#2018 Reading Challenge

[cannibal-nightmares]

random, but, thinking about it-- good, accurate, and respectful representation of schizophrenia in fiction and media probably saved my life and is 100% what helped me find resources for myself. by the way.

[horsemeatluvr23]

the juppet !! i just realised he is jerma posing i swear that was unintentional...... i spent so long digging thru muppet concept art and looking at old puppet designs just to end up doing a rly simple drawing but. i love joehills!! i have only been watching them for like 4 years but their videos r so special to me :3

[snakeplantz]

we are soooooo back

[thosemotivationalquotes]

I saw something in the news today that truly took my breath away. If you have been paying attention to U.S. politics over the past few days, you’ve most likely seen this woman:

This is Bishop Mariann Budde, and on Monday (Trump’s inauguration) she led an interfaith prayer for Trump and the incoming administration. During the service she asked him to have mercy for LGBTQ+ Americans and undocumented immigrants. This was badly received by the Trump administration (as expected).

After seeing headlines about this woman, I read something that I wanted to share. In 1998 a man named Matthew Shepard was murdered for being gay. I’m not going to get into the details of his death on this post, but please be warned it is extremely triggering if you do choose to read more on your own. Matthew Shepard’s death caused a lot of change in the U.S. regarding how LGBTQ hate crimes are handled, and laws that were passed to protect LGBTQ+ people.

Now you’re probably wondering what Matthew Shepard has to do with an Episcopal bishop. For years after Matthew Shepard’s murder, his family had held onto his remains, too scared to lay him to rest in fear of his final resting place being vandalized. In 2018, Budde had his remains interred at the National Cathedral, which is also the place where the interfaith prayer for Trump and his administration took place. The impact of this really had an effect on me. Budde could have led a non confrontational prayer service, and chosen not to mention the harm that will come to the people Trump and his administration are going after. Instead she chose to call out hate and fear in front of some of the most powerful people on the planet, and at a place that has such a large historic meaning to the LGBTQ community.

In the next few years there will be many challenges in protecting free speech, standing up against hate, and protecting those in our communities. But I would like to believe that for every Donald Trump and Elon Musk, there are people like Marianne Budde. There are those of us who can’t speak up for themselves, so it’s important for those of us who can to amplify our voices, even if it’s not the ‘popular’ thing to do.

“And he said you should apologize. Will you apologize?

I am not going to apologize for asking for mercy for others.” - Mariann Budde’s response in a Time interview

Link to articles: x x x

Link to the Matthew Shepard Foundation if you would like to donate

[mrs-delaney]

Letters You Never Sent | Part One

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 17.2k-ish words

request: college sweethearts since ohio state 🫶 but by 2023, fame starts to change joe. he acts single, barely mentions his girlfriend, and reader starts feeling invisible—like she doesn’t even exist in his world anymore. so she starts writing letters. not to give to him—just to survive it. just to say the things she doesn’t feel safe saying out loud. they break up in january 2024. she moves out in a rush and forgets the letters. months later, joe’s in a new (casual) relationship. and the girl finds the letters. she gives them to him. he reads them. and it wrecks him. realizing how badly he hurt someone who loved him with everything she had. and maybe… just maybe… there’s still a happy ending. 🥺❤️

📝 Author’s Note:

this one is heavy, guys. sincerely, thank you to the anon who requested it. i literally cried writing this.

i hope you feel it.

honestly i’m a little nervous because i’ve never written anything this heavy before. these requests have been such a fun challenge—some of y’all are asking for things i never would’ve thought to write, and it’s pushing me in the best way.

i feel like this goes without saying but creative liberties were taken here.

this one’s for anyone who’s ever felt left behind. Part Two is coming Friday.

alexa play if i were a boy by beyoncé 💔

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

The photo falls out of your copy of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo like a ghost from another life.

You're sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor of your new apartment, surrounded by boxes labeled in your neat handwriting—Books - Living Room, Kitchen - Essentials Only—building this new life piece by piece, methodically, like everything else you've learned to do alone. December afternoon light filters through windows that overlook a city that doesn't know your history, doesn't whisper his name on every street corner.

The photo is from October 2018. Ohio State tailgate. Both of you wearing Buckeye gear, his arm draped over your shoulders, caught mid-laugh at something off-camera. You remember exactly what made you both crack up—his terrible impression of Coach Meyer that had you snorting so hard you nearly choked on your beer.

You're looking up at him in the photo like he hung the moon. He's grinning down at you like you're the only person in a crowd of thousands.

God, you were so young. So sure you were different. So sure you were forever.

Your thumb traces over his face in the photo, and for a moment you can almost feel the scratch of his stubble, smell his cologne mixed with autumn air and possibility. Before the fame changed him. Before success became more important than the girl who believed in him first.

Before loving him nearly killed you.

You slip the photo back between the pages, closing the book gently. Not throwing it away - you're not that angry anymore, not that hurt. But not keeping it out either. Just... acknowledging it existed, acknowledging it mattered, before putting it back where it came from.

It wasn't always like this, you think, looking at those two kids who had no idea what was coming. It used to be perfect. It used to be the kind of love that made other people jealous, the kind that felt like finding your missing piece.

It used to be everything.

* * *

August 2017 Ohio State University

The first time you see Joe Burrow, he's late to freshman orientation and clearly doesn't want to be there.

You're sitting in what you quickly realize is the wrong breakout session—Student-Athletes: Balancing Academics and Competition—but the session has already started and you don't want to cause a disruption by leaving. You're a transfer student, sophomore standing but new to OSU, and you're already feeling like you stick out in all the wrong ways.

The door opens at 2:58 PM, and he slips in just under the wire. Still in workout gear—navy Nike shorts, gray Ohio State Athletics t-shirt, hair damp from a quick shower—backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. He scans the room for an empty seat and his eyes land on the one next to you.

"Sorry," he murmurs, settling into the chair. "Long practice."

You glance at him sideways. He's got this boy-next-door thing going on that probably makes professors want to adopt him, but there's something in his posture that screams frustration. Like he's carrying weight that doesn't belong to him.

"No worries," you whisper back. "I'm not even supposed to be in this group anyway."

That gets a small smile. "Yeah? What group should you be in?"

"Literally any other one. I'm not an athlete."

"Lucky you," he says under his breath, and there's something bitter in it that makes you look at him more carefully.

The orientation leader—a perky senior with a clipboard and an Ohio State cheerleading background—claps her hands together. "Alright, everyone! Time for our icebreaker. Partner up with someone you don't know and share your biggest fear about college!"

You turn to look at the boy next to you. Up close, you can see he's got these blue-green eyes that look tired despite his age, and there's something in his expression that gives him just enough edge to be interesting.

"Well," you say, "looks like we're partners."

"Joe," he offers, extending his hand.

"Y/N." His handshake is firm, confident in that way that comes from being an athlete, but his palm is slightly damp with nerves.

"So," you continue, settling back in your chair, "biggest fear about college. You go first."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in directions that should look ridiculous but somehow just look endearing. "That I'm gonna wash out. Like, everyone here is so sure of themselves and I'm just hoping I don't completely embarrass myself."

The honesty catches you off guard. Most guys, especially athlete guys, would never admit that to a stranger. There's something refreshing about it, something real.

"Your turn," he says.

"That I'll always be the transfer kid who doesn't really belong anywhere. This is my second school already."

"Second? What happened to the first one?"

You shrug. "It was small, didn't have the program I wanted. I'm in nursing school."

His eyebrows raise. "Nursing? That's hardcore."

"Says the guy who probably gets hit by linebackers for fun."

"Quarterback, actually. Well, third-string quarterback. Behind J.T. and Haskins." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Living the dream."

Something in his tone makes you study his face more carefully. "How long have you been here?"

"This is my third year. Redshirted as a freshman, barely saw the field last year." He shrugs like it doesn't bother him, but you can see that it does. "Coach Meyer likes to remind me that I'd be better suited for Division III ball."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. But hey, everyone starts somewhere, right?"

"Hey," you say, surprising yourself with how much you want to make that bitter edge disappear from his voice, "some of the best players had to wait their turn."

"Easy for you to say. You're not getting called 'John Burrow' by your own teammates."

"John?"

"J.T.'s real name is Joe too. So I'm John now. Very creative." He rolls his eyes, but there's hurt underneath the sarcasm.

"That's stupid."

"Welcome to my life."

The orientation leader calls for everyone's attention, but Joe's eyes stay on yours for a beat longer than necessary.

"Well, John," you say, and his face falls slightly before you continue, "I think Joe suits you better."

His smile, when it comes, is genuine and a little surprised. Like no one's bothered to stick up for him in a while.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

After the session ends, you both stand in that awkward way people do when they're not sure if the conversation is over. The other students are filing out, heading to their next activities, but neither of you seems in a hurry to leave.

"So," Joe says, shouldering his backpack, "what's your next thing?"

"Campus tour, I think. You?"

"Same." He pauses, then: "Want to get lost together? I mean, figure out where we're going together?"

You can't help but smile. "Want some company?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"It's very okay."

You walk out of the building together, into the late afternoon Ohio sun, and something about the way he holds the door for you, the way he asks about your major like he actually cares about the answer, makes you think this might be the start of something good.

You have no idea, walking across campus with this frustrated quarterback who makes you laugh, that you're falling in love with someone who will break your heart so completely you'll forget how to breathe.

You have no idea that six years from now, you'll be sitting alone in a new apartment, holding a photo from when you thought you'd made it—when he was yours and you were his and the future felt as bright as those Ohio autumn afternoons—wondering how love that felt so right could go so wrong.

All you know is that Joe Burrow has kind eyes and a crooked smile, and when he asks about nursing school, you get the feeling he's the kind of person who actually listens to the answer.

So you tell him. And he listens. And somewhere between the academic buildings and the student union, between his stories about small-town Ohio and your dreams of helping people heal, something begins that feels like coming home.

* * *

Three weeks later - September 2017

You're reorganizing your notes for the third time when Joe slides into the chair across from you at the library, twenty minutes late and looking frazzled.

"Sorry," he says, dropping his backpack with a thud that earns him dirty looks from nearby students. "Coach kept us running extra drills because apparently we 'throw like we're afraid of the ball.'"

You look up from your perfectly color-coded anatomy flashcards and can't help but smile at his air quotes. "Yikes. Sounds like a fun afternoon."

Oh, the best," he deadpans, pulling out a crumpled syllabus and what appears to be three different notebooks. "Thanks for agreeing to this, by the way. Writing papers isn't exactly my strong suit."

It's become a routine over the past few weeks—these "study sessions" that Joe desperately needs for his Communications class and that you agreed to help with because, well, you like him. More than you probably should for someone you've known less than a month.

"What's the assignment this week?" you ask, even though you already know. You may have looked up his class schedule. Not in a creepy way. In a helpful way.

Joe squints at his syllabus. "Something about... 'analyzing the impact of digital media on interpersonal relationships in the modern age.'" He looks up at you with those blue-green eyes that have been showing up in your dreams lately. "I get the concept, I just hate writing papers."

You lean back in your chair, studying him. He's wearing a gray Ohio State hoodie that's probably two sizes too big, his hair is still damp from the shower, and he's got that slightly frustrated expression he gets when he has to translate his thoughts into academic essay format.

"You know what you want to say, right? You're just stuck on how to say it?"

"Exactly." Joe pulls out his notebook, and you can see he's already outlined his main points. His handwriting is messy, but his ideas are solid. "I've got all these thoughts about how social media makes people perform fake versions of themselves, but every time I try to write it down, it sounds like garbage."

You scan his notes. They're actually insightful—observations about authenticity, external validation, the psychology behind curated online personas. "These are really good points, Joe. You're just overthinking the academic voice."

For the next hour, you help him organize his thoughts into essay format. Joe doesn't need help understanding the concepts—he grasps them intuitively, makes connections you hadn't even considered. He just needs someone to help him translate his natural intelligence into the formal structure professors expect.

"You know," you say, reading over his revised introduction, "you should consider taking more psychology classes. You have good instincts about human behavior."

Joe shakes his head with a small laugh. "Nah. I mean, it's interesting, but I'm pretty single-minded about what I want to do with my life."

"Which is?"

"Make it as a quarterback. That's it. That's the plan."

There's something in his voice—not doubt, but determination so fierce it's almost startling. This isn't some childhood dream he's holding onto. This is his life's purpose, and he knows it.

"Must be nice," you say, "being that sure about what you want."

"What about you? You seem pretty sure about nursing."

"I am. I want to help people, you know? There's something about being there when someone's at their most vulnerable, being the person who helps them heal..." You trail off, realizing you've probably said too much.

But Joe's nodding like he gets it. "That's exactly how I feel about football. Like, I know it sounds dramatic, but when I'm on the field, everything makes sense. Even when I'm riding the bench, just being part of it feels right."

"Do you ever feel like you're trying to live up to someone else's expectations?" you ask.

Joe considers this, absently tapping his pen. "Not really. I mean, my dad played football, so people assume I'm trying to follow in his footsteps, but this has always been my choice. I was actually really good at basketball - could've probably played in college - but football just felt right, you know? Dad never pushed it on me. If anything, he tried to make sure I wanted it for the right reasons."

"And do you?"

"Want it for the right reasons?" Joe's smile is small but certain. "Yeah. I love everything about it. The strategy, the pressure, the way a perfect pass feels coming off your hand. Even the parts that suck, like sitting behind three other guys on the depth chart."

There's no bitterness in his voice when he mentions the depth chart, just the  confidence of someone who knows his time will come. It's attractive in a way that has nothing to do with his looks and everything to do with his certainty about who he is and what he wants.

The library is starting to empty out around you, the late afternoon crowd heading to dinner or evening activities. You should probably pack up, get back to your own studying, but neither of you seems in a hurry to leave.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe says, leaning forward in his chair.

"Shoot."

"Why are you helping me? Most people would just go through the motions."

The question catches you off guard with its directness. You set down your pen and consider how to answer honestly without revealing that you've developed feelings for the frustrated quarterback who brings you Red Bull during these sessions and remembers the chocolate covered espresso beans you like.

"Because I like how your mind works," you say finally. "You see things differently than other people. And because..." You pause, feeling heat creep up your neck. "Because I like you. As a person."

Joe's smile is soft and genuine, the kind that transforms his whole face. "I like you too. As a person."

"Good," you say, fighting your own smile. "Now, do you want to actually work on this paper, or should we keep having this very important philosophical discussion about why we like each other?"

"Can we do both?"

"We can do both."

You do work on the paper, eventually. But you also talk about everything else—his frustration with being redshirted, your adjustment to OSU, his family back home, your plans for nursing school. The conversation flows easily, naturally, like you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

"Do you ever worry you won't make it?" you ask.

Joe's quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. "Not really. I mean, I know it's going to be hard, and I know there are no guarantees, but..." He shrugs. "I can't imagine doing anything else. This is what I'm supposed to do."

That certainty, the way he talks about football like it's not just a career but a calling—it's one of the things that draws you to him. Joe Burrow knows exactly who he is and what he wants, even at nineteen.

"See? You're not the only one with good ideas."

The library lights start dimming—the universal signal that it's time to leave. You both pack up slowly, neither wanting to break the bubble you've created in this corner table surrounded by anatomy textbooks and his chicken-scratch notes.

"Same time next week?" Joe asks as you walk toward the exit together.

"Of course. But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going to nail this paper. You've got good instincts."

His smile is the last thing you see before you part ways in the parking lot, and you drive home with a dangerous fluttering in your chest and the absolute certainty that you're in trouble.

The good kind of trouble. The kind that makes you want to write his name in the margins of your notebooks and find excuses to bring up Ohio State quarterbacks in casual conversation.

You have no idea yet that you're falling in love. But somewhere between helping him find the words for his thoughts and watching him light up when he understands a concept, something has shifted.

* * *

Two weeks later - October 15th, 2017

You're sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed at 11:47 PM, staring at a blank piece of notebook paper, trying to figure out why you can't get tonight out of your head.

Your roommate Allison is already asleep, her gentle snoring mixing with the sounds of the dorm settling around you. You should be sleeping too—you have Clinical Skills at eight AM and Anatomy & Physiology right after—but your mind won't stop replaying the last four hours.

Joe had texted around seven: Library still open? Could use help with that comm paper

What was supposed to be an hour of editing had turned into... something else entirely. You'd finished his revisions in forty-five minutes—his writing was getting better, more confident—but then he'd just stayed. Stayed and talked about everything and nothing until the library staff started pointedly stacking chairs around you.

"You know what's weird?" he'd said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms overhead. "I've been here two months and you're the first person who's asked me what I actually think about stuff. Not football stuff. Just... stuff."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone either wants to talk about football or they act like I'm too dumb to have opinions about anything else." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stick up in six different directions. "You asked me about that social media thing like you actually wanted to know what I thought."

"I did want to know what you thought."

"Why?"

The question had caught you off guard. "Because you're smart. Because you see things differently than other people do."

The way his face had changed when you said that—like no one had ever called him smart before, like it was the best compliment he'd ever received—had done something dangerous to your chest.

Then he'd told you about watching Tom Brady win his first Super Bowl when he was eight years old. About the exact moment he'd decided he wanted to be a quarterback, sitting in his family's living room in Ames, pointing at the TV and announcing to his parents that someday that would be him.

"Everyone thinks I'm crazy for being so sure about it," he'd said. "Like, what if I'm wrong? What if I'm not good enough? But I can't explain it—when I'm throwing, when I'm reading a defense, when I'm in the pocket... it's like everything else goes quiet. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

The way his whole face had lit up when he talked about football, like he was describing falling in love—God, you'd never seen someone that passionate about anything. And when he'd looked at you after, like he was checking to see if you thought he was ridiculous, you'd felt something shift in your chest.

Something that felt a lot like falling.

Now you're sitting here at midnight, pen hovering over paper, trying to figure out how to capture what you're feeling. Because this isn't just a crush anymore. This is something bigger, something that scares you and thrills you at the same time.

You start writing before you can talk yourself out of it.

October 15, 2017

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

Okay, this is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. I'm sitting here in my tiny dorm room at almost midnight, writing a letter to someone who will never read it, but I can't get tonight out of my head and I need to put this somewhere.

We stayed until the library closed again. We finished your paper revision in less than an hour (and it's really good, by the way—you have this way of cutting through academic BS that's actually kind of brilliant), but then we just... stayed. We talked about everything and nothing. About how Coach Meyer still calls you "the kid from Iowa" even though you've been here for years. About how you miss your mom's cooking but pretend the dining hall food is fine because complaining feels ungrateful. About how you've known exactly what you wanted to be since you were eight years old.

And then you told me about that Tom Brady Super Bowl. The way your whole face changed when you talked about that moment—when you decided you wanted to be a quarterback. God, Joe. I've never seen someone love something that much. It was like watching someone talk about religion.

Here's the thing though, and this is going to sound crazy: I've been sort of accidentally watching practice from my dorm window (yes, I'm a creeper, sue me), and I see how hard you work. I see you staying late, running routes with receivers who barely acknowledge you exist. I see you studying playbooks in the dining hall while other guys are talking about parties. I see the way you watch film on your laptop between classes.

So I'm starting this collection. Because someday—and I mean SOMEDAY soon—you're going to be exactly what you dreamed of being when you were eight years old. You're going to be the quarterback everyone talks about. You're going to make all those people who overlook you now remember your name.

And when that happens, I want to be able to show you this box full of letters and say "I told you so."

Maybe that makes me presumptuous. Maybe I'm just some nursing student who has no business believing in your future. But I do believe in it. I believe in YOU, even when you're frustrated on the bench, even when Coach Meyer looks right through you like you're not there, even when you doubt yourself.

You're going to be something special, Joe Burrow. I can feel it in my bones.

And honestly? I really hope I get to be there to see it happen.

Love (yes, I said it, fight me), Your biggest believer

P.S. - Your Communications paper is going to get an A. I'm calling it now.

You set the pen down and read over what you've written, heat creeping up your neck. It's sappy and presumptuous and completely insane, but it's also true. Every word of it.

You fold the letter carefully and slip it into the small wooden box your grandmother gave you before she died—the one that's supposed to hold "treasures." This feels like the start of something worth treasuring, even if Joe never knows it exists.

Especially because Joe will never know it exists.

You turn off your desk lamp and slip under your covers, but sleep doesn't come easily. Instead, you lie awake thinking about blue-green eyes and crooked smiles, about the way Joe's voice changes when he talks about football, about the impossible certainty that you're watching someone destined for greatness.

You don't know yet that you're falling in love. But somewhere between helping him find his voice and listening to him share his dreams, something has taken root in your chest.

Something that feels like forever.

Outside your window, the campus is quiet except for the distant sound of late-night traffic and someone's music playing softly down the hall. You drift off to sleep thinking about eight-year-old Joe Burrow pointing at a TV screen, declaring his future to the world.

You have no idea that six years from now, you'll remember this moment—the purity of believing in someone completely—as both the best and worst thing you ever did.

All you know is that you've never felt anything like this before. And you never want it to end.

* * *

December 16th, 2017

You're stress-eating pretzels in the library when Joe slides into the chair across from you, looking like he's been psyching himself up for something.

"Hey," he says, drumming his fingers on the table. "So, my birthday was last week."

"I know. You mentioned it like twelve times." You look up from your nursing textbook. "How was it? Very exciting twenty-first birthday celebrations?"

"Went to dinner with some of the guys. Nothing crazy." He's still drumming his fingers, which means he's nervous about something. "But, um, I was thinking. Since we don't have any more tutoring sessions before break..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to grab dinner? Like, not a study thing. Just dinner."

You set down your highlighter and really look at him. Joe's wearing his usual Ohio State hoodie and jeans, hair messy from practice, but there's something different about the way he's looking at you. Less casual. More intentional.

"Like a date?"

His ears turn red, which is honestly kind of endearing. "Maybe. Is that... would you want to do that?"

You've been waiting for this question for weeks, but now that it's happening, you feel oddly nervous. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool. Okay. Good." He grins, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Friday work? There's this place off-campus that's supposed to be decent."

"Friday works."

"Awesome. I'll pick you up around seven?"

"Sounds good."

After he leaves, you sit there for a solid ten minutes staring at your textbook without reading a single word, trying to process the fact that you're going on an actual date with Joe Burrow.

* * *

Friday comes faster than you expected. You change your shirt twice before settling on something that looks nice but not like you tried too hard—dark jeans and a sweater that Allison insists "brings out your eyes," whatever that means.

Joe picks you up right on time, looking nervous and freshly showered. He's wearing a button-down shirt instead of his usual hoodie, and the effort doesn't go unnoticed.

"You look nice," he says as you walk to his car.

"Thanks. You too."

The restaurant he picked is a small Italian place near campus, the kind with mismatched chairs and good garlic bread. Busy enough that you don't feel like you're on display, quiet enough that you can actually talk.

"I've never been here before," you admit as you look over the menu.

"Neither have I, actually. My roommate recommended it. Said the pasta's good and it won't bankrupt me."

"Solid criteria."

At first you're both a little awkward - this is officially a date, after all - but once the food comes, you fall back into your usual rhythm. Joe complains about winter conditioning, you vent about your anatomy professor, and somehow you end up arguing about whether cereal is soup.

"It absolutely does not," you insist, laughing at his mock-serious expression.

"Milk is a liquid. Cereal pieces are solid ingredients floating in that liquid. That's soup."

"By that logic, ice cream with toppings is soup."

"Maybe it is."

"You're insane."

"You're the one dating someone insane, so what does that say about you?"

The word 'dating' hangs in the air between you for a second. It's the first time either of you has acknowledged what this is, and you feel your cheeks warm.

"I guess I have questionable judgment," you say finally.

"Clearly."

The drive back to your dorm is comfortable, filled with easy conversation and Joe's terrible taste in music. When he parks outside your building, neither of you seems in a hurry to end the night.

"This was fun," you say, turning to face him.

"Yeah, it was. Better than I expected, honestly."

"Wow, don't overwhelm me with enthusiasm."

Joe laughs. "You know what I mean. I was nervous I'd be weird about it. The whole date thing."

"Were you weird about it?"

"Was I?"

You consider this. "Maybe a little. But in a cute way."

"Ouch."

You're both smiling, and there's this moment where the air seems to shift between you. Joe's eyes drop to your mouth for just a second before meeting your eyes again.

"Y/N," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Your heart does something acrobatic in your chest. "Yeah. You can."

He leans across the center console, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, tentative, nothing like the dramatic first kisses you've seen in movies. It's better because it's real—a little awkward because of the car's interior, but sweet and genuine and completely them.

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"That was..." Joe starts.

"Yeah."

"I've been wanting to do that for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Since that first day when you made fun of my terrible introduction in orientation."

You laugh. "I did not make fun of you."

"You absolutely did. It was very attractive."

"Good thing, because I plan to keep making fun of you."

"I'm counting on it."

You kiss him again, just because you can, and this time it's less nervous, more sure. When you finally pull away, Joe's smiling at you like you've just made his entire week.

"I should go," you say reluctantly. "Allison's probably watching from the window like a creep."

"Probably?"

You glance up at your dorm room window and see the curtain drop quickly. "Definitely."

"Tell Allie I said hi."

"I'll tell her you're a good kisser. She'll want details."

Joe's ears turn red again. "Please don't."

"Too late. I'm telling her everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, not everything. But definitely the cereal soup debate. She'll think you're insane too."

"Great."

You lean over and kiss his cheek before getting out of the car. "Text me when you get back to your place?"

"Yeah. I will."

You watch him drive away before heading inside, where Allie is waiting with an expression that suggests she's been pressed against the window for the past twenty minutes.

"So?" she demands.

"So what?"

"Don't you dare. How was it?"

You collapse onto your bed, touching your lips where you can still feel the ghost of Joe's kiss. "It was really good, Allie."

"Good enough for a second date?"

"Definitely good enough for a second date."

Your phone buzzes: Made it back. Thanks for tonight. Sweet dreams.

You fall asleep thinking about the way Joe looked at you across the dinner table, like he was seeing you

* * *

April 14th, 2018

You're sitting in the stands with Joe's parents, wearing his number on a t-shirt you got specifically for today, and your stomach is in knots.

"He's been so nervous about this," Robin Burrow says, adjusting her Ohio State visor. "Barely slept last night."

"He'll be fine," Jimmy adds, but you can hear the tension in his voice too. "Joe's been working his ass off for this opportunity."

The spring game is supposed to be a glorified scrimmage, but everyone knows what it really is: Joe's last real chance to prove he belongs ahead of Haskins on the depth chart. Coach Meyer has been non-committal about the backup quarterback situation all spring, but the writing's been on the wall since Haskins' performance at Michigan last season.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Joe: See you after. Wish me luck.

You text back: You don't need luck. You've got this.

But watching him during warm-ups, you can see the pressure weighing on him. His jaw is set in that way it gets when he's trying not to let anyone see how much something matters to him. Three years of waiting, three years of getting told he's not good enough, all leading to this moment.

"There he is," Robin says, pointing as Joe trots onto the field with the second-string offense.

He looks good in the scarlet and gray, confident despite the nerves you know he's feeling. You watch him go through his pre-snap reads, the way he surveys the defense with the kind of calm intelligence that should be obvious to anyone paying attention.

The first quarter is mostly vanilla plays, nothing too exciting. Joe gets a few snaps, completes his passes, hands the ball off cleanly. Solid but unremarkable. You can see him settling in, finding his rhythm.

Then, in the second quarter, something clicks.

Joe drops back on a play-action fake, and the defense bites hard. He steps up in the pocket, eyes downfield, and launches a perfect spiral to K.J. Hill for a 35-yard touchdown. The crowd erupts, and you're on your feet screaming before you even realize it.

"That's my boy!" Jimmy yells, and Robin is clutching your arm so hard you'll probably have bruises.

Joe doesn't celebrate much—just a small fist pump before jogging to the sideline—but when he looks up at the stands, his eyes find yours immediately. He points right at you, that crooked smile breaking across his face, and your heart does something acrobatic in your chest.

"Did he just—" you start.

"He pointed at you," Robin finishes with a smile. "I've never seen him do that before."

The rest of the game is a blur of completions and smart decisions. Joe finishes 18 of 23 for 279 yards and two touchdowns, no interceptions. It's the kind of performance that should settle any debate about who the backup quarterback should be.

When the final whistle blows, you practically sprint down to the field level, Robin and Jimmy close behind. The crowd is filing out, but you're pushing against the current, desperate to find Joe in the chaos of players and families and media.

You spot him near midfield, still in his uniform, talking to a reporter. His hair is sweaty and sticking up in six different directions, and there's a grass stain on his jersey, but he's glowing. Actually glowing with the kind of satisfaction that comes from proving everyone wrong.

When he sees you approaching, his face breaks into that smile—the real one, not the media-trained version—and he excuses himself from the interview.

"Did you see that?" he says, jogging over to you, still breathless from the game. "Did you see that pass to Hill?"

"I saw everything," you say, and before you can think about it, you're in his arms and he's spinning you around right there on the 50-yard line. "You were incredible."

When he sets you down, his hands stay on your waist, and there's something different in his eyes. Something that makes your breath catch.

"I love you," he says, the words tumbling out like he can't hold them back another second.

Time seems to stop. The noise of the stadium fades into background static. It's just you and Joe and this moment that feels like everything you've been building toward since that first day in orientation.

"I love you too," you say, and his smile is so bright it could power the entire stadium.

He kisses you right there on the field, in front of his parents and the remaining fans and anyone else who happens to be watching. It's not perfect—his lips taste like Gatorade and sweat, and someone's taking pictures with their phone—but it's real and it's yours and it's everything.

"I've been wanting to say that for months," he admits when you break apart, his forehead resting against yours.

"Only months?" you tease. "I've been thinking it since December."

"Since our first date?"

"Since our first date."

Joe laughs, the sound mixing with the distant noise of the crowd still filing out. "God, I was so nervous that night. I thought I was going to mess it up somehow."

"You didn't mess anything up. You were perfect."

"Not perfect. But maybe perfect for you?"

"Definitely perfect for me."

You're both grinning like idiots, caught up in the euphoria of the moment—his performance, the "I love you," the feeling that everything is finally falling into place.

"Joe!" Jimmy calls out, approaching with Robin and a huge smile. "Hell of a game, son."

"Thanks, Dad." Joe's arm stays around your waist, like he can't bear to let you go. "Did you see that scramble in the third quarter?"

"Saw all of it. You looked like a quarterback out there."

"He looked like the quarterback," Robin adds, hugging both of you at once. "I'm so proud of you."

The next hour passes in a blur of congratulations and photos and people telling Joe how well he played. You stay close to his side, basking in his happiness, in the way he keeps glancing at you like he still can't believe you're there.

It's not until you're walking back to the parking lot, just the two of you, that reality starts to creep back in.

"Think this changes anything?" you ask, swinging your joined hands between you.

"It has to, right?" Joe says, but there's uncertainty underneath the confidence. "I mean, I couldn't have played much better than that."

"You were amazing."

"Coach Meyer actually smiled at me. Like, a real smile, not one of those scary ones."

You laugh. "High praise."

"The highest."

But even as you laugh and celebrate and replay every throw from the game, there's a part of you that's worried. Because you know how these things work. You know that one good game doesn't necessarily change everything, especially when the coaches have already made up their minds.

You don't say any of this to Joe, though. Not today. Today is for celebrating, for savoring this moment when everything feels possible.

"I love you," he says again as you reach his car, like he's testing out how the words sound.

"I love you too," you reply, and you mean it with every fiber of your being.

You drive back to campus with the windows down and the music loud, Joe's hand in yours, both of you high on love and possibility. The future feels bright and wide open, full of promise.

You have no idea that this will be one of the last purely happy moments you'll have for a long time. That the coaches have already made their decision about the depth chart, that Joe's transfer will be announced in just a few weeks, that loving someone with dreams as big as his means learning to love them through disappointment too.

All you know is that Joe Burrow just told you he loves you after the best game of his college career, and right now, that feels like everything.

Later that night, in your dorm room

April 14, 2018

My love,

You pointed at me. In front of 70,000 people, in front of all the coaches, in front of your teammates - after that beautiful touchdown pass, you found me in the stands and pointed right at me.

You pointed at me after that touchdown pass. In front of all those people, after the best play of the game, you found me in the stands first. I've never felt anything like that.

Coach Meyer actually smiled at you today. I saw it from the stands. And when you told that reporter after the game that your girlfriend was your inspiration? I thought I might spontaneously combust from pride.

But mostly, I can't stop thinking about what you said on the field. "I love you." Just like that, no hesitation, no fear. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I love you too, Joe Burrow. I love your terrible jokes and your competitive streak over everything and the way you actually listen when I complain about my anatomy professor. I love how hard you work and how much you care and the way you make me feel like I'm the most important person in your world.

You're not the backup anymore. After today, you can't be. You're the future.

And I get to love you through all of it.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

May 18th, 2019

You find Joe sitting on the couch in his apartment, staring at his laptop screen like it holds the answers to the universe. There are papers scattered across the coffee table—transfer portal documents, LSU recruiting materials, statistics sheets—and he looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"Hey," you say softly, setting down the coffee you brought him. "How are you feeling?"

He doesn't answer immediately, just keeps staring at the screen. You can see the LSU Tigers logo reflected in his eyes.

"Joe?"

"I'm scared," he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I'm making a huge mistake? What if I go down there and just prove everyone right—that I really am Division III material?"

You sit down next to him, close enough to see the stress lines around his eyes. It's been a month since spring practice ended, a month since it became clear that despite his spring game performance, Haskins was still ahead of him on the depth chart. A month of Joe weighing his options while you watched him slowly break apart.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you say.

Joe closes the laptop and runs both hands through his hair. "Coach O called again yesterday. Says they want me, says I can compete for the starting job immediately. But..."

"But?"

"But what if I can't? What if I transfer and sit on another bench for another year? What if I'm just not good enough, and I'm too stubborn to see it?"

You've never seen Joe like this—so uncertain, so vulnerable. The confident quarterback who pointed at you in the stands after throwing touchdown passes has been replaced by someone who's questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.

"What does your gut tell you?" you ask.

"That I need to go. That staying here means accepting being a backup forever." He looks at you then, and there's something desperate in his expression. "But it also means leaving you. Leaving us. And we just figured this out."

Your heart clenches. You've been dreading this conversation, knowing it was coming but hoping somehow you could avoid it.

"Joe," you say carefully, "what are you asking me?"

"I'm asking if you think this is crazy. If you think I should just accept my place here and stay."

The question hangs between you like a test. You know what the easy answer is, what the selfish answer is. Ask him to stay. Tell him you need him here. Make this choice about you instead of about his dreams.

But you also know Joe. You know that if he stays at Ohio State just for you, he'll spend the rest of his life wondering what could have been. And eventually, he'll resent you for it.

"I think," you say slowly, "that you've been preparing for this opportunity your whole life. And I think you'll never forgive yourself if you don't take it."

Joe's shoulders slump slightly. "What about us?"

"What about us?"

"Long distance is hard. Really hard. And if I go to LSU..." He trails off, but you can hear the unspoken concern. If he goes to LSU and succeeds, if he becomes the quarterback he's always believed he could be, will there still be room for a girl from Ohio?

"Joe," you say, taking his hands in yours, "do you love me?"

"Of course I love you. That's why this is so hard."

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then trust me when I say that if we're really meant to be together, we'll figure it out. Distance is just geography."

"It's not just geography. It's everything else. The pressure, the spotlight, the way everything changes when you're actually playing at that level."

You can hear the fear in his voice, and it breaks your heart. Not fear of failure—fear of success. Fear that becoming the quarterback he's always dreamed of being will cost him the life he's built with you.

"Hey," you say, moving closer to him on the couch. "Look at me."

He does, those blue-green eyes full of uncertainty.

"I fell in love with someone who dreams big. Who works harder than anyone I know. Who refuses to settle for less than what he's capable of." You brush a strand of hair off his forehead. "If you stay here just for me, you won't be that person anymore. And then what are we really holding onto?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, processing what you've said. When he speaks again, his voice is steadier.

"What if everything changes? What if I go down there and become someone different?"

"Then I'll learn to love that person too. As long as he's still fundamentally you."

"And if the distance is too hard?"

"Then we'll deal with it when it happens. But Joe, you can't make decisions based on fear. You taught me that."

"When did I teach you that?"

You smile. "Every day. Every time you get back up after Coach Meyer tells you you're not good enough. Every time you choose to keep fighting instead of giving up. You've been teaching me how to be brave since the day I met you."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. The uncertainty is still there, but underneath it, you can see the determination that's always driven him starting to resurface.

"You really think I should go?"

"I think you should do what your heart tells you to do. And I think your heart has been telling you to go since the day Coach O first called."

Joe nods slowly, then reaches for his phone. "Okay. I'm going to call him back."

"Now?"

"Now. Before I lose my nerve."

You watch as Joe dials the number, your own heart racing. This is it. The moment that changes everything.

"Coach O? It's Joe Burrow... Yes, sir, I've made my decision."

You can't hear the other side of the conversation, but you can see Joe's posture straightening, his confidence returning with each word.

"I want to be a Tiger... Yes, sir, I'm ready to compete... Thank you, Coach. I won't let you down."

When he hangs up, Joe just sits there for a moment, staring at his phone like he can't believe what just happened.

"I did it," he says finally. "I'm really doing this."

"You're really doing this."

"Holy shit." He looks at you, and now there's excitement mixing with the fear. "I'm going to LSU."

"You're going to LSU."

He pulls you into his arms then, holding you tight against his chest. You can feel his heart racing, matching your own.

"I'm terrified," he whispers into your hair.

"That's how you know it's the right choice."

"What if I miss you too much?"

"Then you'll call me every day. And I'll visit as much as I can. And we'll make it work because we have to."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

That night, you lie awake long after Joe falls asleep beside you, staring at the ceiling and trying to process what just happened. Tomorrow, he'll start the transfer process. In a few months, he'll be in Louisiana, chasing the dream he's carried since he was eight years old.

And you'll be here, supporting him from 900 miles away, hoping that love is enough to bridge the distance.

You think about that first letter you wrote, about believing in someone's potential before anyone else could see it. You just never imagined that believing in someone could require letting them go.

But that's what love is, isn't it? Wanting someone to become the best version of themselves, even when it's hard for you. Even when it means sacrifice.

Joe stirs beside you, and you turn to watch him sleep. In the morning, everything will change. But right now, he's still yours, still the frustrated quarterback from Ohio who pointed at you in the stands and told you he loved you.

Tomorrow, you'll help him pack. You'll drive him to the airport when it's time to visit LSU. You'll smile and be supportive and pretend your heart isn't breaking a little bit.

Because that's what love looks like sometimes. It looks like letting go so the person you care about can fly.

May 19, 2019

My love,

You did it. You made the call. You chose the scary, uncertain path because it's the one that leads to your dreams.

I watched you dial Coach O's number last night, and I have never been more proud of anyone in my entire life. Not because you chose LSU, but because you chose yourself. You chose to bet on your own potential instead of accepting what other people think you're worth.

I know you're scared. I know this means leaving everything familiar behind. But Joe, this is what you've been working toward your entire life. This is your shot.

I also know you're worried about us. About what distance will do to what we've built. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared too. But I meant what I said—if we're really meant to be together, we'll figure it out.

You're going to LSU to play in big games, to compete for championships, to become the quarterback you've always known you could be. I'm so excited to watch you do it.

And when you're standing on that field in Death Valley, throwing touchdown passes and proving everyone wrong, just remember that there's a girl in Ohio who believed in you first.

I love you. Go be great.

Forever yours, Your biggest believer

* * *

Chapter 7

December 14th, 2019 - New York City

You're sitting in the Heisman Trophy ceremony audience, wearing a navy blue dress you bought specifically for this moment and trying not to cry before Joe even wins.

To your left, Robin Burrow is clutching a tissue and whispering prayers under her breath. To your right, Jimmy keeps checking his watch like he can speed up time through sheer willpower. The whole family section is buzzing with nervous energy, but you feel strangely calm.

Joe's going to win. You've known it for weeks, maybe months. The stats don't lie—78% completion percentage, 48 touchdowns, 6 interceptions, leading LSU to an undefeated season. He's not just the best player in college football this year; he's having one of the greatest seasons in the history of the sport.

But sitting here, watching them announce the finalists, you're not thinking about statistics. You're thinking about that scared boy in his apartment seven months ago, terrified he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

"The 2019 Heisman Trophy winner," the presenter says, and your heart stops beating for a moment, "quarterback Joe Burrow, Louisiana State University."

The room goes quiet for a beat, then fills with soft sounds of joy. Robin's eyes fill with tears that she wipes away quickly. Jimmy nods once, proud but not surprised. And you—you just sit there for a second, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

Joe Burrow. Heisman Trophy winner.

The boy who was told he belonged at Division III Mount Union just won the most prestigious individual award in college football.

When you finally manage to focus on the stage, Joe is walking up to accept the trophy, and he looks... composed. Confident. Like he belongs there, like this is exactly where his journey was always meant to lead.

But you know him well enough to see the emotion underneath the composure. The slight tremor in his hands as he accepts the trophy. The way his voice catches just barely when he starts his speech.

"First, I'd like to thank God," he begins, and you feel yourself leaning forward like you can somehow get closer to this moment. "My family, who's always been there for me through everything..."

He thanks his coaches, his teammates, the LSU community. You're filming it on your phone like every other proud girlfriend in the audience, but you're not really watching the screen. You're watching Joe—really watching him—and marveling at how far he's come.

"And to all the kids in Athens and Athens County that go home to not a lot of food on the table, hungry after school—you guys can be up here too," Joe says, his voice steady but emotional.

You're crying now, not because he mentioned you—he didn't, and that's okay—but because this is who he is. Someone who uses his biggest moment to think about hungry kids back home.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Photos with the trophy, interviews with reporters, a receiving line of congratulations that seems to last forever. You hang back with his family, not wanting to intrude on his moment, but Joe keeps looking for you in the crowd.

When he finally breaks away from the media obligations, he comes straight to you.

"Did you hear that?" he asks, still slightly breathless from everything. The trophy is in his hands, heavier and more beautiful than you imagined.

"I heard every word," you say, reaching up to straighten his tie that got crooked during all the photos. "That speech was incredible. Southeast Ohio, LSU, everything."

"I meant what I said about those kids back home. About them being able to make it up here too."

"I know you did. That's why I love you."

Joe's expression softens. "I should have mentioned you specifically. I had so many people to thank, and I ran out of time, but—"

"Joe, stop." You place your hand on his chest. "That speech was perfect. You thanked the people who got you here, who believed in you. You don't need to mention me for the whole world to know how I feel about you."

"But I want them to know. I want everyone to know that you're the reason I'm standing here."

"No," you say firmly. "You're standing here because you worked harder than anyone. Because you took a chance on yourself. Because you refused to give up when everyone told you that you weren't good enough."

Joe sets the trophy down carefully on a nearby table and pulls you into his arms. Right there in the middle of the Heisman ceremony reception, with his family and reporters and important people everywhere, he holds you like you're the most precious thing in the room.

"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too."

"After the championship game, after all this craziness dies down, we need to talk about the future. About what comes next."

"The NFL?"

"All of it. The draft, where we'll live, how we want to build our life together." His voice drops lower. "I want to marry you, Y/N. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. I want you to know that's where my head is."

Your heart does something acrobatic in your chest. It's not a proposal, but it's a promise. A commitment to a future that includes both of you.

"I want that too," you whisper.

"Good," he says, pulling back to look at you. "Because I'm pretty sure I can't do any of this without you."

Later that night, back in your hotel room, you finally have a moment to process everything that happened. Joe is in the shower, and you're sitting on the bed with your laptop, looking at the photos that are already popping up online.

There's one of Joe holding the trophy, beaming with pure joy. Another of him hugging his parents. And then there's one of him during his speech, talking about the kids back home in Athens County.

The caption reads: "LSU QB Joe Burrow wins Heisman, dedicates moment to hungry kids."

You're not mentioned in the articles, and that's okay. His speech wasn't about personal thanks—it was about using his platform for something bigger. That's who Joe is, even in his biggest moment.

You've loved him since he was a frustrated third-string quarterback that nobody believed in. You supported him through the scariest decision of his college career. You've been there for every step of this incredible journey.

And now he's the best player in college football, and you get to be proud of both his talent and his character. It feels like the beginning of everything.

December 14, 2019

My Heisman winner,

I'm sitting in our hotel room writing this while you're in the shower, and I can hear you humming. Actually humming. Like you're so happy you can't contain it.

When they called your name tonight, I felt like my heart might literally explode. Not just because you won, but because you looked for me in the crowd first. Before the cameras, before the handshakes, before the trophy—you found my eyes.

You didn't mention me in your speech, and that's okay. You talked about the kids back home, about Athens County, about giving hope to people who don't have much. That's who you are - even in your biggest moment, you were thinking about others. I was so proud watching you up there, using your platform for something bigger than yourself.

Do you remember orientation day? When we were both convinced we didn't belong anywhere? Look at us now. You're holding the Heisman Trophy and talking about our future together like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I'm adding tonight's program to this collection, right next to that first letter I wrote when you were worried about embarrassing yourself. The boy who was afraid he wasn't good enough just won the most prestigious award in college football.

I told you so, didn't I? I told you from the very beginning.

You're everything I always knew you were. And somehow, impossibly, you're mine.

Forever yours, The girl who knew first

P.S. - Your speech made me cry. Happy tears. The best kind.

* * *

April 23rd, 2020

The Burrow family living room has been transformed into draft day headquarters. There are laptops everywhere, multiple TV screens showing different networks, and enough snacks to feed a small army. You're sitting on the couch next to Joe, your legs curled underneath you, trying to pretend like your heart isn't beating out of your chest.

Everyone knows Joe's going first overall to Cincinnati. It's been a foregone conclusion for months. But sitting here, waiting for it to become official, the nerves are real.

"Stop bouncing your leg," you whisper to Joe, placing your hand on his thigh.

"I'm not bouncing my leg."

"You're absolutely bouncing your leg."

Joe looks down and realizes you're right. He stills his leg but immediately starts drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch instead.

"Joe," Robin says from across the room, "you're going to wear a hole in that fabric."

"Sorry." He stops drumming his fingers and instead reaches for your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. "I know it's Cincinnati. I know it's basically guaranteed. But until I hear my name called..."

"Hey," you say softly, squeezing his hand. "Breathe. This is your moment. Enjoy it."

The living room is full of both your families - his parents, your parents who drove down from Ohio, his brothers, and a few close family friends. It should feel overwhelming, but instead it feels perfect. Like everyone who matters is here to witness this moment.

When Roger Goodell appears on screen in his home office (because of course the 2020 draft is virtual), the room goes quiet.

"With the first pick in the 2020 NFL Draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select... Joe Burrow, quarterback, LSU."

The room explodes in celebration. Everyone's on their feet at once - hugging, cheering, shouting congratulations over each other. Someone's taking pictures, someone else is already on the phone spreading the news. It's chaos, but the good kind.

And Joe? Joe just sits there for a second, staring at the TV like he can't quite believe it's real.

"You did it," you whisper, and that seems to snap him out of it.

He turns to you with the biggest smile you've ever seen and pulls you into his arms, spinning you around right there in the living room while everyone cheers.

"I did it," he says into your ear. "Holy shit, I actually did it."

"Language, Joseph," Robin calls out, but she's laughing through her tears.

"Sorry, Mom. Holy crap, I actually did it."

The next few hours are a blur of phone calls and interviews and congratulations. You mostly stay in the background, letting Joe have his moment, but he keeps pulling you back to his side. When ESPN calls for a quick interview, his first words are about the journey, about LSU, about all the people who believed in him.

Later that night, after everyone has gone home and it's just you and Joe sitting on his back porch, you finally have a moment to process what happened.

"Number one overall," you say, still somewhat in disbelief.

"Number one overall," he repeats. "To Cincinnati, of all places."

"You excited about that?"

Joe considers this. "Yeah, actually. I am. It's close to home, close to you. And they need a quarterback badly enough that I'll probably get to play right away."

"No more sitting on the bench."

"No more sitting on the bench."

You're quiet for a moment, both of you looking out at the backyard where you've spent so many evenings over the past year whenever you visited from Ohio.

"So," you say finally. "Cincinnati."

"Cincinnati," Joe agrees. "You know, if you wanted to... I mean, if you're interested..."

"You're asking me to move with you?"

He turns to look at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Yeah. I am. I know it's a big ask, and I know you have your life in here, but—"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move to Cincinnati with you. Of course I will."

Joe's smile is so bright it could power the entire neighborhood. "Really?"

"Really. Though I'll need to find a job, and we'll need to figure out living arrangements, and—"

Joe cuts you off by kissing you, soft and sweet and full of promise.

"We'll figure it out," he says when you break apart. "All of it. Together."

* * *

July 25th, 2020

Moving day is chaos.

You're standing in what will be your new apartment in Cincinnati, surrounded by boxes and furniture and the general disaster that comes with combining two people's lives into one space. Joe is attempting to assemble what the instructions claim is a coffee table but looks more like abstract art.

"I think you're missing a screw," you say, looking over his shoulder.

"I'm not missing a screw. The instructions are wrong."

"The instructions are not wrong, Joe. You probably have it upside down."

"I do not have it— Oh." He flips the piece he's been struggling with, and suddenly everything makes sense. "Okay, maybe I had it upside down."

You laugh and kiss the top of his head. "Good thing you're pretty."

"Hey!"

The apartment is perfect for you both—modern but not cold, spacious but not overwhelming, close to the facility but still in a neighborhood that feels like home. You found it together, both of your names on the lease, both of your input on the furniture. It feels like a real partnership.

"I still can't believe we did this," you say, looking around at boxes labeled with both your handwriting.

"What, moved in together?"

"All of it. You getting drafted, me finding a job at Cincinnati Children's, us actually doing this crazy thing."

Joe stands up from his coffee table project and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind.

"Not crazy," he says. "Right. This feels right."

You lean back into his chest, fitting perfectly against him like you always have. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the Cincinnati skyline in the distance, but it's the reflection of you two together that catches your attention—Joe's chin resting on your shoulder, your hands covering his where they're clasped around your waist.

"It does feel right," you agree. "Scary, but right."

"What's scary about it?"

You turn in his arms to face him. "Everything's changing so fast. Six months ago you were in college, I was finishing my degree in Ohio, and now we're here. You're about to be an NFL quarterback, I'm starting at the hospital next week..." You gesture around at the boxes. "We're adults. Like, with a lease and everything."

"We've been adults, babe."

"Have we? Because I still feel like I'm playing house sometimes."

Joe's expression grows more serious. "Hey, look at me." When you do, his blue-green eyes are steady, certain. "This isn't playing house. This is us building something real. Something that's ours."

Before you can respond, there's a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of colorful language.

"Everything okay in there?" Joe calls out.

"Define okay," comes Jimmy's voice. "I may have just christened your new kitchen floor with a box of your fancy plates."

You and Joe exchange a look and burst out laughing.

"I'll get the broom," you say.

"I'll survey the damage," Joe says.

In the kitchen, Jimmy is standing amid a sea of ceramic shards and packing paper, looking like a kid who just broke his mom's favorite vase.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I was trying to put the box on the counter and it just slipped and—"

"Dad, it's fine," Joe says, already grabbing the dustpan from where you'd unpacked it an hour ago. "They were just plates."

"They were the good plates," you point out, crouching down to pick up the larger pieces. "The ones we spent forty-five minutes debating at Pottery Barn."

"We can get new good plates," Joe says. "Better good plates."

"I'll replace them," Jimmy insists. "I'll buy you the best plates money can buy."

Robin appears in the doorway, takes one look at the situation, and shakes her head. "Jimmy Burrow, what did you do?"

"It was an accident!"

"It's always an accident with you."

You watch Joe's parents bicker good-naturedly while you both clean up the mess, and something warm settles in your chest. This is what you'd imagined when you decided to move in together—not just the two of you, but the life that comes with being together. Family helping you move, broken plates on the first day, the comfortable chaos of people who love each other.

"You know," you say quietly to Joe as you dump ceramic shards into the trash, "maybe the broken plates are good luck. Like, we got the disaster out of the way early."

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it a thing."

Joe grins. "I like it. New tradition: break something expensive on moving day for good luck."

"Let's not make it a tradition. These plates were thirty dollars each."

"Thirty dollars each?" Jimmy's voice rises an octave. "For plates?"

"They were really nice plates, Dad."

"They were highway robbery is what they were."

An hour later, the kitchen is cleaned up and Jimmy has been banned from touching anything fragile. You've moved on to unpacking books in what will be Joe's office—though you've already claimed half the shelves for your nursing textbooks and novels.

"We need a system," you say, holding up a copy of his quarterback camp playbook. "Your football stuff, my medical stuff, shared stuff?"

"Or," Joe says, unpacking his LSU championship trophy and setting it carefully on the bookshelf, "we could just mix it all together. Show the world that a football playbook and Gray's Anatomy can coexist peacefully."

You laugh. "That's very philosophical of you."

"I have my moments."

You're about to respond when Robin appears in the doorway holding your jewelry box—the small wooden one your grandmother left you.

"Sweetie, where do you want this?" she asks. "I wasn't sure if it should go in the bedroom or..."

"The bedroom's fine," you say, taking it from her. "Thank you."

Joe glances at the box. "What's in there?"

"Just some personal stuff from college," you say, taking it from Robin. "I'll put it away."

He nods and goes back to unpacking, not thinking much of it. You make a mental note to find a good hiding spot for your collection of letters he'll never read.

Joe doesn't press, just goes back to unpacking his books, and you clutch the jewelry box a little tighter. Later, when you're alone, you'll find a good hiding spot for it. Somewhere safe where you can keep adding to your collection of letters he'll never read.

By evening, the apartment is starting to look like a home. The furniture is assembled (correctly, after Joe swallowed his pride and actually read the instructions), the kitchen is functional, and you've managed to find places for most of your belongings.

Joe's parents left an hour ago after Robin made you promise to call if you need anything and Jimmy apologized one more time about the plates. Now it's just you and Joe, sitting on your new couch, takeout containers scattered on the coffee table he finally assembled properly, looking around at what you've built together.

"We did good," Joe says, his arm around your shoulders.

"We did," you agree. "Though I think your dad's banned from helping us move ever again."

"Definitely banned."

You curl closer to him, your head on his shoulder. "Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of us. For taking this leap."

"Even if it's scary?"

"Especially because it's scary."

Joe presses a kiss to the top of your head. "You know what I love about this place?"

"What?"

"It's ours. Not my apartment that you stay at sometimes, not your place that I visit. Ours. Both our names on the lease, both our books on the shelves, both our terrible cooking in the kitchen."

"Hey, my cooking isn't terrible."

"Remember the smoke alarm incident last week?"

"That was an accident!"

You laugh and burrow deeper into his side. "Fine, but you're not much better."

"Which is why we're going to learn together. Just like everything else."

Outside, Cincinnati is settling into evening—traffic sounds, distant music, the urban symphony you're both still getting used to after years of college towns. But inside your apartment, everything is quiet and warm and exactly right.

"I love you," you say into the comfortable silence.

"I love you too," Joe replies, pulling you closer. "This feels right, doesn't it? Being here together."

"It does," you agree, settling against his side. "Even with your dad breaking our plates on day one."

"Hey, that's a family tradition now. Good luck plates."

You're both laughing when Joe's phone buzzes with a text. He glances at it and his expression shifts slightly.

"What is it?"

"Coach Taylor. Team meeting tomorrow morning. Looks like the real work starts now."

There's something in his voice—excitement mixed with nerves, anticipation tempered by the weight of what's coming. Tomorrow, he stops being Joe Burrow the draft pick and becomes Joe Burrow the Cincinnati Bengals starting quarterback. Tomorrow, everything changes again.

"You ready?" you ask.

Joe considers this, looking around at the apartment you've built together, at the life you're starting to create. When he looks back at you, his smile is confident and sure.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."

And sitting there on your new couch in your shared apartment, surrounded by boxes and the promise of everything ahead, you believe him completely.

You have no idea that this moment—this perfect, ordinary evening of takeout and broken plates and dreams coming true—will become a memory you'll cling to years later when everything falls apart.

All you know is that you love Joe Burrow, and he loves you, and you're building something beautiful together.

It feels like forever.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep

July 25, 2020

My love,

We moved in together today. Officially, permanently, with both our names on a lease and everything. Your dad broke our good plates (the ones we spent forever picking out at Pottery Barn), and you spent two hours assembling a coffee table upside down, and it was perfect.

Perfect because it was real. Because we're not playing house or pretending anymore—we're actually doing this. Building a life together. Making a home.

I keep looking around this apartment and thinking about how it's ours. Our books mixed together on the shelves, our pictures on the walls, our terrible cooking experiments in the kitchen. Everything we've worked toward, everything we've dreamed about, starting right here.

You asked about my letters earlier, and I almost told you. Almost handed you this entire box and said "here, read about how much I love you." But these are mine. My way of loving you, my way of documenting this incredible journey we're on.

Someday, maybe I'll show them to you. When we're old and gray and you want to remember how we got here. But for now, they're my secret way of telling you everything I feel.

Tomorrow you start training camp. Tomorrow you become an NFL quarterback for real. But tonight, you're just my Joe, sleeping next to me in our bed in our apartment, and everything is exactly as it should be.

I love our life, Joe Burrow. I love the life we're building.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

April 15th, 2022 - Cincinnati Children's Hospital

You're adjusting the IV drip for seven-year-old Dylan when you hear the commotion in the hallway. Excited voices, the sound of sneakers squeaking on linoleum, someone saying "Oh my God, is that really him?"

Dylan looks up at you with wide eyes. "Miss Y/N, what's all that noise?"

You smile, checking his chart one more time. "I think some very special visitors just arrived."

"Special visitors?"

Before you can answer, Joe appears in the doorway wearing his Bengals polo and that easy smile that makes patients feel instantly comfortable. Behind him are Ja'Marr, Tyler Boyd, and a few other teammates, but Dylan only has eyes for Joe.

"No way," Dylan breathes. "No freaking way."

"Dylan Rodriguez," you say in your best stern nurse voice, "what did we say about language?"

"Sorry, Miss Y/N. But that's Joe Burrow!"

Joe steps into the room, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest watching him with kids. He's a natural—crouching down to Dylan's eye level, asking about his favorite plays, listening to Dylan explain his treatment like Joe's genuinely interested in the medical details.

"So Dylan," Joe says, pulling up a chair beside the bed, "Miss Y/N here tells me you're the bravest kid on this whole floor."

Dylan beams. "She takes really good care of me. She's the best nurse ever."

Joe glances at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your heart skip. Pride, love, admiration—like he's seeing you through Dylan's eyes and falling for you all over again.

"She really is," Joe agrees. "I'm pretty lucky she takes care of me too."

"She takes care of you?" Dylan asks, confused.

"Well," Joe says, winking at you, "she's my girlfriend. So when I get hurt playing football, she patches me up just like she patches you up."

Dylan's eyes go wide. "Miss Y/N is your girlfriend? That's so cool!"

"I think so too," Joe says, and the way he's looking at you makes you forget there are other people in the room.

The next two hours pass in a blur of room visits, autographs, and photos. You work alongside Joe and his teammates, but it doesn't feel like work. It feels like showing off your two favorite worlds—Joe getting to see you in your element, your patients getting to meet their hero.

In eight-year-old Sophie's room, you're checking her post-surgical dressings when she whispers conspiratorially to Joe, "Miss Y/N sang to me when I was scared before my operation."

"She did?" Joe looks over at you. "What did she sing?"

"Taylor Swift," Sophie giggles. "She knows all the words."

"She's very talented," Joe says seriously. "Though I have to warn you, her singing voice is... questionable."

"Hey!" you protest, laughing. "Sophie, don't listen to him. He thinks he can sing better than me."

"Can you?" Sophie asks Joe.

"Absolutely not. But don't tell her I said that."

In the NICU, you're explaining ventilator settings to Tyler Boyd's wife Kierra when Joe comes up behind you, his hand settling naturally on your lower back.

"You're really good at this," he murmurs in your ear.

"It's my job."

"No, I mean... you're really good with them. The kids, the families. They all love you."

You turn to look at him. "You sound surprised."

"Not surprised. Just... proud. Really fucking proud."

"Language, Burrow," you tease, glancing around at the tiny patients. "There are babies present."

"Sorry," he grins. "Really freaking proud."

The local news crew arrives halfway through the visit, and you try to fade into the background like you usually do during Joe's media obligations. But this time, Joe won't let you.

"Actually," he says to the reporter, his arm sliding around your waist, "I want to make sure you get the real story here. This is Y/N, my girlfriend, and she's a nurse here at Children's. These kids aren't just patients to her—they're her kids. She takes care of them every single day, not just when the cameras are here."

The reporter's eyes light up. "Oh, that's a wonderful angle. How long have you been working here, Y/N?"

You glance at Joe, suddenly nervous to be on camera, but he squeezes your hand encouragingly.

"Almost two years now," you say. "Since Joe and I moved to Cincinnati."

"And what's it like having your boyfriend surprise your patients?"

"It's pretty special," you admit. "These kids fight so hard every day. Seeing them light up like this... it's everything."

Joe's thumb traces circles on your hip, and when you look at him, he's watching you with an expression so soft it takes your breath away.

"She's amazing," he tells the camera, but his eyes never leave yours. "These families are lucky to have her."

Later, after the team has left and you're finishing your shift, you find a note tucked into your locker:

Thank you for letting us see what you do. Watching you with those kids today... I've never been more proud to be with someone. You're incredible at this, babe. Really incredible. - J

P.S. - Dylan asked me if I was going to marry you. I told him that was the plan. Hope that's okay.

You read the note three times, your heart doing acrobatic flips in your chest. The plan. Like it's not a question of if, but when.

That night, curled up next to Joe on the couch, you're both scrolling through the news coverage on your phones.

"Look at this," Joe says, showing you his screen. "Channel 12 posted a whole segment about you. 'Bengals QB's girlfriend is local children's nurse.'"

You peer at his phone. The photo they used is from today—you and Joe with Dylan, all three of you laughing at something off-camera. You look happy. More than happy. You look like you belong.

"They called me 'local children's nurse,'" you point out. "Not just 'Bengals QB's girlfriend.'"

"Good. That's what you are. That's who you are."

You curl closer to him, your head on his shoulder. "Thank you for today. For including me, for making it about the kids."

"Thank you for being amazing. Seriously, watching you work today..." He trails off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I love seeing you in your element. You're so good at what you do."

"I love what I do."

"I know. It shows."

You're quiet for a moment, both of you scrolling through comments on the hospital's Facebook post about the visit. Most of them are about Joe, but there are plenty about you too:

"Y/N is the sweetest nurse! She took such good care of my daughter last year."

"Love that Joe's girlfriend actually works at the hospital. She's not just there for the cameras."

"You can tell she really cares about those kids. What a sweet couple."

"See?" Joe says, reading over your shoulder. "They love you."

"They love us," you correct.

"They love us," he agrees.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep, you slip out of bed and retrieve your wooden box from its hiding place in the closet. You've been writing letters less frequently lately—life has been so good, so stable, that the urgent need to document everything has faded into simple contentment.

But today deserves to be remembered.

April 15, 2022

My love,

Today you came to my hospital. MY hospital, with MY kids, and you were so perfect I could hardly breathe.

Watching you with Dylan, listening to you tease me about my "questionable" singing voice when Sophie brought up your Taylor Swift performances, seeing you crouch down to every child's eye level like they're the most important people in the world... God, Joe. My heart was so full I thought it might burst.

But the best part wasn't watching you with the kids. It was watching you watch me. The way you looked at me when Dylan called me the best nurse ever. The way you insisted the reporter interview me too, like you were proud to claim me. The way you told that little girl at the end that you were planning to marry me someday.

THE PLAN, you wrote in your note. Like it's not even a question anymore.

I've never felt more seen, more valued, more loved than I did today. You didn't just bring the team to visit kids. You brought them to see what I do, who I am when I'm not just "Joe Burrow's girlfriend." You made sure everyone knew I matter.

This is us at our best, Joe. This is the team we make, the life we're building. You supporting my dreams while I support yours. You being proud of me while I'm proud of you.

I love our life. I love the way we fit together. I love that your dreams and my dreams somehow make perfect sense side by side.

Forever yours, Your very proud girlfriend 

P.S. - I do NOT have a questionable singing voice. Sophie clearly has excellent taste.

* * *

January 30, 2022 - Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City

The silence in the family section is deafening.

You're sitting between Robin and Jimmy, all three of you staring at the field in stunned disbelief. Overtime. They lost in overtime. Three points away from the Super Bowl, and it's over.

Your hands are shaking as you watch Joe on the field, still in his uniform, helmet off, talking to Patrick Mahomes at midfield. Even from here, you can see the devastation in his posture—shoulders slumped, head down, the weight of this loss written in every line of his body.

"He played his heart out," Robin whispers, tears streaming down her face. "He gave everything he had."

"It wasn't enough," Jimmy says quietly, and the defeat in his voice breaks your heart almost as much as watching Joe does.

You want to run onto the field, want to wrap Joe in your arms and tell him it's okay, that there will be other chances, other seasons. But you know better. You know how much this meant to him, how hard he worked to get here, how close they came to something extraordinary.

The family section starts to empty slowly, other wives and girlfriends gathering their things, preparing for the long, quiet flights home. But you don't move. You can't move. You just keep watching Joe, waiting.

"Come on, honey," Robin says gently, touching your arm. "We should head down."

You nod but don't get up immediately. You're memorizing this moment—not because you want to, but because you know it's important. This is Joe at his lowest point, and you're about to find out if you're still the person he turns to when his world falls apart.

The walk down to the field level feels endless. Security guards guide the families through corridors that smell like concrete and disappointment. You can hear muffled crying, quiet conversations, the sound of dreams being packed away for another year.

When you finally make it to the designated family area outside the locker room, most of the other players have already come and gone. You wait with Joe's parents, all of you checking your phones obsessively, none of you sure what to say.

Then you see him.

Joe emerges from the tunnel still in his uniform, his face a mask of controlled devastation. His eyes scan the small crowd of remaining family members, and when they land on you, something in his expression cracks.

He doesn't say anything, just walks straight to you and pulls you into his arms so tightly you can barely breathe. You feel his body shaking against yours, feel the way he buries his face in your neck like he's trying to disappear.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice broken. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"No," you say fiercely, pulling back to look at him. "Don't you dare apologize. Do you hear me? Don't you dare."

Joe's eyes are red-rimmed, whether from tears or exhaustion or pure emotion, you can't tell. "We were so close. We were right there."

"I know, baby. I know."

"I let everyone down. The team, the city, you—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You didn't let anyone down. You were incredible. You ARE incredible."

Joe shakes his head, but you don't let him argue.

"Joe Burrow, you took this team to the AFC Championship in your second season. You came back from a knee injury that could have ended your career and you made it to one game away from the Super Bowl. That's not failure. That's extraordinary."

"It doesn't feel extraordinary."

"I know it doesn't. Not right now. But baby, this is just the beginning. This isn't the end of your story—it's the chapter that makes the next one even better."

Joe pulls you close again, and you feel some of the tension leave his body. Around you, his parents are talking quietly to Ja'Marr's family, giving you both space to process this moment.

"I love you," Joe says into your hair. "I need you to know that. I couldn't have gotten here without you."

"I love you too. And I'm so proud of you I can barely stand it."

"Even after that interception in overtime?"

"Especially after that interception in overtime. Because you got back up. You always get back up."

Joe pulls back to look at you again, and there's something in his eyes—gratitude, love, but also a kind of desperation. Like he needs you to anchor him to something real when everything else feels like it's falling apart.

"Come on," he says, his arm around your waist. "Let's get out of here."

The flight back to Cincinnati is quiet. Joe stares out the window for most of it, your hand in his, occasionally squeezing your fingers like he's making sure you're still there. You don't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. You just stay close, let him know through your presence that he doesn't have to carry this alone.

Back in your apartment, Joe goes straight to the shower while you order food from his favorite Sushi place. When he emerges twenty minutes later, hair damp and wearing sweatpants and an old Ohio State t-shirt, he looks younger. Less like an NFL quarterback and more like the boy you fell in love with in college.

"Not hungry," he says when he sees the takeout containers.

"I know. But you should eat something anyway."

"Y/N—"

"Please. For me."

Joe sighs but sits down next to you on the couch, mechanically eating pad thai while you curl up against his side. The TV is on, but neither of you is really watching. There will be analysis tomorrow, articles about what went wrong, speculation about next season. Tonight is just for grieving.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask after a while.

"Not really."

"Okay."

"Maybe later. Just... not tonight."

You press a kiss to his shoulder. "Whatever you need."

Joe sets down his barely touched food and turns to face you. "I need this. Just you. And me."

"You have me. You'll always have me."

"Promise?"

There's something vulnerable in the way he asks it, like he's not just talking about tonight or this loss, but about everything that's coming. The pressure, the expectations, the spotlight that's only going to get brighter.

"I promise," you say, and you mean it with every fiber of your being.

Joe kisses you then, soft and desperate and full of everything he can't say out loud. When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"I love you," he says again, like he needs to keep saying it to make sure it's real.

"I love you too. Win or lose, good games or bad games, I love you."

That night, Joe falls asleep with his head on your chest, your fingers running through his hair. You stay awake for a long time, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the weight of his trust in the way he sleeps so completely in your arms.

You think about what you said on the field—that this is just the beginning of his story. You believe that with everything in you. Joe Burrow will get back to this moment, and next time, he'll be ready.

What you don't know is that when he gets there, when he reaches the heights you're both dreaming of, you won't be standing next to him anymore.

All you know is that tonight, in this moment, you're exactly where you belong. You're the person he turns to when the world falls apart, the one who picks up the pieces and helps him remember who he is.

You're his home. His safe place. His forever.

At least, that's what you think.

Later that night, while Joe sleeps

January 30, 2022

My heartbroken love,

I'm writing this after you finally fell asleep. It took hours for your breathing to even out, for your body to stop carrying all that tension from tonight. You're curled up next to me now, finally peaceful after the worst night of your football career so far.

Watching you walk off that field tonight was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Seeing you so close to your dreams and watching them slip away... God, Joe. My heart broke for you.

But then you found me. In all that chaos, all that devastation, you found me first. Not the media, not your teammates, not the coaches. Me. You walked straight to me like I was the only thing that could make any of this bearable.

That's when I knew. Not that I love you—I've known that for years—but that I'm the person you trust with your broken pieces. I'm who you turn to when everything falls apart.

You apologized tonight. You actually apologized to ME, like losing that game was something you did to me personally. Baby, you could never disappoint me. You could lose every game for the rest of your career and I would still be proud to love you.

But you won't lose every game. You won't even lose most games. Tonight was heartbreaking, but it wasn't an ending. It was education. It was motivation. It was the foundation for everything that's coming next.

You're going to get back there, Joe. And when you do, when you're holding that Lombardi Trophy, I want you to remember this night. Remember how it felt to fall short, so you never take success for granted.

I'll be there for all of it. The comeback, the victories, the championship we both know is coming. Just like I was there tonight.

Forever yours, Y/N

P.S. - You said you couldn't have gotten here without me. The truth is, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

* * *

March 15th, 2023

You're having lunch with your friend Emma at a trendy spot downtown, catching up on everything you've missed since she moved to Cincinnati for her marketing job. It feels good to have your college friend nearby again, someone who knew you before you became "Joe Burrow's girlfriend."

"So," Emma says, stabbing her salad with more force than necessary, "how are things with Mr. Quarterback? I barely see you guys together on social media anymore."

"We're good," you say automatically, the response you've perfected over the past few months. "Just busy. His schedule is crazy during the season, and now with all the off-season training..."

Emma nods, but there's something in her expression that makes you pause.

"Actually," she says, setting down her fork, "that's kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I saw something last night and I wasn't sure if I should mention it..."

Your stomach drops. "What kind of something?"

Emma pulls out her phone, and you watch her scroll through Instagram with the kind of purposeful navigation that means she's looking for something specific.

"Because," she says, turning her phone toward you, "when I was scrolling last night, I noticed Joe's been... active."

The screen shows Joe's Instagram activity. Your heart starts beating faster as you see a long list of likes on photos from accounts you don't recognize. @KelseyAnderson @DanielleFitness. @MiaMartinii.

"Sarah, what—"

"Keep scrolling," she says gently.

You scroll down with trembling fingers. Photo after photo of beautiful women—models, influencers, actresses. All liked by @Joeyb_9 All within the last few weeks.

Your mouth goes dry. "This... this doesn't mean anything. It's just social media."

But even as you say it, you're thinking about the photos. Bikini shots. Workout videos. Professional modeling photos where the women are wearing next to nothing.

"Honey," Sarah says softly, "there are like fifty of them. Just in the past month."

You hand her phone back, your hands shaking slightly. "He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. You know how guys are with social media. They just scroll and like without thinking."

"Maybe," Emma says, but she doesn't sound convinced. "But Y/N, some of these are really... explicit. And it's not just random scrolling. Look."

She shows you her phone again, this time on @KelseyAnderson's profile. "He's been liking her photos for weeks. Consistently. And she's been liking his back."

The room feels like it's spinning. You stare at the phone, at the evidence of Joe's digital attention being given to women who look nothing like you. Women with perfect bodies and professional photographers and hundreds of thousands of followers.

"I probably shouldn't have shown you," Emma says, watching your face carefully. "I just... if it were my boyfriend, I'd want to know."

"No," you say quickly, "you did the right thing. I just... I need a minute to process this."

The rest of lunch passes in a blur. You go through the motions of eating, of responding to Emma's conversation, but your mind is spinning. Every interaction you've had with Joe over the past few weeks is suddenly cast in a different light.

The way he's been more distant lately. How he's always on his phone but angles it away from you. The fact that he hasn't posted a photo of you together since... when? You can't even remember.

"I should probably go," you say, checking the time even though you have nowhere urgent to be.

"Y/N," Emma says gently, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just... a lot to think about."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not yet. But thank you for telling me. Really."

Emma nods, but she looks worried as you both stand to leave. "Call me later? Promise?"

"Promise."

But you don't go home. Instead, you drive aimlessly around Cincinnati, Emma's words echoing in your head. Fifty of them. Just in the past month.

When you finally make it back to your apartment, Joe is in the kitchen making a protein shake, still in his workout clothes from training.

"Hey babe," he says without looking up from his blender. "How was lunch with Emma?"

"Good," you say, trying to keep your voice normal. "How was training?"

"Brutal. Coach has us doing these new conditioning drills that are basically torture."

You watch him pour his shake into a tumbler, notice how he immediately reaches for his phone. The same phone he's been using to like photos of other women.

"Joe," you say before you can lose your nerve.

"Yeah?" He's scrolling already, not really looking at you.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure, what's up?" But he's still looking at his phone, and something inside you snaps.

"Can you put that down? Please?"

Joe looks up, surprised by your tone. "Everything okay?"

"That's what I want to ask you."

He sets his phone face-down on the counter and gives you his attention. "What's going on?"

You take a breath, trying to figure out how to bring this up without sounding like a crazy, jealous girlfriend. "Emma showed me your Instagram likes today."

Joe's expression doesn't change, but you catch the tiny flicker in his eyes. "My Instagram likes?"

"The photos you've been liking. Of other women."

"Y/N—"

"Models, influencers. A lot of them, Joe. Like, a really concerning amount of them."

Joe runs his hand through his hair, a tell you recognize from years of watching him when he's uncomfortable. "It's just social media. It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. I scroll through my feed, I see photos, I like them. It's literally meaningless."

"But these aren't just random photos, Joe. These are specific accounts. Some of them you've been consistently liking for weeks."

"I don't monitor my likes, Y/N. I just double-tap and keep scrolling."

There's something in his tone—dismissive, almost annoyed—that makes your chest tighten. This isn't the Joe who used to listen to your concerns, who used to care when something upset you.

"So you're saying it means nothing? The fact that you're giving attention to dozens of half-naked women online?"

"Jesus, when you put it like that, you make it sound like I'm cheating or something."

"Aren't you? Kind of?"

Joe stares at you like you've lost your mind. "No, I'm not cheating. Not even kind of. I'm double-tapping photos on an app. That's it."

"It doesn't feel like 'that's it' to me."

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?"

The words hit you like a slap. Your problem. Like your feelings about this are irrational, unreasonable, something for you to deal with alone.

"My problem?"

Joe seems to realize how that sounded and softens slightly. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... this isn't as big a deal as you're making it."

"How would you feel if I was constantly liking photos of shirtless male models?"

"I wouldn't care."

"You wouldn't?"

"No, because I'd know it didn't mean anything."

But there's something in the way he says it, too quick, too defensive, that makes you wonder if he's lying. To you or to himself.

"When was the last time you posted a photo of us together?" you ask.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"When was the last time you posted a photo of us? Together?"

Joe is quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. "I don't know. Recently?"

"Try again."

"Y/N, I don't keep track of that stuff."

"Well, I do. It's been four months, Joe. Four months since you posted anything that shows we're together."

"So?"

"So people are starting to wonder if we're still dating."

"People need to mind their own business."

"These people include my friends. And your teammates' wives. People who actually know us."

Joe picks up his phone again, a clear signal that he's done with this conversation. "I'm not going to change how I use social media because of gossip."

"I'm not asking you to change how you use social media. I'm asking you to understand why this hurts me."

"It hurts you that I like photos on Instagram?"

"It hurts me that you're giving other women attention that you don't give me. It hurts me that strangers have to ask if we're still together because I've disappeared from your online presence. It hurts me that when I try to talk to you about it, you dismiss my feelings like they don't matter."

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at his phone screen. When he looks up, his expression is tired.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Y/N."

"I want you to say that you understand why this bothers me. I want you to say that you'll be more mindful about it."

"Fine. I'll be more mindful."

But he says it like he's humoring you, like he's agreeing just to end the conversation. There's no understanding in his voice, no recognition that your feelings are valid.

"Joe—"

"I said I'll be more mindful. What else do you want?"

What you want is for him to apologize. What you want is for him to seem like he cares that he hurt you. What you want is for him to put his arms around you and promise that you're the only woman who matters to him.

What you get is dismissal and irritation and the growing certainty that something fundamental has shifted in your relationship.

"Nothing," you say quietly. "Forget I said anything."

"Good," Joe says, already looking back at his phone. "Because I have a conference call with my agent in ten minutes."

You watch him walk away, disappearing into his office and closing the door behind him. You're left standing in the kitchen, holding the pieces of a conversation that solved nothing and somehow made everything worse.

That night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling while Joe sleeps peacefully beside you. You think about Emma's concerned face across the lunch table. You think about the photos you scrolled through—beautiful women getting attention from your boyfriend that you haven't received in months.

But mostly, you think about Joe's reaction. The dismissiveness. The casual way he made your feelings seem unreasonable. The Joe you fell in love with would never have done that.

For the first time since you've been together, you wonder if you're fighting for something that's already over.

March 15, 2023

Joe,

Today Emma showed me your Instagram activity. Fifty likes on other women's photos in just the past month. Models, influencers, women who look nothing like me.

When I tried to talk to you about it, you called it "my problem." You acted like my feelings were irrational, like caring about this made me crazy and jealous.

Maybe it does make me crazy. Maybe I am being unreasonable. But I don't think I am.

I think I'm watching the man I love slowly erase me from his life, one Instagram like at a time. I think I'm watching you explore options while keeping me as a safety net.

The worst part wasn't discovering the photos. The worst part was your reaction when I brought it up. You didn't apologize. You didn't seem to care that it hurt me. You just wanted me to stop talking about it.

When did I become so unimportant to you that my feelings don't even register?

When did you stop loving me enough to care when you hurt me?

I keep telling myself this is just a rough patch, that we'll get through it like we've gotten through everything else. But I'm starting to wonder if you want to get through it, or if you're hoping I'll just stop fighting and let you slip away.

I love you. But I'm starting to think that's not enough anymore.

Y/N

[unsolicited-opinions]

I'm starting to think that a whole lot of US Jews don't understand why a crowd of tiki torch Nazis chanted "Jews will not replace us" in Charlottesville. It seems like a lot of US Jews don't yet understand how the anti-immigrant sentiment Trump used to recapture the presidency is a direct threat to US Jews.

If you don't know this yet, please read the broad strokes below:

1. Like a certain Austrian in the 20th century, Trump saw both a disgruntled part of the electorate and their antipathy for non-white, non-Christian, foreign-born people. He capitalized on their xenophobia and feelings of abandonment by blaming foreigners, LGBTQ+ folks, and DEI for all the US's challenges.

He's used and amplified bigotry against already-marginalized people in order to ride his base's bigotry to power. All comparisons people make between this and how Hitler amplified and harnessed the power of antisemitism are entirely appropriate. It's demagoguery.

2. One of the existing, popular, xenophobic ideas on which Trump capitalized is a right-wing conspiracy theory usually called The Great Replacement.

It seems as though many US Jews do not realize that Jews are a huge part of this conspiracy theory.

Great Replacement, also known as white replacement theory or white genocide theory, claims there is an intentional effort, led by Jews, to promote mass non-white immigration, inter-racial marriage, and other efforts that would lead to the “extinction of whites.”

This conspiracy theory was famously promoted at the 2017 “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, VA, when white supremacists chanted, “Jews will not replace us.”

Right wing commentators have invoked the Great Replacement theory to say Democrats are “replacing” American citizens with illegal immigrants. Belief in the Great Replacement theory has been cited as motivation for recent terror attacks, including the 2018 Pittsburgh, PA, synagogue shooting at the Tree of Life, the 2019 El Paso, TX, and Christchurch, New Zealand, shootings, and the 2022 shooting in Buffalo, NY.

4. This isn't a theory limited to the far-right fringe. About half of US Republicans believe it.

It's been actively promoted on Fox "News" by Tucker Carlson and others.

This was the theory Elon Musk agreed with in a tweet, causing a mass exodus of advertisers from Twitter and prompting Musk's apology tour to Auschwitz with Ben Shapiro.

5. The anti-immigrant fervor, the mass deportation plans...? They're all tied up with Jews in the minds of the far-right base to whom Trump and his henchmen keep winking and dogwhistling. Trump has openly endorsed this conspiracy theory.

I see a lot of Jews online deciding to keep their heads down because they think Jews aren't the immediate target of this authoritarian and I'm gobsmacked by their ignorance of history and failure to pay attention to the rapid and violent increase in far-right antisemitic violence in recent years, driven by the very same Trump who they mistakenly believe is "good for the Jews."

Jews are being set up as scapegoats.

----

The irony is amazing, too. If you ask believers in the Great Replacement conspiracy theory for evidence of the Jewish plot to replace white people, they'll produce headlines about Jewish charitable organizations which seek to aid refugees:

The fact that Jews...care about refugees...is the proof of our sinister plot against white people.

[meazalykov]

nothing straight

catarina macario x uswnt!reader

warnings: reader being very downbad. best friends to lovers.

since being called up to the uswnt in 2018, you’ve become a world cup winner, and an olympic bronze medalist. you’ve done more by your early-twenties than some people dream of their whole lives.  

yet it always felt like you were alone.  

you weren’t, not really. you had mallory who was your closest friend on the team for years. the two of you had inside jokes, a rhythm on the field, and memories from nearly every camp. however, she had a boyfriend who she mainly paid attention to. it was a serious relationship. when camp ended, your close friend went back to chicago while you returned to barcelona.  

you'd grown used to the ocean between you and everyone else. it was a quiet loneliness, the kind you dressed in smiles and gold medals.  eveyrone on the roster always played for an NWSL club, while your name always had a european one attached to it. you were distant from everyone, having different experience.

in 2021, many new names were being called up to the roster since the olympics were over and the coach needed to start the world cup prep happening in two years. with that call up, you heard a new name for the first time… catarina macario.

you didn’t expect much. rookies came and went, but when she started showing up to every training session with that unbothered look on her face. cool, calculating, and smart…you got annoyed. 

especially when she kept beating you in drills. somehow she was always just a step ahead. that smirk she gave you always pissed you of.

catarina is only a year older than you, you wondered how she was not called up to the senior team before.

however, the attitude of hers is how you both became best friends.  

the rivalry was playful, somewhat annoying, very magnetic. as time went on, it became more. she was your shadow at camp, your roommate during travel games, your pre-game playlist partner. when everyone else slept, you stayed up talking about your lives in back europe, trading barcelona and lyon stories. 

national camp became something to look forward to, because cat would be there. however, the more time passed, the more your teammates started seeing things you didn’t.  

they all saw the way you looked at her and the way she looked at you. they all saw the way your hand stayed on her arm a second too long during stretches. everyone seen the way she always sat next to you, always leaned her head on your shoulder during rest time.  

everyone knew, though you didn’t or maybe… you were just too afraid to say it aloud.  

unfortunately, cat tore her acl a year after you met her.  

you were still in barcelona when it happened. you watched the replay on your phone, alone in your apartment. you knew immediately.  

you cried knowing the consequence but not in front of anyone. when you flew to lyon to see her? when she sat in that brace, eyes tired, voice trying to stay strong? you broke. of course you had quiet sobs in her arms, and her holding you like you were the one who got hurt instead of her.  

you were in love with her. you knew it then but you kept it quiet for two years.  

barcelona was home for four years, but you finally left in 2023, signing with chelsea.  

why? you said you wanted a new challenge. a new league. what you did not know was that catarina wanted the same thing after lyon… she also chose chelsea.

the thing with being around cat every day was that it made hiding your feelings impossible.  

“fuck… i’m in love with my best friend,” you whispered to yourself one night in your apartment living room. you thought you were alone in the room, while your friends were in the kitchen.  

“yeah. no shit,” sam said entering your living room.  

you flinched.  

“what?”  

“you heard me,” she smirked, “it’s obvious. even kristie said so, and she usually misses everything.”  

you tried to laugh it off, “you guys are just reading into things—”  

“no. you’re just terrified but she’s literally in love with you, you idiot,” sam added, grabbing her water from the coffee table, “talk to her or at least stop eye-fucking her during tactical meetings.”  

you didn’t talk to cat about your feelings at all until one night in 2024.  

it was the post-match. everyone had left to go home after the win against arsenal. london stayed blue (as it should). catarina and you were the only ones still left in the locker room. this wasn’t new. you both liked quiet and liked staying late, never rushing to leave.  

however, this night nearly crushed you.

she had her sports bra on, joggers on and hugging her hips, leaning against the bench, scrolling through her phone.  

your eyes were on her abs and on the curve of her hips… and on her lips. when your gaze lingered too long, she looked up and caught you.  

“what was that?” she asked, voice smooth. teasing.  

“what was what?” you asked, already folding under pressure.  

“that look.” she put her phone down, stepped closer, “you don’t look at anyone else like that.”  

you swallowed hard, “cat, i don’t know what you mean.”  

she tilted her head, “okay sure…you’re bold with everyone else and you don’t take shit from anyone but with me you are somehow the opposite?”  

you blinked.  

“you get all shy. all soft,” she whispered, stepping even closer. the woman’s bare arm brushed against yours, “why’s that?”  

you wanted to speak but you couldn’t.  

she reached down in front of you and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, “you gonna answer me, y/n?”  

your voice came out small, “fuck… it’s because i love you, ok?”  

the air left her lungs like a laugh and a sigh combined. cat’s hand dropped from your face to your waist.  

“took you long enough.”  

quickly, her lips were on yours.  

they were soft at first. tentative. it felt like a question.  

luckily you answered with your whole body, tilting your head, pressing into her.  

you kissed her like you had been waiting years because you had.  

your hands found her hips, hers slid along your spine. macario’s tongue brushed yours and you gasped against her lips, pulling her in closer. the kiss deepened and slowed. after a few minutes, you pulled away with your forehead pressed against hers, you both caught your breath.  

cat’s fingers grazed your bare waist, the hem of your shirt bunched in her palm. your hand splayed over her ribs, the heat of her skin grounding you.  

it felt like a dream.  

you could’ve stayed like that forever…half-clothed, sweaty from the match, stealing kisses in a dimly lit locker room.  

suddenly, she grinned. that damn grin that your bestfriend loves doing.  

“i can’t believe you never told me your feelings, you jerk.”  

you rolled your eyes, breathless, “i thought you wouldn’t like me back.”  

“why not?”  

“i don’t know. i thought you were just… fooling around. maybe straight.”  

she laughed, “you look and act more straight than i do.”  

she wasn’t wrong.  

“i don’t think there’s anything straight about the way i feel about you, cat,” you whispered.  

she leaned in again, kissed you softer this time.  

“good,” she murmured, “because there’s nothing straight about how i feel about you either.”  

masterlist

[chaotic-archaeologist]

I saw your post in the thread about the Budj Bim creation myth, and you mentioned that you teach Ancient Civilizations and have a week on Australia and the Torres Strait Islands. I was wondering if you have any recorded lectures on this topic that are available anywhere online?

Or do you have any recommendations for freely available resources to learn more?

Hi there,

I'm so glad you're interested in this (and also so sorry it took me this long to answer)! I'm also tagging @four-ravens-in-a-trenchcoat because you sent a very similar ask.

I'm far from the expert, so I'm going to tag @micewithknives and @acearchaeologist who are both Australian archaeologists with far more knowledge than I. The lessons I've developed have been with their expertise as guidance.

I'll start out by linking to a short piece about Budj Bim and its eel traps being designated as a world heritage site and why that's important:

This page talks a little bit more about the eel traps, the creation story, and the Gunditjmara people who live there:

Unfortunately, I don't record my lectures, and sharing them would probably violate some privacy laws. I can, however, share the readings I give my students.

The week is broken into two class periods, and for each session I ask students to read one scholarly piece and one more pop culture one. The readings for the first part are:

Nunn, Patrick. 2018. “Australian Aboriginal Memories of Coastal Drowning.” In The Edge of Memory: Ancient Stories, Oral Tradition and the Post-Glacial World, 63–107. Bloomsbury Sigma. Clarkson, Chris, Ben Marwick, Lynley Wallis, Richard Law Kelaham Fullagar, and Zenobia Jacobs. 2017. “Buried Tools and Pigments Tell a New History of Humans in Australia for 65,000 Years.” The Conversation, July 19, 2017. https://theconversation.com/buried-tools-and-pigments-tell-a-new-history-of-humans-in-australia-for-65-000-years-81021.

and then for the second class:

Taçon, Paul S. C., Rosalie S. Chapple, John Merson, Daniel Ramp, Wayne Brennan, Graham King, and Alandra Tasire. 2010. “Aboriginal Rock Art Depictions of Fauna: What Can They Tell Us about the Natural History of the Greater Blue Mountains World Heritage Area?" https://doi.org/10.7882/FS.2010.008. Smithsonian Magazine. 2019. “A 42,000-Year-Old Man Finally Goes Home,” September 2019. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/mungo-man-finally-goes-home-180972835/.

The important part of this unit is that it comes right after we learn about the four classic river valley civilizations (Mesopotamia, the Indus, China, and Egypt). These "Big 4" all fit the description of the article I have them read at the very beginning of the class about the Key Components of Civilizations.

Australia week is about challenging that definition of civilization by examining where it came from, how it was developed, and who it excludes. At the end of the week I have students come up with another definition of Civilization that does not exclude Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, Indigenous groups in North and South America, nomadic groups, etc.

The book (The Edge of Memory) by Patrick Nunn is a good one (for this class we only read the third chapter, but the entire book is worth a read.

Decolonizing Research Indigenous Storywork as Methodology is an edited volume that features perspectives on oral history from Indigenous people all over the world, including Australia.

Cheers, -Reid

[mrschtappen]

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄

I : The Call of the Circuit -> II : Dreams Ignited (soon) -> III : Untitled (soon)

masterlist

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!reader

Synopsis: childhood friends Max Verstappen and you, the daughter of racing legend Michael Schumacher, evolve from best friends to fierce rivals to teammates. maybe then to lovers....?

Monday, 10th December, 2018 Faenza, Italy

You sat alone at your new office, your eyes fixed on the glowing screen of your phone. The Twitter announcement you had posted earlier that day was still causing ripples across the internet, igniting a firestorm of reactions and responses from fans and followers around the world.

As you scrolled through the flood of comments, memes, and well-wishes flooding your feed, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. The overwhelming wave of support and excitement from your supporters served as a poignant reminder of the incredible journey that lay ahead.

You made sure you turned off the lights of your new office when you were about to go. Settling inside your Audi R8, the soft chime from your phone took your attention away from driving.

As you read Max's message about bringing a Michael Schumacher merch from Germany, a wave of mixed emotions washed over you. The mention of your father's name, especially in connection with Germany, brought back vivid memories of the ski accident that had changed your lives forever in 2013.

your heart felt heavy, a subtle ache resurfacing as you recalled the challenging times that followed your father's accident. The uncertainty, the hope, and the unwavering support from loved ones, including Max, during those difficult years played like a reel in your mind.

Despite the pain and the bittersweet nostalgia, you weren't angry with Max for bringing up those memories. In fact, you felt a sense of gratitude for his thoughtfulness and the comfort of your shared history. Max had been a pillar of strength and understanding throughout your journey, and his genuine care and friendship meant more to you than any merchandise ever could.

Sitting alone in your car, you took a moment to let the emotions wash over you. You reflected on your journey and the pivotal decision to join Formula 1, a deep sense of determination and purpose filled your heart. Since you were three years old, the dream of racing in F1 had been a beacon of hope and ambition, driving you to push boundaries and defy expectations.

You knew that stepping onto the track wasn't just about fulfilling your childhood dreams; it was also a tribute to your father and the legacy he had built. The memories of watching Michael Schumacher's triumphant moments, especially his 6th championship title, had ignited a spark within you, fueling her passion and commitment to chase after her own aspirations.

Despite the challenges and the weight of the past, you felt a profound sense of gratitude and pride. You knew that your journey was a testament to your resilience, determination, and the unwavering support of those who believed in you, including Max.

Sunday, 12th October, 2003 Suzuka, Japan

As a three-year-old, you may not have comprehended the complexity of Formula One racing, the excitement buzzing in the air, the infectious energy of the crowd through the grandstands. The vibrant colors of the racing cars zooming past, the deafening roar of engines, and the flashes of cameras captured your attention, painting a kaleidoscope of sensory impressions.

Although your understanding was limited at such a tender age, the sight of Michael Schumacher, dressed in his iconic red racing suit, elicited a sense of pride and admiration within your young heart.

"That's my dad !" your little fingers pointed at the red car zooming the finish line, practically screaming at everyone as you started clapping then. 

The warmth of your mother's embrace welcomed you as you cheered together, caught up in the euphoria of the moment.

your eyes wide with wonder as you watched your father bask in the spotlight and as Michael Schumacher descended from the podium, triumphant and beaming with joy, his eyes sought out you, your mother and your older brother Mick in the crowd. With a tender smile, he reached out to scoop up his young daughter, lifting you into his arms and hoisting you high above the crowd.

the cameras flashed and the crowd erupted into applause, you enjoyed the attention, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world to be held in the arms of your racing hero.

The image of your bond captured for all to see, you knew that this was a moment you would cherish forever—a moment when you felt truly seen and cherished by the man who meant the world to you. 

your dad, Michael Schumacher. 

Saturday, 27th November 2003. Gland, Switzerland

you stepped onto the karting track for the very first time, your heart pounding with excitement and nerves. The whole family was there along with your dad's friend's family, the Vertsappens. With your tiny hands gripping the steering wheel of your go-kart, you were confused on how the whole kart operates. 

"You've got this schatzi !" You heard your dad cheer for you from a distance, calling you a nickname that means sweetie in German. 

Frustrated, you spoke 

"How do I do this ?"

Max Verstappen, the seasoned six-year-old racer, flashed you a mischievous grin as he leaned over to offer his expertise.

"Watch and learn, little rookie. First, you gotta push down on the pedal like this..."

With a swift motion, Max demonstrated, his foot pressing down on the accelerator pedal with practiced ease. You watched intently, your eyes wide with fascination.

"Like this?"

you mimicked Max's actions, but your foot hesitated on the pedal, unsure of the right amount of pressure to apply.

Max chuckled, reaching over to gently guide your foot.

"Almost there, y/n ! You just need to press a little harder."

you nodded eagerly, determined to master the art of go-karting with Max's help.

"Got it! Thanks, Maxie !"

As you zip around the track, the conversation turned to your shared love for Formula One racing.

"Do you think we'll ever drive in Formula One, Max ?"

Max grinned, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Of course! And when we do, I'll be the world champion, then Mick and you will be my trusty sidekicks."

you rolled her eyes playfully, a giggle escaping your lips.

"Dream on, Max! I'll be the one leaving you in the dust!"

"Hey, you two ! How's it going ? " a familiar voice chimed in from behind you, causing both Max and you to turn around 

Max grinned, giving Mick a playful nod.

"We're having a blast ! little rookie here is a natural behind the wheel."

you blushed at the praise from Max 

"Thanks, Maxie ! And hey, Mick, I'm going to beat you someday !"

Mick laughed heartily, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Is that so ? Well, I look forward to the challenge ! Let's see who can get to formula one first" 

Your banter filled the air with laughter as the three of you raced around the track, your friendship growing stronger with each passing lap. And as you crossed the finish line second, just a few millisecond behind Max, a smile grew wide on your face.

"Looks like you've got a prodigy, are you sure this is her first time ? She's a natural" Max's dad said, a chuckle escaped from your dad

You crossed the finish line just 4 tenths of a second later than someone who was 3 years older than you. You can feel the pride surging even when you were just so little.

"wow you're fast" your older brother said, giving you a high five as you returned it enthusiastically with a tiny jump

"yeah, not so bad little rookie !" Max also gave you a high five

you smile with your tiny teeths showing, your dad embraced you, lifting you up in the air

"my daughter is a soon to be formula one racer, and the world shall know you as for you are, not the daughter of a six time world champion but y/n Schumacher."

you couldn't help but feel grateful for everyone's guidance and support, knowing that with them by your side, you knew you were able to achieve anything.

Thursday, 14 March 2019 Melbourne, Australia ROUND ONE

As you took your first steps out to greet the fans, a wave of exhilaration and gratitude washed over you. The energy from the crowd was palpable, a mix of excitement, anticipation, and overwhelming support. The sight of fans waving flags, holding up banners, and wearing team colors was a surreal and heartwarming experience for you.

Walking along the barricades, you were met with a sea of merchandise bearing your name and face, along with the iconic Michael Schumacher memorabilia that fans had brought along. The presence of the Michael Schumacher merchandise added an extra layer of emotion to the moment, reminding you of the legacy you were a part of and the immense responsibility that came with it.

As you greeted fans, signing autographs and posing for photos, several fans couldn't help but comment on the striking resemblance between you and your legendary father, Michael Schumacher. Their kind words and compliments about your beauty and resemblance to your father filled you with a sense of pride and humility.

Amidst the flurry of interactions, one fan caught your attention with a cheeky remark that left both of you laughing.

you backed away with laughter, cupping your mouth, looking at a marriage certificate by an older fanboy, a good looking one you couldn't lie.

"I'm 19 !" You exclaimed, a wide laugh still visible on your face

"Maybe in a few years !" You joked, before moving to another fan, signing her cap with the number 57 on it, a number you chose to drive for.

It was media day today which means there's no driving and the press conference began with Lewis Hamilton from Mercedes, Sebastian Vettel of Ferrari, Daniel Ricciardo from Renault, Max Verstappen of Red Bull Racing and of course yourself, y/n Schumacher from Scuderia Toro Rosso.

"We’re gathered under very sad circumstances, following the news that Charlie Whiting, the FIA’s Director of Formula One died during the early hours of this morning. I’d like to start this press conference by asking each of the drivers present for their thoughts and memories of Charlie. Lewis, could we start with you, please?" Lewis spoke to the mic

"I’ve known Charlie since I started in 2007. I made some comments this morning on my Instagram. It may have not worked, as I think it’s down but obviously incredibly shocked this morning to hear the sad news and my thoughts and prayers are with him and his family. What he did for this sport, I mean, his commitment… he really was a pillar, as Toto said, such an iconic figure in the sporting world and he contributed so much for us, so may he rest in peace."

as the other drivers stated their comments regarding the passing of the late Charlie Whiting, it was your turn to answer

"How about y/n ? I believe this has come to a big shock as well as your father was also racing when he was the f1 racing director ?"

"yes, my father raced during Charlie's tenure as F1 Racing Director. I've met Charlie a few times and found him to be a wonderful person. His dedication to safety and fairness in Formula One was unmatched. Charlie's ability to connect with everyone in the paddock and his unwavering passion for the sport made him irreplaceable. My thoughts are with his family, friends, and the entire FIA community during this tough time. His legacy in Formula One will always be remembered"

as they continued tho the next question, you were shocked as to how bold and daring for this male interviewer to ask the whole lot of drivers with you

"Given the whispers around the paddock about nepotism getting y/n Schumacher this seat due to her father's legacy, and considering she is the sole female on the grid, do you drivers genuinely believe she is as competent as the other drivers, or do you acknowledge a potential gap in her skill?"

As the interviewer's words cut through the tension of the room, your face tightened, a blend of disbelief and frustration clouding your features. The weight of the question bore down on you, amplifying your discomfort and vulnerability in that moment.

You felt exposed, the spotlight glaringly bright, intensifying the scrutiny you felt as the only female driver on the grid.

Sensing your discomfort, a subtle shift occurred amongst the drivers on the panel. Eyes darted towards you, expressions reflecting concern and empathy.

Among them, Max Verstappen's gaze lingered a moment longer, his usually confident demeanor softened by genuine concern for his fellow driver.

The collective silence that followed the question seemed to stretch on, the atmosphere thick with tension. But within you, a resilient fire ignited. Drawing strength from the supportive glances of your peers and your own unwavering determination, you steadied yourself. You would not let this moment define you or shake your belief in your own capabilities.

"could we start with you again Lewis ?"

Lewis's expression tightened, clearly upset by the nature of the question.

"Honestly, I find it disappointing that in this day and age, we're still having these discussions. Women have proven time and time again that they can compete at the highest levels of motorsport. I've been a staunch supporter of women in racing, and I've seen firsthand the talent and determination they bring to the track."

"Look, in Formula 1, everyone's path to the grid is different. Yes, some of us come from racing families or have certain connections, but ultimately, talent and hard work are what count. I've faced skepticism throughout my career for various reasons, and I've always chosen to let my performance on the track speak for itself. As for y/n, she's shown promise and skill in her journey to F1. The sport is better when we have diverse talents, and I believe she deserves her place here"

"Thank you for the answer, could we move on to Vettel next ?"

Vettel's brows furrowed, eyes narrowing with a mix of disbelief and growing indignation. "It's disappointing, really, to hear these questions. Every driver on this grid has earned their seat through dedication, hard work, and skill. Formula 1 is a tough environment, and to suggest that anyone is here purely because of their name or gender undermines the effort we all put in. I've met y/n and seen her commitment firsthand. She belongs here as much as anyone else."

Then they moved on to Danny. His jovial demeanor momentarily shifted as he heard the interviewer's pointed question directed at you. Being someone who often exudes positivity and fairness, Daniel values meritocracy and respects the grind every driver goes through to reach Formula 1. Hearing a fellow driver being questioned on the basis of nepotism and gender struck a chord with him.

"Ah, the old nepotism and gender card. It's not a new question in F1, but it's one that misses the mark. Sure, having a famous last name might open some doors initially, but it won't keep them open if you can't deliver on track. As for being the only female driver, I think it's about time we focus on skills and capabilities rather than gender. I've had the chance to get to know y/n, and she's got talent. End of story."

Then they moved on to Max, who is known for his fierce competitiveness and straightforwardness. It was clear that he was infuriated by the audacious implication and the discomfort it caused you.

Seeing you visibly uncomfortable only intensified Max's emotions. He felt a surge of protective anger, recognizing the unfair scrutiny and challenges you faced as the only female driver on the grid. In that moment, the friendship among drivers was evident, as Max's concern for your well-being was palpable.

His eyes flashed with fury as he seized the opportunity to address the interviewer's audacious question. His voice dripped with venom as he unleashed his pent-up frustration.

"Firstly, the audacity to question anyone's place on this grid based on gender or family name is just absolute garbage. She's earned her spot on this grid through sheer talent and hard work, just like the rest of us. Anyone who suggests otherwise is either blind or just plain ignorant."

His words were sharp and cutting, each syllable laced with disdain for the backward mindset behind the question. Max's aggression was palpable as he continued to tear down the baseless accusations.

"In case you missed it, Formula 1 is about racing, talent, dedication, and hard work, not gender or who your parents are. It's disappointing to still be facing these backward stereotypes in this day and age. We should be focusing on racing and the incredible talent we have on this grid, not trying to create controversy where there isn't any . For the record, I've raced alongside her, and I've known her my entire life. Y/n is an extraordinary racer through and through, and she's proven herself time and time again."

He paused, taking a breath to temper his rising emotions before continuing,

"So, how about we focus on the actual sport instead of dredging up this garbage ?"

Max's aggressive defence reverberated through the room, leaving no doubt as to where he stood on the matter and silencing any further attempts to undermine your place in the sport.

As you listened to Max's vehement defense, a mixture of emotions washed over you. Initially, there was a sense of relief and gratitude. Max's and the other drivers' unwavering support and fierce defence of you felt like a shield against the unfair scrutiny you had faced. It was reassuring to know that your fellow drivers stood your her and were willing to call out the injustice.

Your eyes briefly met Max's intense gaze, conveying a silent thank you and mutual understanding of the gravity of the situation.

Then it was finally your turn to answer

With a poised demeanor, you addressed the room, your voice steady and confident.

"I'd like to extend my sincere appreciation to my fellow drivers for their support. It speaks volumes about the fellowship and respect we share as competitors."

Pausing momentarily, you continued with a touch of irony,

"Regarding the questions raised about nepotism and being the only female on the grid, I was under the impression that Formula 1 valued skill, determination, and performance above all else. My presence here is a testament to my commitment, capability, and qualities I believe are fundamental to every driver on this grid."

Maintaining your composure, you added, "While these questions may have been posed, my focus remains unwaveringly on racing. I am here to compete, to challenge, and to succeed, just like every other driver. I look forward to letting my performance on the track speak for itself. Besides, I don't see 19 men ahead of me, I see 19 challenges to be conquered."

With this response, you gracefully but firmly addressed the issue, highlighting your professionalism and determination to rise above the noise and excel in your chosen profession.

[mrs-monaghan]

Just wanted to say that I love reading every single one of your blogs that deals with jikook! You're witty, funny, and very straightforward. I'm so happy I found your blog!

Aww... you're so sweet. Ty!😘 Here, have some random Jkk moments because you're too kind.

Moment 1

Starting with JK not liking that Jimin was pretending to untuck V's shirt

Link

Thats a terrible sound but anyway, the way JK is looking at Jimin though 🤭🤭🤭 that's what betrayal looks like 😂

Moment 2

Then here we all know that one winter package where Jimin went to bed in a sweater JK spent the day in. Well, here is Jimin way back when, doing the same with JK's beanie

Someone likes the way his boyfriend smells. #feels 🥺🥺

Moment 3

How many times have their concepts been similar now?

There is no "you are me i am you" there is just boyfriends copying eo atp

Moment 4

Did we know?

Aint that the cutest thing??? 🥺🥺🥺

Moment 5

Just JK and his muse... NBD

Moment 6

Just quickly gonna bring this hand hold back 🥺🥺 so darn soft!

Moment 7

Stuck like glue since 2015 (aka spot the couple challenge)

Moment 8

So.... turns out Jimin is used to being punched in his sleep

Just incase anyone needed even more proof that Jikook have always slept together...

Moment 9

Even more proof Jikook watch movies together.

Said movie(anime);

Moment 10

When JK forgets himself and shows us how Jimin really makes him feel 🤭

Damn. If your partner's touch doesn't make you look this blissful you ain't doing it right 😂

Moment 11

JK's first IG photo

Jimin's wallpaper

That day at the beach must have really meant alot to them...

Moment 12

When satellite Jimin ruined the fanchant order 😂😂 (I told y'all he does it too!)

That's so hilarious to me guys, I'm sorry 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Moment 13

I will wrap this post up with an analysis. Y'all know how we love those... Basically in 2018 BTS went on a gate away where they rented this one house. So the sus part is that, ALL members got food poisoning EXCEPT for Jikook.

Basically, one night they roasted this meat but JK couldn't join them to eat coz he had a bad headache. So he turned in. Jimin went to take care of him (naturally) and that's how he also ended up not eating the meat.

But that's not even the best part. The best part was RM saying;

See, Namkook were supposed to be roomates during this mini trip except RM's roomie never showed up 🤭🤭 one guess in which room JK was staying 😜

You can find the entire analysis in depth on this twitter thread here

Jikook and their habit of disappearing. Its so funny the amount of times its always them 2 missing 😂 I love it sm!

Thanks again anon! 💛💜

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The first days of Boss Politics Antitrust

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

"Boss politics" are a feature of corrupt societies. When a society is dominated by self-dealing, corrupt institutions, strongman leaders can seize control by appealing to the public's fury and desperation. Then, the boss can selectively punish corrupt entities that oppose him, and since everyone is corrupt, these will be valid prosecutions.

In other words, it's possible to corruptly enforce the law against the guilty. This is just a matter of enforcement priorities: in a legitimate state, enforcers prioritize the wrongdoers who are harming the public the most. Under boss politics, priority is given to the corrupt entities that challenge the boss's power, without regard to whether these lawbreakers are the worst offenders. Meanwhile, worse wrongdoers walk free, provided that they line up behind the boss.

This is how Xi Jinping prosecuted his purges in the run up to his lifetime appointment as Party Secretary (2012-2015). Xi prosecuted the guilty, but not the most guilty. The public officials who were defenstrated and/or imprisoned during Xi's purges were all corrupt, but they were also the power base of Xi's rivals. Meanwhile, corrupt officials in Xi's own orbit were untouched:

https://web.archive.org/web/20181222163946/https://peterlorentzen.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Lorentzen-Lu-Crackdown-Nov-2018-Posted-Version.pdf

Trump is a classic boss politician – that's what people mean when they call him "transactional": he doesn't act out of principle, he acts out of self interest. The people who give him the most get the most back from him. This means that Biden's brightest legacy – militant antitrust enforcement of a type not seen in generations – is now going to become "boss antitrust," where genuine monopolists are attacked under antitrust law, but only if they oppose Trump:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/12/the-enemy-of-your-enemy/#is-your-enemy

We're now living through the first days of boss antitrust. Remember all those monopolistic tech billionaires who donated millions of dollars to Trump's inauguration and arranged themselves in a decorative semicircle behind him on the dias? Trump just went to Davos to speak up for them, arguing that EU and other offshore prosecutions of these companies were attacks on "American businesses" and saying he would defend them with the full might of the US government (this is the same government that, under Biden, secured multiple convictions against these same companies for monopolistic conduct):

https://gizmodo.com/trump-returns-big-techs-ass-kissing-at-davos-2000554158

The Federal Trade Commission has lost its Biden-era chair, the extraordinary Lina Khan, who did more in four years than all her predecessors did in the preceding forty years, combined. The new chair is Republican Andrew Ferguson, whose first day on the job was a bloodbath, in which he killed off multiple, significant actions aimed at producing real, material benefits from Americans who are being absolutely screwed by corporations:

https://prospect.org/politics/2025-01-24-executive-action-reaction-day-4/

Ferguson killed off a public comment process on "surveillance pricing," where companies spy on you and then reprice their goods based on their estimation of how desperate you are:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/11/socialism-for-the-wealthy/#rugged-individualism-for-the-poor

Uber pioneered this when they started increasing the cost of cab rides for riders whose phone batteries were about to die. But other companies took it way further: McDonald's is co-owner of a company called Plexure that sells companies the ability to charge you more for your normal order at the drive-through if you've just been paid:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

But surveillance pricing is even worse for workers than it is for shoppers. Nurses in the USA increasingly work for Uber-like nurse-on-demand apps like Shiftkey, Carerev and Shiftmed. These apps can buy nurses' financial data from the unregulated data-broker industry, and then offer nurses with overdue credit-card bills lower wages, on the grounds that they're so desperate they'll take a paycut:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/18/loose-flapping-ends/#luigi-has-a-point

Ferguson also killed off a notice-and-comment action on predatory pricing – when companies sell goods below cost in order to destroy competitors, then drive up prices. This is what Uber did, setting $31b of Saudi royal money on fire over 13 years, losing $0.41 on every dollar they brought in. This killed off all the regular taxis, and convinced city governments to abandon public transit investment on the grounds that Uber was cheaper than a bus. Once they'd captured the market, Uber doubled the price of a ride and halved the wages that they paid drivers.

So this is what Ferguson has killed off. In its place, Ferguson has instituted an internal action, aimed at rooting out "DEI" and "wokeness." The agency's top priority right now is running a snitch line where FTC officials can rat each other out for being anti-racist. This isn't just offensive, of course – it's also deeply unserious. Even if you stipulate that "woke" has some meaning (it doesn't, but go with me here), then killing off all the "woke" at the FTC will not make Americans more prosperous, let alone protect them from corporate predators.

In his dissenting statement, FTC Commissioner Alvaro Bedoya didn't mince words:

Andrew Ferguson could have made his first public act as Chairman a motion to study the rising cost of groceries. He could have acted on a pending public petition from a group of wall and ceiling contractors to investigate how lawbreaking contractors can effectively rig contract competitions in the commercial construction industry. He could have moved to investigate a pending public petition from shrimpers from Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama to investigate potentially false and misleading claims about shrimp imports from India that are farmed with forced labor and shot full of antibiotics…

I have met with corn growers and cattlemen in Iowa. I have met with shrimpers in Biloxi. I have met with pharmacists in Knoxville, grocers in Tulsa, and patients and their doctors in Charleston, West Virginia. I met with the men who build Miami’s million-dollar skyscrapers in 110-degree heat.

Let me tell you what they didn’t talk about: “DEI.”

What they do talk about is how powerful companies are skirting or abusing the law to force farmers, workers, and small businessmen to do what they want, when they want, or else. How the government isn’t doing anything about it. And how they’re going broke because of it

But Chairman Ferguson seems uninterested in the challenges that regular human beings face.

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-statement-emergency-motion.pdf

Bedoya is still hanging in there at the FTC; these administrative agency appointments outlast the presidents that made them. It's common for agency heads to step down when there's a changeover – Lina Khan didn't stay – but the commissioners often hang in there. I hope Bedoya stays at the FTC: he's one of the good ones and we're all better off for his presence.

There's one Biden agency head who hasn't left, and surprisingly, it's one of Biden's best appointees: Rohit Chopra, head of the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau. Chopra is the first CFPB head to explore just how much power this new-ish agency has, and has seen his far-reaching, muscular regulations upheld unanimously by the Supreme Court.

Trump's corporate backers hate the CFPB, and Elon Musk really hates the CFBP, and crypto grifters really, really hate the CFPB. Ironically, the demonization of the CFPB seems to be the key to Chopra's enduring tenure. According to David Dayen at The American Prospect, no one in Trumpland wants his job. The Supreme Court ruled in 2020 that presidents can fire CFPB heads, but there's no one who wants to replace Chopra and take their turn in the barrel:

https://prospect.org/economy/2025-01-24-rohit-chopra-still-has-a-job/

Chopra's using his time well: he's brought a flurry of new actions, most lately against the credit bureau giant Transunion. And in the final weeks of the Biden administration, Chopra launched a whole boatload of enforcements, investigations, and other actions against the most predatory companies in America. As Dayen notes, over the past four years, Chopra has forced American rip-off businesses to pay back $6b in stolen loot, and to cough up more than $3.2b in fines.

Replacing Chopra is hard for Trump in part because Trump has imposed a federal hiring freeze. That means that anyone who replaces Chopra has to already be working for the US government, and all the finance grifters are cashing out of the government to go work for giant financial institutions they've been carrying water for while drawing a public salary. Even the people who might take the job can't, because then no one could be hired to do their job – for example, there's a ghoul at the FDIC who'd fit the bill, but if he takes over from Chopra, then the FDIC will have just two members. If the GOP stooge on the FCC quits to take the job, then the Democratic commissioners will have a majority. You love to see it, really.

But – as Dayen points out – they're almost certainly gonna give Chopra the axe eventually. When they do, the CFPB will continue to do some enforcements. It's likely that Ferguson will eventually direct the FTC to do something apart from peering under their beds looking for "woke." When they do take action, they'll probably take action against companies that are wildly, lavishly corrupt. After all, that describes basically all of American big business, a sector that has festered thanks to 40 years of antitrust negligence.

It will be tempting for Trump's opponents to decide that if Trump hates these giant, evil companies, well, then, they must be good. Think of when "progressives" fell in love with the "intelligence community" just because a couple spooks decided they hated Trump. The FBI isn't your friend, folks – this is the agency that tried to blackmail MLK into killing himself:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FBI%E2%80%93King_letter

The enemy of your enemy? Still your enemy, provided that they're a big, predatory monopolist. Boss politics is about punishing corruption – selectively. Trump-style antitrust is going to target a ton of bad businesses. That won't make them good.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

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

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/24/enforcement-priorities/#enemies-lists

[scariusaquarius]

rehab. 2.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

-

A/n: The first chapter was a bit short cause it was a test-run honestly, but I am planning on doing an outline for this story as well. I'm definitely neglecting my previous wips, but i don't have a lot of motivation for them right now. Hopefully, however, I will get to them soon!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

The characters may be ooc, but I did do my best. Please let me know how I did!

-

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

-

Author: ScariusAquarius

-

rehab masterlist. chapter 1.

The ride to Wakanda had been slow and uneventful and tense so far. While Steve had attempted to read the black book that had been beside the soldier's cryostasis pod, his attempts proved unsuccessful.

The whole book was written in Russian, which Steve wasn't versed in at all. So, it had been up to Bucky to look through the book despite his apprehension.

Just like with the red book that came with him, the book within his hands doubled as an instruction manual as well as a history of the soldier that was still sitting rigid behind him; unblinking and unmoving. The book didn't give her a name, which frustrated both Bucky and Steve, but wasn't surprising at all.

HYDRA didn't care for who the person was before they became a tool. All that mattered was who you were to them in the moment, what you could offer, what you did, and if you were valuable enough to keep under their watchful eyes.

To them, the woman was Winter Soldier #08, Subject #2018, which was a peculiar number that stood out to Bucky. Her activation words were different than his as well, as was expected, and he frowned at the words that seemed to take root within his mind and piqued his interest at what the possible connections between them and the soldier were.

Holiday. Cross. Shatter. Stimulation. Integrity. Sport. Axis. Assumption. North. Aurora Borealis.

They were so seemingly random that Bucky's mind was starting to hurt trying to tie together some type of story. While his activation words had an inkling of a connection to his life, these seemed almost benign.

Within the activation section, there were a couple of hastily-scribbled notes that detailed about the soldier's history of resistance and the methods that worked best for such occasions, preferred mission-types, experimentation documentation, and some key accounts of the soldier's missions that were note-worthy to HYDRA.

There was one note that stood out to Bucky, however, that had him on the edge of his seat and growing further uncomfortable as he read.

'NOTE: WS #08 is known to be hostile even after activation. Be prepared to meet resistance with severe punishment (Flagellation, Cattle Prod, and High Frequencies favored). Further reprogramming required to fix flaws.'

It wasn't too entirely unknown for a subject to be resistant. Bucky could recall times where he had resisted in moments where he remembered bits and pieces of his life before HYDRA stripped him of his humanity.

Despite what he had told his therapist and Steve, he still had nightmares about the punishments he received while he was the Winter Soldier.

No amount of time within the Mind Chair could ever erase the recollection of the sick things HYDRA did to him to make him listen and be obedient.

Bucky could still feel the hands on him in the moments his mind forced him to remember: the painful intrusions, the feeling of a whip against his back, fingers digging into his scalp and yanking his hair, voices yelling profanities and insults and sexual degradations as he was beaten, tortured, assaulted; whatever HYDRA wanted in those moments.

Taking a shaky breath, Bucky closed his eyes for a moment before Steve's voice had the arms on his hairs standing; forcing Bucky to jump out of his mind and back into the present as the Captain addressed him.

"Shouldn't be too long now before we arrive. Any luck on our guest?"

Bucky shook his head, murmuring softly as he glanced down at the book again.

"So far, nothing. There's a couple notes that say she's hostile before and after activation and some methods that prove successful in making her obedient, but that's mainly it. She's been involved in a lot of assassinations, espionage, a couple data breaches: the whole nine yards."

Steve pursed his lips, shaking his head as he sat back in his chair, staring down at the ground as he became lost in thought.

"If she's a highly-valued asset, then why did they leave her in the facility? Seems like she was pretty high on the ladder just to be left where she was."

Bucky and Steve slowly shared a look with each other before alarm bells began to go off in Bucky's head, and he spun around in time to catch the Soldier's wrist, a large knife within her hands. Steve looked shocked, grunting as he jumped back, and Bucky gripped their wrist hard.

The soldier glared at him before bringing her knee up, slamming into his stomach and forcing him to fall back into the control panel of the quinjet. Steve jumped into action then, calling desperately as he dodged a kick to the face.

"Please, we don't wish to hurt you-"

"-but we will if we have to."

Bucky seethed, Steve giving him an exasperated look. The woman didn't hesitate, throwing the knife at Steve as hard as they could. Steve ducked, his blue eyes widened as the knife embedded into the glass of the windshield; cracks webbing throughout the ruined blade.

During this moment, the Soldier turned her attention back to Bucky as he charged, throwing punches that she expertly dodged and ducked from, her fists punching hard into his ribs and face as he missed. The hits hurt like hell, his face contorting into pain before he swung with his left arm, hitting her in the side and throwing her into the wall.

The woman let out a grunt as she smacked into the side of the quinjet, and Bucky cursed loudly when she grabbed the strap of a supply crate and hurled it at him. As he flew back into the seat, Steve came rushing at her, throwing his shield and hitting her in the side of her knee once it ricocheted off of the wall.

The soldier yelled out in pain, crumpling slightly, and Steve immediately tackled her to the ground. The two of them smacked hard onto the metal flooring, and she punched Steve as hard as she could, the man letting out a hiss as pain bloomed within his cheek.

In that split second, she bucked her hips, her legs coming up to wrap around Steve's neck and forcefully slammed him onto the ground, his head smacking against the edge of a seat and disorienting him. The soldier was quick to scramble to her feet despite her wounded knee, and Bucky met her with a punch to her gut, making her double over and audibly retch.

He then grabbed her by the back of her neck, swinging her back and then forward into a seat a couple of times, her mask breaking off in the process, and she jumped up, using the wall for leverage as she swung herself onto Bucky's back, wrapping her arm around his neck to begin choking him.

Bucky grit his teeth, snarling as he reached behind him with his left arm, curling his metal fingers around her broken knee and squeezing as hard as he could.

Throughout her cries of pain, he could hear the sickly sound of bones shattering; could feel the way her skin and bones crushed beneath his grip, and Bucky was able to breathe again as her grip became loose.

He swung himself backwards into a wall, smacking her against it over and over until she finally let go of him, falling down onto the floor. Grabbing her wrists, Bucky called over his shoulder as he restrained her.

"You alright, Steve?"

"I'm just peachy."

He dropped down next to Bucky, wrapping electromagnetic cuffs onto her wrists before forcing her up and into a seat. The soldier's head was bowed, the cuffs smacking into the wall and jerking her body slightly, and Steve made sure to secure her legs as well.

Once she was properly restrained, Steve glanced at Bucky, noting the anger that was on his face; his jaw clenched and blood running down his temple. He was panting, his whole entire body tensed, and Steve took a few deep breaths as well before he turned back to the soldier.

"Seems like your bad feeling turned out to be right."

"We never should have done this."

Bucky's words were harsh, his blue eyes glaring at Steve as the man hissed out.

"I told you that there was going to be a problem, and there was. There's no hope for these people. They are programmed to kill and serve HYDRA and that is it."

"Even if there is no hope, we still need to try. We saved you, and we can save others."

Bucky sighed, shaking his head. There wasn't really any use in trying to fight Steve on this. Bucky understood that Steve came from a good place and had good intentions, but Bucky couldn't keep the anxiety and fear from filling him.

What if something happened? What if HYDRA had found him again and this was their plan all along? Bucky turned back to the woman as her head lifted, and both of the men seemed surprised at being able to see her face clearly.

There were horrific scars on the bottom half of her face that had been concealed by the mask; some of them raised and seemingly new while others were faded and old. Her bottom lip was cut, blood trickling down her chin, and her nose seemed to be broken as well.

Her (e/c) eyes were glaring at the two of them, a cut above her brow from Bucky slamming her into the wall, and Bucky looked taken back. Steve walked forward slightly, frowning.

"What is your mission?"

Her eyes flicked to Steve, her lips pursed, and she simply hissed out as menacingly as she could.

"Heil Hydra."

She sat back, and Bucky hissed out, a fire raging within his eyes as he snarled.

"Ответь на вопрос, солдат. Какова ваша миссия?"

There was no response. Instead, the soldier seemed to begin staring in front of them; becoming vacant and frozen again. Bucky huffed in frustration before he turned to Steve, shaking his head.

"If you still want to go through with this, you need to let Shuri and T'Challa know that she's hostile and active."

"I'll let them know. We're only a few minutes out."

Bucky nodded before he sat opposite of the soldier, muttering.

"I'll keep an eye on her."

Steve gave Bucky a weary look, an expression of apprehension and concern on his face, and he wiped away some blood that had trickled out of his nose.

"Alright. Are you okay?"

"Peachy."

Steve pursed his lips slightly before he walked to the front of the quinjet, immediately opening a communications line with T'Challa, and Bucky stared right at the soldier.

Despite the fact that she was looking at him, it seemed that she was mentally somewhere else. Blood was still running down her nose and chin, dripping onto the floor, and Bucky couldn't help but to clench his jaw as the sound of the dripping ripped into his memories.

Cloth over his face, a bright light from above, boiling hot water slowly burning his skin with every drop, he couldn't breathe. he can't breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. Let me breathe. Please. Let me breathe! LET ME BREATHE!

Bucky shook his head furiously, and he only felt bitter and disgusted by the amused look that seemed to flash within the woman's eyes. Clenching his fists, the man simply huffed as he listened to Steve talk with the King, the kingdom of Wakanda coming to view.

-TIMESKIP-

"What on earth would possess you to come to the notion that bringing an active Winter Soldier into my kingdom would be a good idea?"

T'Challa was not happy. As Steve and Bucky stood in front of the king, the Dora Milaje surrounding them with a tight grip on their spears at the information Steve had given T'Challa, the king was frowning deeply while Shuri stood next to him with a curious gaze. Steve looked apologetic while Bucky kept his arms crossed, biting his cheek as Steve spoke, the king glancing at Bucky all-the-while.

"I know this isn't really conventional-"

"-it is unacceptable! What you are asking for is not negotiable!"

Okoye was understandably angry as well, her eyes wide with fury as she took a step forward, and T'Challa hummed to her gently.

"Okoye."

The woman did not relent, simply squinting her gaze as Steve bowed his head in shame. Bucky clenched his jaw slightly, and T'Challa glanced at Steve.

"Your vision is noble, and I respect what you are trying to accomplish...but you are asking me to put my people at risk. It was different for Sergeant Barnes...but this...woman...is still under the complete control of HYDRA's programming."

Steve sighed slightly before he pleaded gently.

"I can watch over her...keep her from hurting anybody if something goes wrong. Stark wasn't willing because he doesn't have the technology to reverse the programming like you do, and Wanda is currently MIA."

T'Challa laughed slightly, shaking his head.

"The world will question where Captain America has gone. You cannot ignore your duties to promise something you cannot be sure that you can keep."

Shuri then piped up, suggesting with a shrug.

"Why not have Sergeant Barnes look after her? He has the most experience, after all."

"Absolutely not."

Bucky frowned deeply, shaking his head.

"I have to agree that this is a bad idea. I know that it was different for me, Steve, but that's the issue: I knew you. I had something to cling to...a name, memories and dreams...this woman is completely unknown."

Steve was beginning to look defeated, and Shuri's voice made everyone turn to her.

"If it makes a difference: I would be interested in working on restoring the woman's previous identity, but only if Sergeant Barnes will stay to watch over the process. My brother is right: The Avengers may be a team, but they need their Captain Colonizer to help in times of need."

"Shuri."

T'Challa's voice was stern, but Shuri and Okoye shared a look of amusement with each other before she hummed at the sight of Bucky's apprehensive expression.

"Your expertise on this matter will be beneficial, Sergeant Barnes. I'm afraid that Mr. Rogers will be of no help except for physical."

T'Challa rubbed his temples slightly, and Shuri offered, glancing at the king.

"If it brings you comfort, then I shall have Okoye and select members of the Dora Milaje to accompany as well. The soldier shall be put into cryostasis at all times except for observations and testing."

Steve looked hopeful, and he pleaded softly, T'Challa staring him down with apprehension.

"You have my full cooperation that if something goes wrong, then I will answer for it. I know that what I am asking for is dangerous, but she was a person too. This woman probably had a whole life before HYDRA took it away...just like they did with Bucky and your father."

Okoye bared her teeth slightly at the mention of the late king, and T'Challa shook his head, humming.

"There is no need to appeal to my sympathy. Shuri has made up her mind, and I have learned long ago that even if I do not agree, she will do what she pleases."

Shuri smirked slightly, joking as she patted his shoulder.

"I'm so glad you understand me."

All the while, Bucky was clenching his fists, hidden beneath his crossed arms. There was no way that this was going to go well, and though there was a part of Bucky that did understand and did agree with what Steve wanted to do, there was another part that understood how incredibly risky this was.

Take it from him: this woman was dangerous, especially since she seemed to still be active on pre-existing orders. It was even riskier given the fact that nobody knew what her orders actually were. Steve glanced over at Bucky as he stared at the ground, and he placed a careful hand on his shoulder.

"Buck, I know I'm asking a lot...but she needs somebody."

"She tried to put a knife through our heads, and you're saying that we owe her?"

Steve frowned, and Bucky couldn't stand to look at him in fear of seeing the disappointment. Feeling under pressure and on-the-spot, Bucky sighed and his shoulders sagged.

"Fine, I'll stay and help, but Steve, if something happens...this one is on you."

Steve looked relieved, and he thanked him quietly, saying as Shuri grinned while Okoye and T'Challa shared a stern look together before Okoye began to whisper to T'Challa quietly.

"I know, and I'm ready to accept that responsibility should it come to that. I just...someone's gotta be looking for her, Bucky."

Bucky just shook his head, muttering.

"We don't know how long HYDRA has had her, so there might not even be anybody to miss her."

"But she deserves a chance to be her own person just like you."

Bucky shared a look with Steve, staring at him for a moment before he groaned.

"I hate it when you do that shit. I already said I would help, I'm just...there's a lot that could go wrong."

Steve countered, nodding his head slightly as he rocked slightly on his heels.

"There's a lot that could go right too."

"Yeah, say that to the killer headache you're gonna have tomorrow."

Steve chuckled slightly, joking.

"Already there, but thanks for the concern."

"Whatever."

Shuri clapped her hands together, saying.

"Well, now that we've got this settled, shall we bring our honored guest into the lab?"

T'Challa hummed, his Black Panther suit appearing as the Dora Milaje immediately stood at the ready as Shuri stood a bit behind T'Challa.

"Be cautious. We don't know know what is going to happen once those doors open."

"No need. She's been completely restrained, there's no way she's gotten out."

Sure enough, when the door to the quinjet opened, the woman was still sitting rigid; staring at the opposite wall. Steve hummed, walking up the steps, and Bucky followed reluctantly.

"Welcome to Wakanda."

Steve said before picking her up by one of her arms, Bucky grabbed a firm hold of the other with his metal arm. With her feet dragging on the ground, it was apparent that she was not going to fight back.

However, that did not stop the Dora Milaje from pointing their spears at her as Steve and Bucky took her inside. As Shuri, T'Challa, and Okoye followed, Shuri voiced to T'Challa gently.

"I will take care in monitoring her behaviors and will let you know the second that I am given any indication that rehabilitation will be unsuccessful."

T'Challa hummed, a slight frown upon his face as he stared at the woman in front of him.

"No need to worry. Should something happen, I am ready to take the necessary steps to ensure the safety of Wakanda."

-

STORY NOTES: While on the way to Wakanda, Bucky and Steve have attempted to identify the woman by reading through the book that was accompanying her cryostasis pod. However, Bucky's efforts are fruitless. Instead, Bucky discovers the activation words associated with the Winter Soldier and other important details about the history of the soldier.

Reflecting on his time as a Winter Soldier, Bucky begins to become increasingly agitated and worried about the situation. Steve makes an observation on the peculiarity of HYDRA leaving behind a highly-regarded asset when the woman begins to engage the two super soldiers in combat.

Despite Bucky and Steve sustaining significant injuries, they are eventually able to subdue the Winter Soldier by Steve breaking her kneecap with his shield and Bucky further crushing it. Although they question the winter soldier, she becomes withdrawn and silent; refusing to answer any questions.

When they arrive to Wakanda, T'Challa, Shuri, and the Dora Milaje are waiting for them. T'Challa is upset by Steve bringing the seemingly-active Winter Soldier to Wakanda, voicing his concerns on her presence while Steve pleads his case.

Shuri makes a suggestion that Bucky should stay to watch over her because Steve has prior obligations to the Avengers. Bucky adamantly refuses, but Steve manages to convince Bucky to stay in Wakanda to not only protect the people, but to be there for the woman should Shuri's methods be successful.

Shuri then suggests to bring the Winter Soldier to her lab, and the two Avengers begin to escort her inside, T'Challa and the Dora Milaje ready to engage should the Winter Soldier try to fight. Shuri reassures T'Challa that she will alert him as soon as she possibly can if something goes wrong, and T'Challa reassures Shuri that if the Winter Soldier escapes and causes harm that he is willing to kill her to ensure the safety of Wakanda. End Scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

Ответь на вопрос, солдат. Какова ваша миссия? - Answer the question, soldier. What is your mission?

TAGLIST: @vicmc624 @tilldeathripsusapart

[gabrielleragusi]

For Artists: My Experience with Commission Platforms and Illustration Agencies

Hi there! I’ve been wanting to compile a list of commission platforms that I’ve personally used for the longest time, and I finally did it! I’ve highlighted the still-active commission platforms in bold and struck those that don't exist anymore so you can jump to the sections that interest you without needing to read my entire story.

Let me start by briefly introducing myself.

I’m Gabrielle, a fantasy illustrator. Since 2014, I’ve been working on book covers and illustrations for publishers, authors, and book subscription boxes. Early on, work wasn’t as frequent as it is now. I had to search for opportunities myself, and even small private commissions were important for building my portfolio and earning some money, which I’d spend on materials, books, and online courses. Like many other artists, I started out by trying my luck with the biggest art community available at the time.

DeviantArt

2009-2018

Once upon a time, there was a virtual haven called DeviantArt. To my teenage self, it was a magical place. I signed up in 2009 and thought I’d never leave!

At first, I created an account just to share my work and learn. I didn’t even think about commissions for four or five years. But when that first inquiry finally landed in my inbox, things took off! My mum swears she remembers my excitement when I got my first commission, but for some reason, I’ve completely forgotten about it. I can't remember what it was or how much it paid. It might have been a portrait of a fantasy character.

Commissions on DeviantArt were fairly frequent, especially considering my cheap prices at the time. I used to offer discounts and post my rates in my DeviantArt journal, or in Commission groups that featured artists either monthly or weekly. After checking out my profile, a client could simply send me a private message and from there, we’d discuss payment, deadlines, and other details, and the platform didn’t take any fees, much like how ArtStation works today. Everything happened through private messages or email, with direct contact between artist and client.

The downside of this process was that there was no dispute resolution system on the platform. I had to handle all issues myself, and unfortunately, problems did arise sometimes: there were clients changing their minds about commissions, asking for refunds after work was delivered, refusing to pay, or just ghosting me. These issues didn’t happen because clients were evil, but rather because I was inexperienced and allowed some to take advantage of my naivety.

However, all that frustration helped me develop my commission process through trial and error (mostly error). And despite the challenges, I can say with satisfaction that most of the commissions I received through my DeviantArt profile were positive experiences.

DeviantArt eventually introduced a commission feature for Core (Premium) users, which came with a platform fee, but I didn’t use it much, and I’m not sure if it still exists.

The real beauty of dA, though, was the connections I made. I was able to meet people, both artists and clients, that I’m still in contact with today, and some of whom I still collaborate with.

I closed my account in 2018 or 2019, but by that time, I hadn’t really used it for a couple of years. The new user interface was a bit of a turn-off for me. I had always loved the geeky, and dare I say cozy, look of the old green and grey aesthetic, with its customisable panels that you could move around and personalise with HTML code... But I digress.

Artists and Clients

2013-2016

While taking small commissions on DeviantArt, I discovered Artists & Clients. It was a nice platform for clients to get things like their D&D characters or groups illustrated for relatively cheap. I think my highest price was $50 for a single character portrait, with the platform taking a 15% cut. I used it for about two or three years before the platform started to change.

As more artists with hentai art styles flooded in, the homepage shifted, and so did the clientele. There’s nothing wrong with drawing naked anime girls, of course, but you can understand that if a client is looking for a fantasy, semi-realistic painting of their female orc character, or a realistic portrait of their spouse, it's more than likely that they won't bother sifting through a sea of anime girls to find the style they want, imagining it isn't here. Let's just say that, at the time, the website took a definite direction that wasn't in line with my genre, but this direction didn't make the different, more realistic art styles stand out either.

Soon, commissions slowed down for me, so I closed my account, but by then I was already working elsewhere.

That said, this platform could still be a useful tool if you’re looking to take on smaller commissions.

DreamUp

2014-2015

DreamUp wasn’t an AI generator back then. It was actually a subsidiary of DeviantArt, where clients could post projects and artists could apply. It was a competitive platform that offered well-paid work–very well-paid. I remember seeing jobs posted that ranged from $300 to $1,200. DreamUp was a very professional platform for clients with a mid to high budget.

I believe I landed my very first book cover commission through this website when I was in my last year of high school. I remember getting the job and going to school the next morning, excited to share the news with my classmates. Everyone was super thrilled for me (we were a really close-knit class!), and I felt like I was walking on air.

Unfortunately, as far as I know, that book was never released, but it didn’t matter because I was moving forward, and fast.

I’m not sure when DreamUp was shut down, but I do know that DeviantArt held onto the copyrighted name, assigning it to something so anti-old DreamUp that it still boggles my mind.

ArtCorgi

Now Artistree

2014-2019

When I received an invitation to join ArtCorgi from its founder, I already had a somewhat consistent portfolio. I was painting portraits and fantasy illustrations, and the clients on this platform were looking for both–your typical wedding and pet portraits, as well as book covers, which were what really interested me. To get to the latter, I had to do the former. Over the years, I’ve painted so many realistic portraits that now I have a strict rule for my own sanity not to do them any more. I have great respect for portrait artists, but it’s just not me.

When I first submitted my prices to the person I was in contact with, she kindly suggested that I raise them... a lot. That was a major step forward in my professional career. I went from charging $50 to $100/$200 overnight. And to my surprise, people actually wanted to commission me at those prices!

From 2014 to 2019, I took nearly every commission that came my way. I never spoke directly with the clients; all instructions and feedback went through my point of contact, which helped maintain a level of professionalism, although now that I’m used to working directly with clients, I’m not sure I’d want to go back to having an intermediary.

Sadly, as with all good things, this chapter came to an end. My point of contact eventually left communication in the hands of someone else, and shortly after, the commission fee changed to, I believe, 30%.

Simply put, 30% is an unrealistic cut for a website like this. For an agent that gets you all kinds of big work in the publishing industry, sure, but since this was not the case I had to stop taking commissions. Despite that, my overall experience with ArtCorgi was very positive.

Today, ArtCorgi joined another platform, Artistree. As far as I can tell, Artistree doesn’t take any fees from artists, with clients covering a small cost instead.

Sketchmob (?)

2016-2020

This was probably the platform I used the most. I’ve lost count of how many commissions I received through Sketchmob. Many. Enough to generate a steady income at the time. With reasonable fees and a variety of art styles available, clients contacted me almost daily. Communication was direct between artists and clients, and payments could be split. The review system also worked very well… for a while.

Once I raised my prices, requests became fewer and farther apart. But by then, I was already working with my own clients.

Is this platform still active? Who knows. The website is still up and the chat feature works, but I’ve seen users complain that money available for withdrawal never arrived via PayPal (the only payment method the platform accepted, if I remember correctly). Personally, I wouldn’t risk completing a job through Sketchmob right now, at least not until they release an update.

If you’ve used the platform recently and successfully received payment within the last six months, please let me know, and I’d be happy to update this section!

Upwork

2017-2019

In 2017, I was determined to break into the book publishing industry. After trying out Fiverr and Freelancer.com with no success (the competition was too fierce for someone just starting out), I decided to give Upwork a shot. The platform looked very professional, and while the process sounded a bit complicated, I wanted to land the interesting projects I saw featured in my category. I really wanted to work with a big client… but big clients didn’t seem to want me, despite having the Rising Talent badge.

In two years of bidding for jobs and submitting proposals, I only landed two projects: a small commission from a private client who actually reached out to me, and another project that I bid on.

Don’t get me wrong, I was ecstatic at the time and truly appreciated every opportunity that came my way. But looking back, I can see why Upwork didn’t work out for me. The platform just wasn’t the right fit for my style and niche, which is fantasy illustration. Graphic design, however, was (and still is) in much higher demand.

The commission process on Upwork wasn’t as simple as on other platforms. For instance, at the time, costs were calculated hourly, which was a challenge for someone like me who prefers working with flat fees (having already calculated my average hours spent on an illustration). From what I’ve seen, this has since changed.

One positive aspect of Upwork is its current 10% cut on what artists earn. I don’t recall if this has changed over the years, but 10% is quite reasonable in my experience. Of course, 0% would be even better, but for a platform as large as Upwork, 10% is fair.

Illustration Agency

2019-2021

By 2019, I had built a solid, consistent portfolio thanks to my personal work and commissions. I had a simple website in place, my Instagram following was growing… I was steadily working toward my goal of illustrating covers for big publishers (which didn't happen until two years ago).

So, when an illustration agency reached out to me one day, I was over the moon. I had always heard that artists were the ones who had to approach agencies, not the other way around.

Well, that should have been my first red flag.

I won’t name this agency because, unfortunately, I have nothing positive to say about it. In fact, the word “nothing” perfectly describes my involvement with them. Nothing came of this barely there experience.

The agency invited me to sign up, not on an exclusive basis, but they assured me they’d get me work. That work never came. Once in a while, I’d receive messages saying they were trying to pitch my portfolio to a French publisher or another client, but... nothing.

Please understand that meanwhile I was already working directly with shops and authors, so I don’t believe my portfolio was the problem. The real issue was something I didn’t realise at the time: some agencies do this. They feature talented artists in their catalogue without having actual clients lined up, just to appear more professional and credible to potential clients. Did this strategy work for them? Maybe. I’ll never know.

In 2021, I politely asked them to remove my portfolio from their website, and that was the end of it.

After that, I never actively sought out an agent again. By the time my portfolio was strong enough to approach a serious agency, I just didn’t need representation anymore.

Hireillo

2019-2022

My experience with Hire an Illustrator, or Hireillo, is mixed. At the time, Hireillo was a platform that hosted artists' portfolios, featured artist-submitted news, provided useful articles, resources, and directories of artists and agents. I joined the site hoping to catch the eye of publishers, but I was mostly contacted by authors and one fellow artist for a graphic novel.

Unfortunately, most inquiries didn’t go beyond the first couple of messages due to budget constraints. I did, however, have fun sharing news about my painting process and projects I landed on my own, which were often featured by the website. Additionally, if I had questions about 'complicated' things like copyright, or just needed advice, I could ask the website’s owner and that was incredibly helpful.

Despite these benefits, I didn’t see any real results, which was a little disappointing. The subscription fee was also... odd, for lack of a better word. $5 per week. In the end I just couldn’t justify the cost, so I stopped using the website altogether.

Reedsy

2019-2022

Finally, we come to the turning point.

I remember stumbling upon Reedsy randomly. It wasn’t very well known at the time, and I think it still isn’t. I was nervous when I submitted my portfolio because their catalogue features the best of the best: designers who’ve created covers for bestsellers, THE bestsellers, people who’ve worked on Stephen King covers, or George R.R. Martin's. Designers, editors, and marketers who are veterans. I didn’t have high hopes for my application. So, I was in shock when it got accepted.

I had an introductory Skype call with a representative from Reedsy, who explained how everything worked. Before the call ended, I remember asking if there was a good chance I’d get work through the platform. The rep laughed and said, “Yes.”

A few weeks in, I understood that laugh.

Reedsy has an overwhelming demand for book covers and commercial projects. For every designer there are many more clients. In peak seasons, I was getting requests almost every day. I’m not exaggerating.

Reedsy transformed my portfolio and my pricing structure. Thanks to the income I earned through the platform, I was finally able not to take everything that came my way but be selective and choose only the projects that really interested me.

The commission process is simple: artists pretty much decide how to split payments, what to include in agreements, and the best part, the most beautiful and helpful feature of all, they can request and adjust deadlines. For someone like me who's terrible with deadlines, this feature was a lifesaver. The admins are also very kind and responsive, available via email or chat.

Unfortunately (this is my last 'unfortunately', I promise), my time on Reedsy came to an end for personal reasons. I’ll explain since it’s no secret.

All my images on Reedsy were watermarked with my signature (my full name), which apparently violated the platform’s rules. Why? Because if a client saw my last name, they could contact me directly and bypass Reedsy, which meant the platform lost potential fees. I’ll admit this did happen a few times, but I had the good sense to redirect the client back to Reedsy.

After three years, an admin finally noticed and asked me to remove my full name from the watermark and any text on my profile. It was a simple and reasonable request, but here’s where the problem started. Profiles on Reedsy are public, and images appear in search engines like Google Images, meaning anyone could download my work and use it without permission. Sure, watermarks can be removed, but uploading my work without one in the first place felt like a bad idea. Btw, not only do I use watermarks, but I also use Glaze to protect my illustrations before sharing them online.

Anyway, for this reason, and also because I couldn’t get over the fact that full names were public at the time, something I won’t get into because, believe me, I tried over email, and my reasons went into the void (now, last names are just initialised, like Gabrielle R. Okay. Sure.), I had to close my account–they would have done it anyway because it was already 'flagged'.

Overall, if you’re willing to overlook the last name conundrum, I can’t recommend Reedsy enough. If you have a killer, solid portfolio and a love for books and editorial projects, go for it!

--------------------------------------------

I hope you'll find this useful! If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask (: Oh, and here's an old article I wrote in 2020, titled:

Tips to freelance illustrators to avoid being screwed over

Who knows, maybe I'll write another 'article' post in four years!

Instagram  - ArtStation - Website - Inprnt - Etsy - TikTok

[coochiequeens]

Ladies don't travel to another country with a man if your legal status is uncertain. If you do hold onto your passport and make sure your ticket isn't a one way.

Exit trafficking: Western Sydney man abandons his wife overseas after she fell out with his mum

Western Sydney man convicted over 'exit trafficking'

He took his wife abroad, but only he had a return ticket 

READ MORE: Human trafficking gang that operated a string of brothels jailed

By PADRAIG COLLINS FOR DAILY MAIL AUSTRALIA

PUBLISHED: 06:40 EDT, 27 June 2024 

A western Sydney man who abandoned his wife overseas after she fell out with his mother has been convicted over what is known as 'exit trafficking'. 

It is a type of modern slavery where women are tricked or coerced into leaving a country, in this case Australia, and prevented from returning.

The 44-year-old man, who lives in Merrylands in Sydney's south-west, took his wife on 'a charity mission' to their home country of Afghanistan in January 2018, police said.

But the man, known as AR to protect his family, only had a return ticket for himself. His wife did not realise that her ticket was one-way to Afghanistan. 

The day after he returned to Australia, AR wrote to the Department of Home Affairs, cancelling the sponsorship of his wife's visa, the Sydney Morning Herald reported.

He did so because his mum didn't like his wife, and it resulted in the woman he had been married to for four years being stranded overseas.

The woman's relatives helped get her back to Australia, where she reported her husband to the police.  

AR's conviction last Friday was the third such exit trafficking conviction in Australia.

He was sentenced to two years jail with 12 months of it to be served in the community on a good behaviour bond.

Human rights activist Helena Hassani said there has been an increase in such oppression of women, often in migrant communities, in Australia.

While there are many cases involving men from Afghan and other migrant communities taking their wives abroad and leaving them there, she said there are also many cases where 'Aussie men marry women from Asia, bring them here, but marry them into servitude, or treat them like sex workers'.

Many women, such as AR's wife, are only in Australia on partner visas, leaving them reliant on their husband's sponsorship to stay in the country.

Some women in these communities are discouraged from using money, getting an education or working outside the home because the men want a 'servant'.

'It's a cultural practice where the less educated women are, the happier men are, because then no one is challenging them, no one is confronting them, and they just live the way they want to live,' Ms Hassani told the publication.

Acting Detective Sergeant Sarah Manning of the Australian Federal Police (AFP) said exit trafficking often goes unreported.

No one has the right to 'cancel' another person's visa, including the visa sponsor,' she said. 

'This type of behaviour is a Commonwealth offence and carries a potential 12-year jail term.'

The first exit-trafficking conviction was in 2021, when a man from Lidcombe in western Sydney threatened to murder a woman unless she boarded a flight to India with her infant child.

The horrific interaction was captured on Sydney Airport's CCTV after the anti-human trafficking group Anti Slavery Australia told the AFP what happened.

Anyone with information about potential modern slavery or trafficking is urged to report it to Australian Federal Police on 131 237.

[featguler]

hii your fics are written so well it’s captivating and beautiful!!

can u write sumn abt attempting to find out if the reader is single or available w kylian :)

heard the risk is drownin' ────── kylian is charging straight in.

♡ ────── pairing : kylian mbappé x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified, but they are described to be smaller than kylian. set in the cannes film festival; reader is a film scholar/film critic and is teaching at a university. reader doesnt have an insta sorry i gotta make this easy for me. kylian is down baaaaad he's also kind of assholeish here but he's also hot so idc. NOT PROOFREAD!! ♡ ────── wordcount : 1,277 ♡ ────── notes : this is such a cute request!! i love him so much, thank you for requesting this 🥺 disclaimer ive never been to cannes but i wish i have. this is a good luck one-shot for france tonight!! title based on risk by gracie abrams ♡ masterlist.

Kylian wants you.

It’s clear to see ever since a friend invited him to her private, directorial debut screening. Filled with pretentious film commentators, Kylian almost questioned his sanity in accepting this seemingly random invitation from a friend he knew from Catholic school over ten years ago.

Almost.

Almost, because you were the lighthouse that helped him navigate the mist that night. During dinner, you seemed oblivious to his superstar status, and initiate the conversation you shared with a fun and lighthearted question about his favorite movie.

“I didn’t know,” you laughed to yourself when he told you he was the Mbappè from 2018’s FIFA World Cup, “Sorry. I guess not everything revolves around films.”

Contrary to others in the revel, you were able to communicate in a way he understands—you didn’t sigh when revealed that he had never seen (heard of, even) a film you mentioned, and you were able to eloquently steer the course of your conversation in a way that is both enjoyable but also challenging for him.

Paired with the way your eyes twinkle under the dim lighting, just like that, he was in love.

And he wants you.

It’s simple for everyone that knows him to see. He repeats your name under his breath—the only thing he learned that night—and shakes his head when he recalls that he cannot find you anywhere.

He wants you. He wants you bad.

He thinks you’re cheeky. When he searches your name up on Google, all that came up were the papers you had written to contribute to multiple visual culture journals and books, or an article of a film you wrote published by a third party website from six months ago. No Instagram account, no Facebook account, no nothing.

Kylian tries asking his agent at least 50,000 times, but it’s not like his agent, or any sports agent for that matter, would have the connection to set him up with someone like you.

And he would ask fucking Clémentine, but she gatekeeps information about you like she is a shepherd clinging on her last dozen sheeps, leaving his messages on read and calls unanswered. Being Kylian Mbappè does not help him at all. Even being her friend does not help him at all.

He guesses that he could send you an email, but what’s attractive about that? He’s desperate, but not desperate in the sense that he would write an email on his iPad and send it to you like some kind of student hoping for a raise in grades. He’s a damn footballer. What he wants to do is take you out on a nice dinner before bringing you back to his house, not ask you to collaborate on an academic paper about film semiotics—or whatever these papers talk about.

And that leads us to today. Let's set the scene. 

The time: the first Saturday of the Cannes Film Festival 2024, first screening of the day; the place: the Cannes Film Festival, Cannes, France; and the characters: Kylian Mbappè Lottin, fucking Clémentine, and you.

Well, he doesn’t know where the fuck Clémentine is, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck where Clémentine is.

Somehow, he ended up finding a spot to sit to your right, and instead of taking in the highly anticipated work of a certain Greek director, Kylian leaned to place his cheek on a closed fist supported by his elbow against the arm rest, occasionally glancing to his left in hopes to get a glimpse of your eyes against the bright screen, testing in every crinkle on your face when a certain scene was shot in a way that amused you.

When will another one of such invaluable opportunities rise?

“So,” As soon as the standing ovation dies down and the theatre lights are turned back on, Kylian turns to you, starting a conversation. “What did you think?”

“Wonderful,” still dazzled, the smile remains etched on your lips. “Unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, I swear.”

“Oh, wow.” he laughs, placing a palm against his mouth for a moment. “And I’m here thinking that you’ve seen more films than the average person.”

“Oh, yeah,” you nod, immediately catching up to his playful tone, “I’ve seen at least five movies.”

Quiet laughter is shared between the two of you, and Kylian feels a familiar, comfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. “So that makes this the sixth movie that you’ve watched?”

“In my entire lifetime, yes,” you giggle.

Kylian bites his lips before rubbing the side of his neck, for a short moment which he hopes you don’t notice the anxiety brewing within him. “Well, this is my first film, actually. So I was really excited to watch it.”

“Five more to go,” you notice everyone else beginning to stand up, patiently waiting for their turn to escape from their row and exit the theatre. “Then maybe you’ll have half the experience I do.”

The tone of your reply draws out another laugh from him.

Damn.

All he does is laugh when you are around. You must be the funniest person he’s ever met.

“So,” Kylian clears his throat when you stand, following your suit. “What’s your plan after this?”

“Clémentine and I are thinking of sharing a pizza down the street for lunch before returning for the 2 PM showing,” you shake the watch around your wrist before looking back at him with a dazzling smile. “What about you?”

“Clémentine?” Kylian muses, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of you. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

“What’s with that face?” You begin walking behind the person before you, still somewhat facing him. “I’m sure. You must be busy.”

“Eh, it’s all just show. I got nothing to do most of the times,” he raises his shoulders with a grin. “Well, what’s after the 2 PM screening?”

“I’ve got papers to grade,” you sigh, feeling a slight chill when the summer breeze brushes over your skin the moment you both step outside the studio. You squint your eyes at the sun, turning to him. “Wish I could stay around longer, but I’ve got responsibilities.”

Kylian tilts his head, still smiling at you. “Yeah? I was actually thinking that I can take you out for dinner tonight.”

You blink, and turns your body so that you were fully facing him—only then do you realize how big he looks: his broad shoulders, the shape of his chest pressed under his thin shirt.

“Oh,” you stammer, taking a step back once you noticed how close you two are standing to each other. “I– uh, you know—”

“Responsibilities?” He asks with a light chuckle. “That’s fine. Another night?”

Kylian watches your pupils dilate, shifting to every single thing around you except for him, avoiding eye contact at all cost. “That’s very kind of you, it’s just—”

Then, it clicked on him.

“Oh,” he says with a furrow of his eyebrows, lips pressing into a frown. “Boyfriend?”

You clear your throat, and the nod you give him is timid, but it is a nod.

Kylian takes a deep breath, burying both his hands in his pockets, for a moment staring off into the distance, before turning back to you with a gentle smile.

“Then,” he closes the gap to you with a step, looking around for a moment, before leaning in to whisper in your ear. “When you break up with him, let me know. I’d love to take you out for dinner.”

And casually, he straightens his back.

“I’ll see you around,” he laughs softly with a wink, raising his hand to wave at you as he walks away.

[disabled-dragoon]

The Disability Library

I love books, I love literature, and I love this blog, but it's only been recently that I've really been given the option to explore disabled literature, and I hate that. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be able to read about characters like me, and now as an adult, all I want is to be able to read a book that takes us seriously.

And so, friends, Romans, countrymen, I present, a special disability and chronic illness booklist, compiled by myself and through the contributions of wonderful members from this site!

As always, if there are any at all that you want me to add, please just say. I'm always looking for more!

Edit 20/10/2023: You can now suggest books using the google form at the bottom!

Updated: 31/08/2023

Articles and Chapters

The Drifting Language of Architectural Accessibility in Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris, Essaka Joshua, 2012

Early Modern Literature and Disability Studies, Allison P. Hobgood, David Houston Wood, 2017

How Do You Develop Whole Object Relations as an Adult?, Elinor Greenburg, 2019

Making Do with What You Don't Have: Disabled Black Motherhood in Octavia E. Butler's Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents, Anna Hinton, 2018

Necropolitics, Achille Mbeme, 2003 OR Necropolitics, Achille Mbeme, 2019

Wasted Lives: Modernity and Its Outcasts, Zygmunt Bauman, 2004

Witchcraft and deformity in early modern English Literature, Scott Eaton, 2020

Books

Fiction:

Misc:

10 Things I Can See From Here, Carrie Mac

A-F:

A Curse So Dark and Lonely, (Series), Brigid Kemmerer

Akata Witch, (Series), Nnedi Okorafor

A Mango-Shaped Space, Wendy Mass

Ancillary Justice, (Series), Ann Leckie

An Unkindness of Ghosts, Rivers Solomon

An Unseen Attraction, (Series), K. J. Charles

A Shot in the Dark, Victoria Lee

A Snicker of Magic, Natalie Lloyd

A Song of Ice and Fire, (series), George R. R. Martin

A Spindle Splintered, (Series), Alix E. Harrow

A Time to Dance, Padma Venkatraman

Bath Haus, P. J. Vernon

Beasts of Prey, (Series), Ayana Gray

The Bedlam Stacks, (Series), Natasha Pulley

Black Bird, Blue Road, Sofiya Pasternack

Black Sun, (Series), Rebecca Roanhorse

Blood Price, (Series), Tanya Huff

Borderline, (Series), Mishell Baker

Breath, Donna Jo Napoli

The Broken Kingdoms, (Series), N.K. Jemisin

Brute, Kim Fielding

Cafe con Lychee, Emery Lee

Carry the Ocean, (Series), Heidi Cullinan

Challenger Deep, Neal Shusterman

Cinder, (Series), Marissa Meyer

Clean, Amy Reed

Connection Error, (Series), Annabeth Albert

Cosima Unfortunate Steals A Star, Laura Noakes

Crazy, Benjamin Lebert

Crooked Kingdom, (Series), Leigh Bardugo

Daniel Cabot Puts Down Roots, (Series), Cat Sebastian

Daniel, Deconstructed, James Ramos

Dead in the Garden, (Series), Dahlia Donovan

Dear Fang, With Love, Rufi Thorpe

Deathless Divide, (Series), Justina Ireland

The Degenerates, J. Albert Mann

The Doctor's Discretion, E.E. Ottoman

Earth Girl, (Series), Janet Edwards

Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead, Emily R. Austin

The Extraordinaries, (Series), T. J. Klune

The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict, (Series), Trenton Lee Stewart

Fight + Flight, Jules Machias

The Final Girl Support Group, Grady Hendrix

Finding My Voice, (Series), Aoife Dooley

The First Thing About You, Chaz Hayden

Follow My Leader, James B. Garfield

Forever Is Now, Mariama J. Lockington

Fortune Favours the Dead, (Series), Stephen Spotswood

Fresh, Margot Wood

H-0:

Harmony, London Price

Harrow the Ninth, (series), Tamsyn Muir

Hench, (Series), Natalia Zina Walschots

Highly Illogical Behaviour, John Corey Whaley

Honey Girl, Morgan Rogers

How to Become a Planet, Nicole Melleby

How to Bite Your Neighbor and Win a Wager, (Series), D. N. Bryn

How to Sell Your Blood & Fall in Love, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites, Joy Demorra

I Am Not Alone, Francisco X. Stork

The Immeasurable Depth of You, Maria Ingrande Mora

In the Ring, Sierra Isley

Into The Drowning Deep, (Series), Mira Grant

Iron Widow, (Series), Xiran Jay Zhao

Izzy at the End of the World, K. A. Reynolds

Jodie's Journey, Colin Thiele

Just by Looking at Him, Ryan O'Connell

Kissing Doorknobs, Terry Spencer Hesser

Lakelore, Anna-Marie McLemore

Learning Curves, (Series), Ceillie Simkiss

Let's Call It a Doomsday, Katie Henry

The Library of the Dead, (Series), TL Huchu

The Lion Hunter, (Series), Elizabeth Wein

Lirael, (Series), Garth Nix

Long Macchiatos and Monsters, Alison Evans

Love from A to Z, (Series), S.K. Ali

Lycanthropy and Other Chronic Illnesses, Kristen O'Neal

Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro

The Never Tilting World, (Series), Rin Chupeco

The No-Girlfriend Rule, Christen Randall

Nona the Ninth, (series), Tamsyn Muir

Noor, Nnedi Okorafor

Odder Still, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Once Stolen, (Series), D. N. Bryn

One For All, Lillie Lainoff

On the Edge of Gone, Corinne Duyvis

Origami Striptease, Peggy Munson

Our Bloody Pearl, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Out of My Mind, Sharon M. Draper

P-T:

Parable of the Sower, (Series), Octavia E. Butler

Parable of the Talents, (Series), Octavia E. Butler

Percy Jackson & the Olympians, (series), Rick Riordan

Pomegranate, Helen Elaine Lee

The Prey of Gods, Nicky Drayden

The Pursuit Of..., (Series), Courtney Milan

The Queen's Thief, (Series), Megan Whalen Turner

The Quiet and the Loud, Helena Fox

The Raging Quiet, Sheryl Jordan

The Reanimator's Heart, (Series), Kara Jorgensen

The Remaking of Corbin Wale, Joan Parrish

Roll with It, (Series), Jamie Sumner

Russian Doll, (Series), Cristelle Comby

The Second Mango, (Series), Shira Glassman

Scar of the Bamboo Leaf, Sieni A.M

Shaman, (Series), Noah Gordon

Sick Kids in Love, Hannah Moskowitz

The Silent Boy, Lois Lowry

Six of Crows, (Series) Leigh Bardugo

Sizzle Reel, Carlyn Greenwald

The Spare Man, Mary Robinette Kowal

The Stagsblood Prince, (Series), Gideon E. Wood

Stake Sauce, Arc 1: The Secret Ingredient is Love. No, Really, (Series), RoAnna Sylver

Stars in Your Eyes, Kacen Callender [Expected release: Oct 2023]

The Storm Runner, (Series), J. C. Cervantes

Stronger Still, (Series), D. N. Bryn

Sweetblood, Pete Hautman

Tarnished Are the Stars, Rosiee Thor

The Theft of Sunlight, (Series), Intisar Khanani

Throwaway Girls, Andrea Contos

Top Ten, Katie Cotugno

Torch, Lyn Miller-Lachmann

Treasure, Rebekah Weatherspoon

Turtles All the Way Down, John Green

U-Z:

Unlicensed Delivery, Will Soulsby-McCreath Expected release October 2023

Verona Comics, Jennifer Dugan

Vorkosigan Saga, (Series), Lois McMaster Bujold

We Are the Ants, (Series), Shaun David Hutchinson

The Weight of Our Sky, Hanna Alkaf

Whip, Stir and Serve, Caitlyn Frost and Henry Drake

The Whispering Dark, Kelly Andrew

Wicked Sweet, Chelsea M. Cameron

Wonder, (Series), R. J. Palacio

Wrong to Need You, (Series), Alisha Rai

Ziggy, Stardust and Me, James Brandon

Graphic Novels:

A Quick & Easy Guide to Sex & Disability, (Non-Fiction), A. Andrews

Constellations, Kate Glasheen

Dancing After TEN: a graphic memoir, (memoir) (Non-Fiction), Vivian Chong, Georgia Webber

Everything Is an Emergency: An OCD Story in Words Pictures, (memoir) (Non-Fiction), Jason Adam Katzenstein

Frankie's World: A Graphic Novel, (Series), Aoife Dooley

The Golden Hour, Niki Smith

Nimona, N. D. Stevenson

The Third Person, (memoir) (Non-Fiction), Emma Grove

Magazines and Anthologies:

Artificial Divide, (Anthology), Robert Kingett, Randy Lacey

Beneath Ceaseless Skies #175: Grandmother-nai-Leylit's Cloth of Winds, (Article), R. B. Lemburg

Defying Doomsday, (Anthology), edited by Tsana Dolichva and Holly Kench

Josee, the Tiger and the Fish, (short story) (anthology), Seiko Tanabe

Nothing Without Us, edited by Cait Gordon and Talia C. Johnson

Nothing Without Us Too, edited by Cait Gordon and Talia C. Johnson

Unbroken: 13 Stories Starring Disabled Teens, (Anthology), edited by Marieke Nijkamp

Uncanny #24: Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction, (Anthology), edited by: Elsa Sjunneson-Henry, Dominik Parisien et al.

Uncanny #30: Disabled People Destroy Fantasy, (Anthology), edited by: Nicolette Barischoff, Lisa M. Bradley, Katharine Duckett

We Shall Be Monsters, edited by Derek Newman-Stille

Manga:

Perfect World, (Series), Rie Aruga

The Sky is Blue with a Single Cloud, (Short Stories), Kuniko Tsurita

Non-Fiction:

Academic Ableism: Disability and Higher Education, Jay Timothy Dolmage

A Disability History of the United States, Kim E, Nielsen

The Architecture of Disability: Buildings, Cities, and Landscapes beyond Access, David Gissen

Being Seen: One Deafblind Woman's Fight to End Ableism, Elsa Sjunneson

Black Disability Politics, Sami Schalk

Borderline, Narcissistic, and Schizoid Adaptations: The Pursuit of Love, Admiration, and Safety, Dr. Elinor Greenburg

Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure, Eli Clare

The Cambridge Companion to Literature and Disability, Barker, Clare and Stuart Murray, editors.

The Capacity Contract: Intellectual Disability and the Question of Citizenship, Stacy Clifford Simplican

Capitalism and Disability, Martha Russel

Care work: Dreaming Disability Justice, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Catatonia, Shutdown and Breakdown in Autism: A Psycho-Ecological Approach, Dr Amitta Shah

The Collected Schizophrenias: Essays, Esme Weijun Wang

Crip Kinship, Shayda Kafai

Crip Up the Kitchen: Tools, Tips and Recipes for the Disabled Cook, Jules Sherred

Culture – Theory – Disability: Encounters between Disability Studies and Cultural Studies, Anne Waldschmidt, Hanjo Berressem, Moritz Ingwersen

Decarcerating Disability: Deinstitutionalization and Prison Abolition, Liat Ben-Moshe

Demystifying Disability: What to Know, What to Say, and How to Be an Ally, Emily Ladau

Dirty River: A Queer Femme of Color Dreaming Her Way Home, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Disability Pride: Dispatches from a Post-ADA World, Ben Mattlin

Disability Visibility: First-Person Stories From the Twenty-First Century, Alice Wong

Disfigured: On Fairy Tales, Disability and Making Space, Amanda Leduc

Every Cripple a Superhero, Christoph Keller

Exile and Pride: Disability, Queerness and Liberation, Eli Clare

Feminist Queer Crip, Alison Kafer

The Future Is Disabled: Prophecies, Love Notes, and Mourning Songs, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Growing Up Disabled in Australia, Carly Findlay

It's Just Nerves: Notes on a Disability, Kelly Davio

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot

Language Deprivation & Deaf Mental Health, Neil S. Glickman, Wyatte C. Hall

The Minority Body: A Theory of Disability, Elizabeth Barnes

My Body and Other Crumbling Empires: Lessons for Healing in a World That Is Sick, Lyndsey Medford

No Right to Be Idle: The Invention of Disability, 1840s-1930s, Sarah F. Rose

Nothing About Us Without Us: Disability Oppression and Empowerment, James I. Charlton

The Pedagogy of Pathologization Dis/abled Girls of Color in the School-prison Nexus, Subini Ancy Annamma

Physical Disability in British Romantic Literature, Essaka Joshua

QDA: A Queer Disability Anthology, Raymond Luczak, Editor.

The Right to Maim: Debility, Capacity, Disability, Jasbir K. Puar

Sitting Pretty, (memoir), Rebecca Taussig

Sounds Like Home: Growing Up Black & Deaf in the South, Mary Herring Wright

Surviving and Thriving with an Invisible Chronic Illness: How to Stay Sane and Live One Step Ahead of Your Symptoms, Ilana Jacqueline

The Things We Don't Say: An Anthology of Chronic Illness Truths, Julie Morgenlender

Uncanny Bodies: Superhero Comics and Disability, Scott T. Smith, José Alaniz 

Uncomfortable Labels: My Life as a Gay Autistic Trans Woman, (memoir), Laura Kate Dale

Unmasking Autism, Devon Price

The War on Disabled People: Capitalism, Welfare and the Making of a Human Catastrophe, Ellen Clifford

We've Got This: Essays by Disabled Parents, Eliza Hull

Year of the Tiger: An Activist's Life, (memoir) (essays) Alice Wong

Picture Books:

A Day With No Words, Tiffany Hammond, Kate Cosgrove-

A Friend for Henry, Jenn Bailey, Mika Song

Ali and the Sea Stars, Ali Stroker, Gillian Reid

All Are Welcome, Alexandra Penfold, Suzanne Kaufman

All the Way to the Top, Annette Bay Pimentel, Jennifer Keelan-Chaffins, Nabi Ali

Can Bears Ski?, Raymond Antrobus, Polly Dunbar

Different -- A Great Thing to Be!, Heather Alvis, Sarah Mensinga

Everyone Belongs, Heather Alvis, Sarah Mensinga

I Talk Like a River, Jordan Scott, Sydney Smith

Jubilee: The First Therapy Horse and an Olympic Dream, K. T. Johnson, Anabella Ortiz

Just Ask!, Sonia Sotomayor, Rafael López

Kami and the Yaks, Andrea Stenn Stryer, Bert Dodson

My Three Best Friends and Me, Zulay, Cari Best, Vanessa Brantley-Newton

Rescue & Jessica: A Life-Changing Friendship, Jessica Kensky, Patrick Downes, Scott Magoon

Sam's Super Seats, Keah Brown, Sharee Miller

Small Knight and the Anxiety Monster, Manka Kasha

We Move Together, Kelly Fritsch, Anne McGuire, Eduardo Trejos

We're Different, We're the Same, and We're All Wonderful!, Bobbi Jane Kates, Joe Mathieu

What Happened to You?, James Catchpole, Karen George

The World Needs More Purple People, Kristen Bell, Benjamin Hart, Daniel Wiseman

You Are Enough: A Book About Inclusion, Margaret O'Hair, Sofia Sanchez, Sofia Cardoso

You Are Loved: A Book About Families, Margaret O'Hair, Sofia Sanchez, Sofia Cardoso

The You Kind of Kind, Nina West, Hayden Evans

Zoom!, Robert Munsch, Michael Martchenko

Plays:

Peeling, Kate O'Reilly

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With an extra special thank you to @parafoxicalk @craftybookworms @lunod @galaxyaroace @shub-s @trans-axolotl @suspicious-whumping-egg @ya-world-challenge @fictionalgirlsworld @rubyjewelqueen @some-weird-queer-writer @jacensolodjo @cherry-sys @dralthon @thebibliosphere @brynwrites @aj-grimoire @shade-and-sun @ceanothusspinosus @edhelwen1 @waltzofthewifi @spiderleggedhorse @sleepneverheardofher @highladyluck @oftheides @thecouragetobekind @nopoodles @lupadracolis @elusivemellifluence @creativiteaa @moonflowero1 @the-bi-library @chronically-chaotic-cryptid for your absolutely fantastic contributions!

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