnings

• Analyze money flow, career direction, and earning potential

• Work on wealth expansion by unlocking supportive energies

• Build your personal health matrix and assess energetic blocks in the body

• Map Matrix points to chakra imbalances and spiritual wellbeing

• Read your own chakra-energy alignment through Matrix calculation

• Learn how to read a full Matrix from start to finish

• Recognize patterns, number repeats, and symbolic codes in the chart

• Follow a structured sequence for client consultations and readings

• Practice with example Matrix analyses for better fluency

• Study real-life case studies and practice live interpretations

• Conduct a full analysis of your own Matrix for inner healing and clarity

• Reinforce your knowledge through weekly practical assignments

• Receive one-on-one feedback and ask personalized questions to your mentor

DM or mail me matrixkaderharitasi@gmail.com to learn more!

[authorsharonforester]

Sticking To A Writing Routine

​Welcome. Today, I will show you how hard it is to stay on track with writing and the ways to overcome it. Here at home, I will currently express that I haven't written in a long time. 

The trouble with that is that I really want to, and despite that, I am not writing. I have a hard time sticking to writing a little bit every day because I am worried about how I will finish my work and the work it takes to do my writing and then edit it.

People have different reasons why they procrastinate writing. For all of us, it doesn't mean we enjoy writing. We are just afraid of failure in some way. For example, for me it is the process of editing and how much work it is going to take. My brain tells me that I will never finish the editing process because it takes so much time. I want to do things that will take very little time.

The story I am working on is about an alien that joins his people's plans on wanting to invade planet Earth, but the alien doesn't want to partake in this mission, and meanwhile on Earth, a girl and her friend are desperate to meet a live alien. This is a novel that took me three years to write when I was a little girl. I have written the entire thing on paper and now I need to type it on the computer.

It is important to keep yourself accountable for getting the work done. I am on camera because I want to show you that it is possible to come and stay on track in the writing process if you really let yourself do this. There are different ways to hold you accountable. You just gotta pick the types that work for you because everyone is different.

-Make a schedule and stick to it -Make a goal and stick to it -Make a checklist and work on it for a duration of time -Make a sign in, sign out sheet -Set a goal for the day -Get someone else to keep you accountable -Dedicate a day for your tasks

What works for every single person is different, so it is important you find what works for you, whether it is something from this list or something you come up with on your own. What works for me is this (when I am disciplined): Setting a goal and using a day to accomplish it. ​ Let me tell you how I found this. I was roaming through YouTube one day when I found an interview with Stephen King on there. I clicked on it because the title said he was talking about how he was making books so fast. He went into the conversation to mention that he sets the goal of writing SIX PAGES a day and then having the entire day to accomplish this. He also mentions that when he is being overcome with obstacles in writing, then he will use that time to take breaks, and what he does in those breaks is either eat a meal, shop at the door for things he needs or do a chore. He uses his breaks to do something he needs to get some practice in his personal life instead of being distracted by the phone and TV, which is really important to getting anything done. It is like being at school at home. Sometimes it makes it easier to think of it as an assignment he needs to get done. All these little things work as a motivator for him while he is working. Then he will start over the next day until he reaches his day(s) off.

This was inspiring to me because everyone else always came up with ideas that didn't work for me, such as the list above. For me, working under a time limit didn't work because I didn't know what to expect to come in randomly in my life. Others are able to work under pressure… It all depends on who you are and that you pick what works for you. As long as you pick something that is realistic to you, then you are on your way.

The last thing that you need to remember is that you need to start with small goals and just write! before you set yourself up with bigger goals and worry about editing, or else you will never get anything done because you are overwhelming yourself. We will overthink everything and then end up messing up our own stories.