#and be sure people know it. exists. and will be back

[anendoandfriendo]

Maybe this is a little bit harsh but tbh if the parents aren't able to comprehend "my child is a different person than me, and therefore will connect differently; sometimes this will be similar and sometimes this will be vastly different, just like anyone else" they are not only ableist, but likely also ageist and bad parents lol.

They should maybe "think" differently before they start complaining and whining, that's how you get neurodivergent adults like us who will shoehorn those parents right back the same way they're trying to do to their kids, and do everything within our power as a neurodivergent collective to be as visibly and extremely in-your-face "fuck your feelings" offensive to their sensibilities as possible.

We get OP's point but also, maybe the solution is in fact sometimes to get on the level of the neurodivergent person(s) and you shouldn't have to be fucking explained this to do that, which is why parents like this are bad parents and not mistaken parents to us.

Hey neurodivergent kids (and adults) you're allowed to do things differently. But you're ALSO allowed to be angry and unappealing. Be a fucking terror to those kinds of assholes if you need to. Give 'em the kind of shit they gave you. If the idea of reparenting is bullshit because it means "be the person you needed at 13" and you say no — you should be the person you need RIGHT NOW — that is also a very legitimate means to advocating for yourself&.

So. Yes. If you need to hear it. They WERE bad parents. They ARE bad parents. They ARE shitty fucking people and if they learn to ever grow they can do it away from you. You do NOT need to forgive them. They don't even need to be your parents just because they were also the incubators that birthed you. You CAN tell them the fuck off and call them out on their bullshit, and they can either take it or you can/will find a way to make sure everyone knows about their horrid despicable behavior.

And, as we have said before, empathy and the thepry of mind don't actually exist as far as we are concerned: it's all glorified selves-projection. It's all fake! It's an excuse to allow ableism and the abuse of neurodivergent children!!

OP's view is valid but it's also a very. Popularized. Point of view. And sometimes we do not need to hear more about compassion or empathy, we need permission to fucking bite someone. Which is why we are adding this. Being nice to people is not going to make others nicer if those people want to kill you or beat your identity out of existence or keep you silent/complacent.

I have a lot of neurodivergent kids in my family. And I’ve worked with a lot professionally. And I often see their parents think the kids don’t want to connect, when they would love to — they just want to do it differently.

If they don’t like jokes and teasing, they might like silly noises or yes-and improv.

If they don’t like playing a competitive or narrative game with toys, they might like to take apart a toy, or sort/stack/line toys up, or get buried under toys.

If they don’t like biking or walking a trail in the woods ‘properly,’ they might like to walk along fallen logs, stand in the creek or look under rocks and leaves for creatures.

If they don’t like hugs and cuddles, they might like to bump shoulders, touch fingers, hand hug, spin around together, or (if they like more intense input) wrestle, push faces together, squeeze each other hard or run into you.

If they don’t like putting on kids’ music in the car or to dance to, they might want to listen to a game or show soundtrack, nature noises, a podcast, binaural beats, house music or metal.

If they don’t like animated movies where sad or scary things happen, they might like younger kids’ gentler shows, or adults’ science and history shows, or live zoo and nature cams.

And so many of them would benefit so much from the adults just slowing down. Not scheduling so much in the day, not rushing them through an activity, not stopping them playing the same song or watching the same bug for an hour, letting them absorb everything their way. Seeing it as a meditation instead of a problem. Joining them there.

And if you were one of those kids being rushed and scolded, trying to make yourself like teasing or competition or intense movies or a full social schedule — I’ve been reparenting myself and you can too. Whenever you notice something isn’t giving you joy — you can do it differently. Not everyone is forcing themselves through things they hate for “fun,” and we don’t have to.

[identitty-dickruption]

when abled people talk about employability + disability I don't think they entirely understand the domino effect of unemployment/underemployment that can happen in a disabled person's life

the kinds of jobs that are considered 'unskilled' or 'entry level' are inaccessible for various reasons (e.g. involve having to stand up for long periods of time)

the time in your life when many people are expected to start working these entry level jobs is while you're still in school. the sheer exhaustion of school means that even when those jobs aren't completely inaccessible, many disabled people simply do not have the energy to do them

without any work experience, it's very hard to get work. the kinds of jobs that tend to have more accessible workplaces are either not entry-level or require a certain level of education to enter them. also without having gone through a hiring process before, it's very hard to even know what to expect from a job, which only creates additional barriers

even if you do have work experience, being disabled is not really taken as a valid reason to have gaps in your resume, which means you immediately look like a suspicious/risky hire to a HR department

disabled people, once we do have jobs, are more likely to be underemployed than abled people, meaning that we have fewer opportunities to demonstrate our skills in the workplace, and are less likely to be able to accumulate a back catalogue of good references to take with us in the 'getting a new job' mission. this itself keeps us underemployed

NOT to mention the fact that the exact same process can happen with respect to education (the being in special ed -> being able to go to university pipeline is basically non-existent. and if it is there, it is very hard to navigate). I'm not sure yet another 'employable skills program' can get us out of this one, chief

[sunderwight]

Contemplating an AU where Shen Yuan isn't actually as unhinged as he might seem, because Systems and Transmigration are not just common fictional tropes in his world but actually like. Established things that happen.

Everyone knows that there are fictional worlds that end up existing as different realities. Chicken-or-the-egg style debates are rampant and academia and religious circles, as no one can quite agree on whether there are cosmic forces that are creating worlds based on fiction or if there are some psychic currents that influence sensitive creative types to perceive other worlds or what, but it's known to happen.

Systems are also not-infrequently encountered phenomenon. Like demons or other supernatural concepts. Sometimes in life you just encounter a scenario where a semi-technological themed spiritual parasite will latch itself onto you as part of a process to ensure the regulation of some world or part of a world or something. Again, lots of debate and attempts to figure out what is really going on are ongoing in Shen Yuan's world.

Transmigration has also been documented. Souls are confirmed to exist and it's known that dying makes you extra susceptible to the influence of various Systems and the possibility of moving between worlds. Lots of people have, over the course of history, done this and then come back to their original world and reported on it. Experiments of varying degrees of ethical dubiousness have been conducted before eventually being banned in the name of not killing people to try and figure out interdimensional travel.

One of the reasons why Shen Yuan gets so pissy at Airplane's hack writing is because he's gone to university and studied transmigration and interdimensional physics, and he's firmly in the camp that thinks that some kind of scarcely-documented cosmic force is creating worlds based on fiction. Sure, the odds of any given fictional world becoming an alternate reality are very small, and extremely dependent on a number of factors that can be difficult to deliberately invoke, but by Shen Yuan's calculations there's kind of a perfect storm of what factors he theorizes are relevant and that makes Airplane's hack writing the height of irresponsibility. Stop putting that poor protagonist through this shit! He doesn't deserve it! You're playing with fire!

Anyway, Shen Yuan's school of thought is not the widest nor the most respected, so in addition to his art critiques he's laughed off as a quack.

For his own part, Airplane has also studied interdimensional physics and he's confident that his writing is way too unstable to ever be Substantiated. But just in case he throws in a few token protections against that kind of thing.

Peerless Cucumber: those "protections" are just superstitions! they don't actually work! there are more than seventeen documented cases of Substantiation that contradict all of them, and even more that contradict each individually! making the curtains blue does nothing!

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky: chill out bro, you wouldn't want to give yourself a coronary and wake up as Luo Binghe. how would he fuck you then?

[ao3commentoftheday]

I don’t seem to know how to write fic without being mean to the characters. There was a time when I could write fluff, non-angsty slice-of-life, and so on, but now I don’t seem to be able to tell a story without SOMETHING that hurts them.

I’ve had a lot of mental health issues in the intervening years, which I’m sure is related to the why, but doesn’t answer the what or how. It’s a problem because it’s led to me no longer being able to show my partners hardly any of my writing (a lot of dead doves hanging about, which isn’t something they can really stomach). It bothers me that I can’t share my creativity with people I care about.

Do you have any tips for lightening up, or where to find nice wholesome ideas that might spark some joy?

I don’t want to stop writing fucked-up stuff entirely, I just want to find my “nice voice” again.

*hugs* I get it, anon. Sometimes the things that we want to write aren't things we want to share - or at least, not with certain people.

I think a good first step to branching out from your current writing focus is considering what it is about this type of story that's appealing to you right now.

Do you want to make someone else experience a kind of pain or suffering that you've suffered? Pain is a lot easier to manage when you aren't doing it alone.

Do you want to feel a sense of control over someone else's fate? This can be a big comfort when you either didn't have control of your own or you feel as if control is currently slipping out of your grasp.

Do you want the catharsis of seeing someone survive the impossible? It can be extremely satisfying to watch someone claw their way out of the worst situation you can imagine. They get to be the hero in the end. They get to survive.

Do you want to feel a different kind of catharsis? Like the release of emotion that comes with a character's death? Whether they find peace in that moment or whether it's also a torment, it's still a release in the end.

These are just a handful of reasons why you might be writing these kinds of stories right now, and I'm glad you don't want to stop. They are important to you, and even if your partners don't have the same interest that's okay.

You might still be able to share your existing stories if you give your partners a version with the particularly dead doves removed and replaced with a summary, like [Character is tortured until they reveal the secret location. They are left beaten and barely alive.] Then they can pick the story back up after that point.

Of course, if you're writing shorter works then that might not be possible. One way to get back to "nicer" stories that are also on the shorter side could be to write hurt/comfort. You could still get some of what you need by hurting the characters, but then your partners would get the wholesomeness you're looking for when another character takes care of the one you've hurt.

I'll leave it here for now and open it up to ideas from the blog. I know how tough it can be when you want to share something you love with someone you love, and I hope we can get you back to being able to do that.

[behold-the-griffin]

The main problem was this:

When people began to get trapped in the game, nobody ever expected to be able to get them out.

Of course, it didn’t start out like that. It was less about the game itself, and more about the technology. Some bland fantasy-flavored MMORPG was nothing new, but the ability to fully immerse yourself in the game? To bleed and cut and fight and feel? That was a novelty.

Both sides of the media called “the Matrix waiting to happen.” And when people started becoming more difficult to wake from their gaming session, tensions rose. The company behind it started a hotline for people to call and have them boot their loved ones out forcibly. Sure, it resulted in some grogginess, some false memories, one unfortunate incident with a pocketknife, but everything was still under control.

And then one day, it didn’t work. Seventeen-year-old Damon Pycton of Somewhere, Illinois, was booted from the game and didn’t wake up. His profile buffered, flickered, and popped right back on.

(Somewhere in Cordelestra, a mage sat down, suddenly dizzy.)

There was immediate panic. Hospitals were overwhelmed with comatose people suddenly needing what could be long-term care. Self-proclaimed “hackers” would go into the game itself, only to be unable to resurface. It became the digital equivalent of a prehistoric tar pit, with the still-breathing bodies left behind as the fossils.

Some called for the company to be dismantled and the servers shut down. But no one wanted to risk the possibility that shutting down the servers would mean that the estimated 1.2 million people worldwide would cease any and all brain activity.

So they waited. And searched for a solution. For seven years, the world held its breath.

With the crackling fizz of a shield spell slamming into existence, it exhaled.

Twenty-five-year-old Damon Pythian of Fridalshire, accomplished Archmage, graduate of the Torchwood School of Magic, husband of Myra Frostbane of Pennonite, proud father of a fantastic four-month-old baby girl, casted a shield over he and his wife’s marriage bed on instinct.

Those instincts were right. The sheets on the bed were cold and stiff, his muscles cramped, the lights far too bright. The masked humanoids around him gasped and stumbled back from the comforting blue light of the shield.

Crouched on the bed, Damon didn’t even bother to take his eyes off of the creatures around him while he removed the annoying little tubes (IVs, a long-dormant part of his brain supplied) from his arms.

”Damon, you’re safe,” one of the humanoids said, voice shaking slightly. “Do you know where you are?”

They knew his name. Shit.

”Where,” he said, pouring power into each of his words, “are my wife and daughter?”

”I think it’s false memories,” said one of them to another. The second one looked terrified of him, familiar green eyes wide and shiny.

Distantly, he hears a third mutter “Then what the fuck is the blue light?” but that doesn’t matter. He knows those eyes.

His daughter has them.

Damon has them.

The shield drops with a whisper.

“Mom?”

You've been "trapped" in a "VR" game for years, learnt magic, had a family, etc. But now they've "rescued" you from it all. Waking up on the hospital bed you reflexively cast a shield. Which works.

[menlove]

Hello! I saw your post about how you deeply believe that John and Paul had sex frequently, and honestly I'm on the fence on whether or not I believe that they did. I was wondering if there were any particular reasons as to why you believe this or if it was just a feeling lol.

there's fsdfasdadf a lot To Me that convinces me but i'm not sure how solid it is so i'd say it's Mostly a feeling/vibe but i'll work through my reasoning under the cut (separated into The Vibes and then actual shit they've said/done that makes me go uh. hm.)

disclaimer: obviously i can't know if they fucked. at the end of the day it truly does not have any impact on my life if they did or not. this is also solely getting into whether or not they fucked, not the rest of the crazy shit they had going on bc that would genuinely take a 1000 page novel. i'm also not getting into proof about either one of them having gay sex bc if we take them both at face value that answer is a resounding "no" and this isn't about proving their queerness

i will say first of all we know for a fact they jerked off together & had sex in the same bed so i'm gonna go ahead and count that as sex bc it's 2025 and queer people have made leaps and bounds away from considering penetrative sex the only kind of sex that exists. but i don't think they would've considered either of those things sex. but in my view? that was sex. does also mean they've had sex with the other quarrymen though #happypride

vibes

first of for me is their personalities/circumstances. i mean it's obviously all very nuanced and i never knew them so there's aspects to their personalities that we obviously aren't privy to. but they were both very sexual people with incredibly loose sexual boundaries, neither of whom really ever had (or at least expressed) religious hangups around sex, and who were Both at the like forefront of the whole changing culture of the 60s to become freer, looser, less repressed. obviously them being free with heterosexual sex doesn't automatically equate to them having the same feelings about homosexual sex, but it's a factor in the way i think about it anyway.

we already know they were loose with sex with Each Other as well. there's ofc the beat the meatles thing (group wanking with the quarrymen/early beatles) but there's also the fact that they'd all have sex in the same tiny ass room in hamburg & the fact that john and paul allegedly had a foursome with a couple of girls whose pictures they took back in liverpool (on the same bed). again, that doesn't Necessarily translate to "yeah they'd have gay sex" but it just sets up that they weren't really prudish about sex and they weren't shy about having sex around/near each other. there's ALSO a different version of the story john told to pete floating around somewhere (can't find it rn so don't quote me on this) where in addition to everything else he mentions it (as in letting brian jerk him off) not being different than what he does with his friends. which does also implicate everyone Else, not just paul, but it's interesting.

i just do Not think that john would've had the self restraint to not make a move on paul if he wanted to. and from Well Everything, we can tell that he wanted to. john wasn't someone who had a lot of self control & i don't think his relationship to paul being "too important" or anything like that would've stopped him either. and i think if he'd made a move & paul shot him down, we would have never heard the end of it and there would've never been the beatles in the first place bc i don't think john would've taken it well at all. on paul's end, i can't see him turning john down either. if they were already jerking off together, potentially jerking each other off, having sex in the same bed, etc, i don't think it's a stretch to say he wouldn't have shoved john off for going further. and again, if he had, there would've been a more dramatic reaction. which means either john Never made a move, or he did & paul went with it.

ofc there's the whole india theory but i do not buy into that even remotely and i'm not getting into why again but tl;dr i just don't think it would be in character for Either of them to have this big dramatic rejection of john's feelings and for john to wait and simmer in it for 2 years before breaking up the band. i think if anything like that happened he would've lost his goddamn mind immediately and the band wouldn't have made it beyond like two more months lmao

i can however see paul making a move and john shooting it down due to His Issues, but i don't really see any time period where that would've potentially happened yk like there's not enough there to speculate on that one. but i can see it more than the opposite

they were also on so, so many drugs. you take two people with loose sexual boundaries and you put them on uppers/alcohol/weed/lsd/coke and i truly think it's more unlikely that they didn't ever fuck. i think most anyone who regularly gets drunk/high has at least one story about making out with/fucking someone they shouldn't. oftentimes when you can't remember shit.

there's also the severe lack of personal space between them & just the way they watch each other. ofc there's a severe lack of space between All the beatles, but it's glaringly obvious and embarrassing when they're all 4 in the same space and the blowjob brothers are over there ass to dick while everyone else has a respectable friend distance.

i won't put a photo/gif dump here i'm sure we've all seen them but this is the single one i have to add bc genuinely what is their problem:

and the way paul stops and then looks over at john after noticing he's watching his ass? they're as subtle as a brick to the head lmfao

tl;dr on the vibes: it's a if you give a mouse a cookie situation to me. if john was attracted to paul (he was), he would've made a move -> if john made a move on paul, paul would've said yes -> if paul had said no, there would have been 0 way john would've just gone on like normal -> nothing ever blew up like that sooo -> i think they fucked (in our definition- idfk what they would count it as). throw in their drug use & lack of personal space................

actual shit w substance

i don't think unless john's diaries leak or paul slips in his old age that we're Ever going to get any kind of Actual confirmation about if they did or did not have a sexual relationship of any kind. BUT there are some things that make me go. well okay !

and a disclaimer i don't think this is the only way you can interpret these things and i'm well aware i look like this rn

i mean this so seriously when i say the thing that convinced me they did actually fuck was john's real love (real life) demo. we know he's talking about paul bc he says "was i just dreaming, or was it only yesterday? i used to hold you in my arms. and now a baby and another on the way la la la farm" and then the added fact from this post that the daily news from that same year around the time john would've made this demo has a page dedicated to linda & paul expecting a new baby and in the same paper it's talking about cruises. which in the demo he says "picked up the paper, read the daily news, nothing doing anyway, same old bs, doot doot doot doot cruise." so we've got him singing about someone he used to hold in his arms that now has another baby on the way on a farm, which he found out about reading the daily news that mentioned cruises. when there was a paper from that day from the daily news announcing that linda & paul were expecting and talking about cruises. so i can say with confidence that he's talking about paul there. unless he was just wildly in love with linda lmfao. and of course "i used to hold you in my arms" doesn't exactly translate to "i fucked you" but like......????? there's really not much else you can infer from that. the rest of it is true to reality, so why would he embellish that bit with something he wished happened? why would he wished to have held him and then lost him anyway? and like it'd just be a weird thing to say about a platonic friend. i can't exactly imagine them just platonically laying around cuddling. i mean sure, maybe, but come on.

speaking of john's demos, there's also his weird paris shit (ignore that title lmfao. it is definitely a real demo & i actually accidentally own it on vinyl- it was one that got leaked during the lost lennon tapes). in it, he's singing to "my pau pau" about his little prod (lmfao) at a cafe on the left bank (hysterically also the title of a wings song ABOUT john and paul's trip to paris). i mean does that mean they fucked? maybe not. but also fucking bizarre to refer to your friend as "my pau pau" and start talking about his little dick while calling him my cheri..... like. again. come on.

speaking of paris there's also the whole skywriting by word of mouth thing. this one's the loosest bc it's fictional, but john based a lot of the sexual stories in skywriting by word of mouth on his own sexual exploits. also realizing for some reason i didn't put this in the original post, but leading up to the paris bit, it describes the man as a journalist who's in the middle of writing a play. but tl;dr on that link: john wrote a short story full of references to gay sex/gay culture about a man leaving writing a play to meet up with his lover in paris where they stay at the george v and fuck to god only knows. in 1966, john left filming how i won the war to meet up with paul in paris and they stayed at the george v. that's the same year pet sounds came out & paul got obsessed with god only knows as well. now this one could Also be taking the details of a very platonic meetup (paul did have one of his girlfriends, maggie mcgivern, with him) and adding a sexual connotation to them retroactively, but....................

i'm also throwing this paul song into the mix bc .....????? sure man. i'll also throw let me roll it into that category bc of the "he gave me loving in the palm of my hand" thing like okay man. i'm sure he did. and best friend/call me back again are just self explanatory.

this one is EXTREMELY loose and i don't believe 99% of them but there Are a ton of rumors/blind items if you go digging around about them kind of openly fucking during the 60s (as well as paul & linda having threesomes with men lmao). not linking those bc i wouldn't count them as even a remotely reliable source but they exist and all say just about the same thing

am i 100% certain they fucked? i mean no. but it just seems way less likely to me that they didn't. and i've seen historical narratives built on less so i'm gonna go on w my interpretation that they did fuck nasty in whatever way

[jbbuckybarnes]

Soulmate Subscription [LN4]

✨ Lando Norris x Reader (Y/N)

Author's note: Listen, the state of the world has become so ass that now after almost two years of not writing fanfic this 26yo is back at writing a bit to reduce stress. Don't expect me to be back fully because this unfortunately doesn't pay the bills (oh to be a nepo partner that can just do this on the side...i digress).

Warnings: Bro, I have never been to a GP, especially not as a VIP, so I have no clue how this shit works logistically. Reader is Lan's age because I said so, have fun being 25/26 y'all. Also zero proofreading and written past midnight. Formatting is bad because I posted from my phone...we run on vibes here the way Ferrari engineers do.

Prompt Used: Soulmate AU where you receive a monthly box containing clues to find your soulmate. (by @soulmate-au-bargain-bin) & "Please tell me you want to kiss me as much as want to kiss you"

Since the day you turned 18 in 2017 you had gotten small things sent to you in the mail that hinted at your soulmate. Some people took the clues and figured out their soulmates pretty fast, others took well into their 50s because their soulmate had such an average and difficult to guess life. The problem with your boxes was that you could tell this soulmate had a very uncommon hobby, motorsports, but you couldn't pinpoint it much further.

You had gotten sketches of helmets, a rag with motor oil on it, a map of the Silverstone circuit in the UK, an F1 pass, a nameless boarding ticket for a flight to Las Vegas, a small container of hair gel and a black shirt. All of those things didn't narrow it down. You could tell the person was into racing, but if it was as a fan or a hobby driver themselves didn't quite get across. Anyone could go to a race somewhere and anyone could be into tuning their own car or driving karts every now and then. The small clues weren't of any help so far and at age 26 you wondered if your life was interesting enough to even get your soulmate any closer to your identity. You liked taking the occasional dance class and walks in nearby nature. A concert every couple months and writing personal essays also weren't very identifying.

This months package arrived at the expected time, but it was bigger this time. You took it to your bed and grabbed the way too oversized cutter knife. Inside the box was a blue and orange piece of cloth with a number four on it. It seems to have been cut out of something actually wearable but the material was thicker than a usual shirt or jacket. You looked at the striped orange design of the number and grabbed your phone to look up the couple racing series you were familiar with by now, Formula E, NASCAR, Indycar, WEC, MotoGP, F4, F3, F2, F1. Who has a number four? F1 – "Number 4, Lando Norris, driving for McLaren" you mumbled to yourself. So your soulmate must be a fan of him maybe. He looked cute, a little fuckboy-ish if you were honest.

You looked at the cut out of the cloth more closely and noticed something stuck to the back of it. A piece of paper with something bunched up behind it.

"One of these days it'll have to work. No clue if I can will into existence what the universe sends you, but I'll keep trying to get you to a race. Watch this arrive after the race..." you quietly read the semi-fucked up handwriting and grabbed what is stuck between the cloth and the note. A pass reading "All-Access VIP – Belgian GP in Spa-Francorchamps – Hosted by: McLaren F1 Team"

Your eyes went wide, "Holy..." You didn't know a lot about racing other than the basics but you knew these were probably worth thousands.

"Guess I'll have to figure out how to get to Belgium."

—

You were standing in the humid heat of the European summer. The denim jacket that you had sewn the #4 cloth to on the back was already tied around your hips because the heat was unbearable. How were people doing this three days in a row?

You finally entered the circuit, not a clue of where to go next, but you were sure you'd figure it out. After all, VIP means there aren't many places you couldn't go. And somehow asking someone in a VIP area for help felt less odd to you, there must be rich people here all the time that don't usually do this.

Orange and McLaren is all you knew to look out for. Not that you would mind accidentally ending up in Ferrari heaven, but at this point you had caught up a bit on the sport and knew they weren't doing as well this year as expected. You walked down a mini road full of people between the paddock and mini houses that the teams brought with them everywhere.

A stressed-looking man in blue and white team gear walked by you with a bit of an entourage. You knew that one from the algorithm playing out a video of his to you. Carlos something with S.

In the distance you could spot shiny orange on one side and a bustling entry to the garage on the other side. Like orange little worker bees. You knew the shiny home is most likely where you'd find some water aka what you were sweating out in buckets at that moment.

You dodged your way through media representatives and people making a thousand times what you make a day and finally made your way in and beelined for a worker next to a barebones bar setup.

"What can I get you, Miss?"

"Just cold water, it's like walking through soup today."

"July races will do that to you." The person answered politely.

"At least there's some cooling in here." You took the cup with a small thanks.

"Almost too cold." You looked at the worker noticing them wearing a long sleeve. And they were right, five more minutes in there and you'd probably feel like you're in Antarctica. That electricity bill must be insane.

You drank the water and put your jacket back on.

"I don't know how people do this almost every week. I'd go insane from all the sensory inputs."

"You get used to it." They shrugged with a smile.

You heard the entrance to the motorhome become louder and a man entered with his racing overall half down. You knew that one, he was leading the championship right now. You weren't very keen on asking for pictures here, it's not like you were a big motorsports fan. He also just looked like he wanted his peace, so you focused back on staring holes into the walls of the McLaren home. You didn't notice the little lookover he gave you once he had walked past you.

Free Practice wasn't interesting you that much if you were honest. You'd watch the second one today but cars going fast were just cars going fast at the end of the day, you had two more days to see that. Plus finding your way to a place where you could watch was another mission.

"What do you mean it worked?" "Look." You heard two voices going back and forth behind you.

"I think I might throw up." "God, you're so dramatic." You looked towards the entrance but not behind you. You were nosy but not THAT nosy.

"Oh my god, how would I even introduce myself?" "Like you usually do?" "Os, this isn't fucking usual, not everyone magically went to school with their forever person the way you did." "If you don't talk to her, I will." "Oh hell nah, mate." "Well, I tried. Good look, Lan."

It got quiet around you, the two bickering voices had stopped, many people were already heading out to go watch FP2 in a bit, the worker had struck up a conversation with a rich-looking older lady.

A male figure appeared next to, "Nice jacket. I mean, hi. I mean...ugh, I won't even attempt to save that first impression." You giggled and looked up. Oh, the cute fuckboy-ish guy looking thrown off was kinda adorable, you had to admit.

"Hi. Lando, right?" He gave a small nod.

"Can I ask where'd you get it from,..." "Y/N" "Y/N" He said it very carefully as if he would need to remember it.

"I don't know, just kind of arrived one day." "Like a certain box that arrives every month?" "Maybe..."

He eyed you more intently, "That's from a race suite in my first season of F1. I figured I'd try to attach something to it and lose it on purpose."

You blinked at him trying to process, "HUH?"

"I'll need a little more input than that." He gave a boyish little grin but looked unsure.

"I just thought my soulmate would be a big fan of yours or working for you or something." He shrugged innocently.

"Oh boy." You exhaled, making him raise an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, are you expecting me to process that immediately surrounded by that much sensory input?" He chuckled and shook his head, "My bad, I should've expected absolute confusion."

There was a short silence, "I assume you're not much of a motorsports fan?"

"Eh...it's not my first choice, but some of the faces are hard to dodge in advertising." He gave a wide grin to you.

He looked down at his watch, "10 more minutes of being allowed to dodge my responsibilities. You wanna talk...uh, elsewhere." You nodded.

You weren't really expecting to be dragged into a tiny room while Oscar gave you a look that read as "He's always this idiotic."

"Well, uh, this is cozy..." You stood there, a bit too close to him.

"Yeah, they don't really make big drivers rooms." His hand went through his curly hair.

"At least it's more quiet." You exhaled at the relaxation level your nervous system reached.

"You need ear plugs for the weekend?" He grabbed a round little plastic casing and handed it to you.

"Uh, thanks." "If you needed it I'd literally give you what I'm wearing right now if I wasn't legally required to wear it." He chuckled.

You blinked at him again, processing.

"Sorry, that was a bit over the top. But I meant it as in 'I'd give my soulmate anything', you know?"

You nodded, still processing.

"Am I making this awkward or are you just overwhelmed?" He asked half concerned, half to lighten up the tension.

You exhaled, "Both."

"I'm not the best with first impressions I've heard." He admitted.

"No no, I think it's cute." Now both of you were flustered.

"I always expected there to be this ideal way I'd meet my soulmate. You know that moment some people talk about." "Oh, like the, we don't need to know each other, we'll kiss first and talk second kinda stories." You both giggled.

"I mean..." He looked at you clearly jokingly flirty.

"You excude too much fuckboy energy for that to ever have been a possibility." You laughed.

He feigned offense but instantly stopped and said, "Yeah no, I can see it, my PR people were working hard on that one."

"Oh, I have not seen any PR surrounding you, that's literally just your energy." "Okay NOW I'm offended, wow!"

You both broke into laughter.

"If I win this Sunday, will you change your mind?" He looked like he liked to play with fire.

"Things only a fuckboy would ask." "Well, would you?" "Are we still talking about a kiss or me not calling out your fuckboy energy?"

He caged you in a little, not in an overbearing way, you could easily leave.

"Bit of both." A short silence, "Blushing, are we?"

"Shut up." You mumbled looking away and he chuckled.

"I'll just assume that's a yes?" You met his gaze, "Yeah."

He looked at his wrist next to your head, "Well, gorgeous, wanna watch FP2 from the coolest place of all?"

"You're assuming that wouldn't be my couch for me." He laughed at that.

"I mean I guess that's nicer than in the garage with my headset on." He eyed you, "But that wouldn't be very future wife of you."

You hid your face behind your hands, "Stop it!"

"I'll think about it, darling." He grabbed one of your hands and opened the door of the drivers room again.

His hand switched to the small of your back, guiding you through way too many people to the garage and all the shebang in there.

"Lando!" Someone in the garage called out. "Gimme one second!" His face was focused putting his headphones on you, then he gave you a self-satisfied smile, "See you in a bit, Y/N."

You had to admit, a man in a race suit wasn't the worst person you could've gotten as a soulmate. You definitely didn't mind looking at him. Or his driving.

Or the way he still looked good while sweaty after the helmet came back off after the hour of free practice.

"Is it legal to still look good when sweaty?" You joked as he walked towards you.

"I don't know, you tell me." He brushed over your forehead with the towel he was holding.

"Didn't even give me the opportunity to be offended." He grinned self-satisfied at that.

"I should probably get you some team gear so you won't die out here tomorrow." He said more to himself than your while taking the headphones from you again.

"Ew, orange." "You could also wear my shirts." He shrugged and smirked as he watched you processing yet again.

You were dragged back to the driver's room, "I like the way your brain just short circuits when I flirt with you."

"You just wait until I feel comfortable enough to throw that back at you." You pretended to be offended as the door shut behind you.

"Looking forward to it." He winked at you before taking off his fireproofs. Act normal, act normal, act normal.

He put on a shirt before his hands went to the rest of his overalls...you turned around, this man was insane, unhinged, crazy.

"You can look again." He looked at you a bit sorry when you turned around again, but only a bit.

"You're unhinged." He giggled because you were right.

"You like it." "...unfortunately."

He caged you in again, "Please tell me you want to kiss me as much as want to kiss you right now."

"Dunno, it's giving kiss first, talk second soulmate stories." You teased, but put your arms around his neck.

"I still can't believe that deliberately losing something worked." You could feel his breath on you lips.

"Still can't believe my soulmate is a dumbass driving 300kph." You both giggled before closing the distance.

You didn't expect him to be so...soft and featherlight.

"I have a feeling I'll be in trouble if I don't win this week." You gave him a challenging smirk in response.

"I'd date you either way, but I'd say it's a bonus." "I feel like your existence in my life now is already a bonus."

"You're so corny." You laughed at him.

"Well, damn, I'm sorry?" He held his hands up.

"Don't be. I like it." Soft smiles were interchanged.

"Wanna sneak off and order food?" "As long as an AC is involved." He laughed and grabbed you, expertly sneaking you out of the circuit, into his hotel and spent all evening explaining his life to you between slices of pizza.

[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

[seat-safety-switch]

Most of life is about compromise. You can't always get what you want for dinner. You have to go to bed at a reasonable time. Sometimes you have to let the other guy win at a merge. By playing nicely with everyone else, we can keep civilization ticking nicely along. When someone fucks up this simple social contract, we shame them, and optionally burn them alive at a stake. It's that last part that we've lost.

Back in the ancient era, dickheads used to fear a public mob. You'd get a bunch of your drunkest buddies together and go torch the prick's house because they keep stepping on your pansies. Perhaps not the most reasonable way to deal with the problem, but it got the job done. Nowadays, that's not so acceptable. We established courts to make sure that we only fairly form an angry mob, for good reasons, and consistently.

Then the courts got really busy. They started picking up all these other laws that we had to worry about. Unnecessary shit like automobile equipment laws. Tail lights? I don't need tail lights! That's like three extra wires to run, man! All of a sudden, that little squabble you had with your neighbour is "not important enough" for the justice system to bother with. Even the cops won't come out, and point their guns at your oppressor for mashing a couple gladiolas with his AliExpress Doc Martens.

Back to vigilante justice? No. Remember, the entire reason of the court system is to provide the "proper" alternative to your drunken buddies torching a house for potentially-imagined slights. They're gonna take that as an existential threat, and punish your dumb ass substantially. Just like when you were working and then the junior intern came in and started doing that crazy new shit in PowerPoint that you don't know how to do, and your boss looked at you in the same way you look at a pile of human excrement on the sidewalk, and you had to do something and then he got fired for a bunch of crazy emails he sent to your boss while he was in the bathroom and his computer was unlocked. Just like that. What even is "WordArt," anyway?

In order for society to heal, we have to find a way to deal with these little petty grievances without alerting the attention of law enforcement. It is for this reason that cars exist. Remember, the courts are busy, and people get into car accidents all the fucking time. It's boring. Pretty much any moving violation will merit no more than a ticket, and that's only if you get caught. So go ahead: pay your Dodge Rammest buddy to do some donuts on the neighbour's lawn until you feel better. It's either this or total anarchy.

[mistysblueboxstuff]

Because I'm stupid and I fall for this behaviour every time, I'm making a little list of potential red flags you may encounter when interacting with people online. None of these may be red flags on their own, but when combined and when there's a clear pattern of repeated behaviour, you should consider distancing yourself:

1. Overfamiliarity from the start. They initiate contact and act like you’re old friends.

2. Excessive praise combined with self-deprecation. They compliment you while putting themselves down. It can become uncomfortable because they make you feel like you're responsible for the way they feel.

3. They may assert subtle control early on, masking it behind excessive vulnerability or self-deprecation, while also making sure you know how well-connected, talented, or admired they are.

4. They assign you roles you didn’t ask for. You’re “the intimidating one,” “the territorial one,” “the competitor” . Even if you’ve barely interacted. They make you feel like your existence somehow threatens them.

5. They bond by gossiping about others. If they confidently dehumanise others to you, they’ll do the same to you behind your back. They’ll bring up people’s trauma as if it’s their personal achievement, and they make sure you know how closely they are watching everyone. This is your sign to run immediately.

6. They push boundaries. You say you’re uncomfortable, they don't care. They are invasive and have no regard for personal space.

7. They make everything about themselves. Everything you say or do is somehow about them. If it is about them, it’s only because they recognized themselves in something you said.

8. Once you start distancing yourself, the passive aggression intensifies, jabs masked as jokes, subtle guilt-trips. They want you to feel like you're the one who’s done something wrong.

9. The smear campaign begins, if it hasn't already. The second you block or disengage, they start spinning their version. They’ll rewrite the narrative and cast themselves as your victim.

10. They don’t stay gone. Being blocked doesn’t stop them. They’ll show up again elsewhere.

These people are not harmless. I'm just talking from the point of view of a personal interaction, this doesn't include how these people may or may not act publicly, which may or may not be relevant to your particular "relationship" (it often is). I often fall for this stuff because I give people the benefit of the doubt, even when something feels off.

I hope this helps someone and please know: you’re allowed to protect your peace. You're allowed to walk away.

[lovetrouble123]

What Is Taking Over Me? Jealousy.

Synopsis: In which Dick is jealous that his girlfriend is in love with Nightwing

TW: y/n has an unhealthy obsession with Nightwing

A/N: guys i promise pt2 of Kindergarten Crush is coming but I have no idea how to do the imbedded link thing😭 can yall tell i never use tumblr despite having my acc for almost 10(?) years🫡

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A whole two years and Dick Grayson still hadn’t told his girlfriend, Y/N, about his night time routine. One year of them sharing an apartment in Blüdhaven, and he still kept his mouth shut. Of course, ever since he rented the apartment across the hall under a different name, it’s begun to be easier separating his vigilante life with his personal life.

But just because all his things were stored in the apartment across from him, it didn’t mean he hadn’t left small clues around. One night he had left his domino mask lying around, and another night he left his gloves, and soon after one of his escrima sticks.

And while most people would grow suspicious about random objects appearing and disappearing out of thin air, it only made Y/N happy. You see, Y/N was fascinated and deeply in love with the masked vigilante in Blüdhaven, Nightwing. She had no clue her boyfriend was Nightwing, but that didn’t stop her from having a shrine dedicated to him on her side of the bedroom—from posters, to figurines…she had it all.

The first time Dick found out that she was in love with his vigilante persona, he immediately felt an ego boost. But now, hearing Y/N talk on and on about how much she loved Nightwing, how hot he was…it was all growing annoying.

He felt stupid, being jealous of himself.

Dick sat on the couch, Hayley curled up beside him asleep. He was looking through some files that Oracle had sent him, and since he was home alone, he didn’t see the reason to leave and go to the room across the hall.

But then the front door busted open with Y/N, wearing a large and excited smile. Hayley woke up, started barking and jumped down before hobbling her way to the front door to greet her second owner. Meanwhile, Dick fumbled with the case file in his hand and quickly shut it and looked over at Y/N.

“B-Babe, you’re home early.”

“Dick, you won’t ever guess what I found for my collection!” Y/N exclaimed as she reached into her bag and pulled out box labeled ‘Nightwing Figurine,’ with a picture of the figure on the front. “I found it at the store, isn’t it cute?!”

“Don’t you think you have too many?” Dick asked, straightening up on the couch some as Hayley circled Y/N who was currently taking her shoes off.

Dick was annoyed, angry…he was Nightwing! He should be the one making them happy, not some plastic figurine!

“Ever heard of impulse buy?” Y/N sassed, petting Hayley on the head as she made her way toward their shared bedroom.

“It seems like that’s the only thing you’ve been doing,” Dick said with a sigh as he stood up and followed behind Y/N and Hayley. Y/N had abandoned her bag on the bed, and had already begun to open up the figurine box. She discarded the box, and gently took out the figure and set it on the shelf that held her Nightwing collection.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. But last I checked, I’m the one making any real money for us,” Y/N sassed as she took a step back, her hands on her hips as she admired her vast collection.

“Sure, but that doesn’t give you the right to spend your whole paycheck on Nightwing stuff,” Dick huffed in annoyance.

Y/N glanced back at Dick with a raised brow, “why’re you so against Nightwing?”

“I don’t have anything against him. I just think it’s stupid that 90% of the time you’re giving your attention to him, and the other 10% is me,” Dick explains.

“Oh please,” Y/N turned her whole body to face her boyfriend. “He doesn’t even know I exist. My obsession is justifiable.”

“I don’t really understand your obsession toward him,” Dick retorted, his eyes glancing away from Y/N and over to her Nightwing collection. “He’s just some guy…and it’s a little creepy.”

Maybe Dick was past the stage of ‘oh wow, my girlfriend has a crush on my vigilante persona,’ and now he was on the ‘oh wow, my girlfriend is obsessed with my vigilante persona, and if I see one more piece of Nightwing merch, I’m going to end it all.’

“What’s there not to like?!” Y/N exclaimed, “he’s pretty, and he has a good personality,” she listed. “He looks really good in that suit…honestly, I could go on for days.”

“Keep it up and you’re sleeping on the couch,” Dick threatens.

“Again, for someone who claims that they don’t have an issue with Nightwing…you sure do act like you do,” Y/N said.

“Fine. You know why I have an issue with him?” Dick finally snaps, “it’s because he’s all you ever talk about! I’m your boyfriend, and yet you act like you’d rather date some masked vigilante than me! He’s not even that special!”

Y/N stared at Dick in silence, taking in his words. But now that he had started, it seemed like he couldn’t stop.

“All you do is talk about him, day in and day out. I know everyone has their own obsessions, but Y/N, sometimes you don’t have to buy Nightwing merch! You have too much, and it’s starting to get creepy. Don’t even get me started on how annoying it is too.”

“It just,” he trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. “It just feels like I’m competing for your attention. I can’t compete with a hero, and I’m sick and tired of constantly being reminded that I’m not Nightwing…I’m just…Richard Grayson.”

Dick knew it was stupid. His ranting that was. He was seriously standing here and complaining that he was constantly being measured up to Nightwing, being measured up to himself. But what would Y/N do if she knew the truth? If she knew he was both Nightwing and Dick Grayson? Two sides of the same coin.

Dick held his personal life dear and close to his heart, and it’s the reason why he had a separate place to keep all his vigilante things. When he was in the privacy of their apartment, he could drop the vigilante persona and just be Dick Grayson. But now, it was like he couldn’t separate the two…all because Y/N wouldn’t allow him too (even if she wasn’t really aware).

“Dick, I didn’t—,” Y/N trailed off. “—I didn’t know that you felt that way.

“Forget I said anything,” Dick said as he turned on his heel. “I’ve gotta meet up with someone from work.” Dick walked out of the bedroom and back into the living room. He grabbed the folder from off the couch, and disappeared into the apartment across the hall.

•••

Dick returned the following morning at around 2am. Patrol had been slow in Blüdhaven, and the case he and Barbara had been following had concluded.

Dick slipped through the window, his boots silently landing on the wooden floor of his spare apartment. The first thing he did was pull his mask off and set it aside on his messy computer table where there was a singular laptop that hooked up to Oracles computer, as well as files, pens, papers…and a framed picture of Y/N.

He knew it was dangerous to keep a picture of her at the spare apartment. What if a villain found out this was his base of operations and kidnapped Y/N? He had debated with getting rid of the picture, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

The picture was a few months old, and one of his favorites. It was a simple picture of her holding Hayley…her first time holding her. The two had just adopted her and brought her home when it was taken, and Y/N looked so incredibly happy.

Dick sighed and pressed the comm in his ear, “Babs, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Let me guess, Y/N again?”

“Y-Yeah,” Dick hesitated. “We got into a fight before patrol, and I’m just…should I tell her that I’m Nightwing?”

“You know that I’m gonna say yes.” Barbara stated, “Bruce might not like it, but she’s gonna find out eventually. Plus, keeping it from her seems a bit unfair.”

“Unfair?” Dick repeated.

“I know how much it bothers you that she’s…strangely obsessed with Nightwing. And I wouldn’t doubt that that was what your fight was about…again.”

“This time I let her have it though.” Dick admitted, finally settling down in the office chair that sat at his desk.

“And you said what to her?”

“That I was tired of being compared to Nightwing, which is, ya know, ironic.” Dick sighed out, running a gloved hand through his hair.

“And you know that when she finds out, she’ll be more obsessed, right?” Barbara slowly asks. “I know you can handle yourself, but do you think she’ll completely lose her mind? Like put you in danger?”

“I don’t think she would. I think she’d just be highly pissed at me, and awkward.” Dick says, “pissed because I kept this secret from her for so long, and awkward because she’s practically talking about me when she praises Nightwing.”

“Let me ask you this, does she ever wonder where you go at night?”

“She’s always asleep by the time I leave. I don’t even think she even knows I leave,” Dick admits.

“Dick, she can’t be that oblivious.” Barbara laughs, “the girl has a whole shrine dedicated to you, at least from what you’ve told me.”

“But she never acts like she knows, never even questions me.”

“Yeah, I’m going to choose to believe that she knows that you leave in the middle of the night.” Barbara states, “but since you’re choosing to take the stupid route instead of telling her who you are up front, I’ve got some suggestions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you could always talk about yourself in the third person.” Barbara suggests, “next time she goes on about Nightwing, you could always act as if you know him personally or something.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then leave some of your equipment over there—.”

“—Already did that a few times. She just got excited and thought that I bought replicas for her collection,” Dick said as he shook his head.

“Dick,” Barbara firmly called. “Do you plan on staying with her your whole life?”

“What?”

“If you don’t tell her now, you’re going to be living a lie for the rest of your life.” Barbara states, “you have to tell her if you plan on staying with her.”

Dick knew Barbara was right. He knew that he had to tell her the truth. But there was a fear in telling Y/N everything, a fear that Bruce undoubtedly instilled in Dick since his Robin days.

“What if she leaves me?” Dick quietly asked.

“If she leaves you for telling the truth, is she even the one to begin with?”

•••

Dick opened the door to the bedroom to find Hayley and Y/N curled up beside each other on the bed. The left side of the bed was noticeably empty, the spot where Dick slept (whenever he actually was able to sleep).

Hayley raised her head and began to bark at Dick’s presence. He put a finger over his mouth, trying to indicate to Hayley to be quiet so that Y/N wouldn’t wake up. But it was no use because Y/N let out a soft groan and sat up rubbing her eyes, “Hayley…what are you barking at?”

The moonlight that came in through the half pulled curtains illuminated the bedroom, casting everything in a soft white hue. And for Y/N, it only made her all the more beautiful, especially with her tired and half asleep state.

“Babe, can we talk?” Dick softly asked as he walked toward the bed.

“Huh?” Y/N hummed, “Dick, why are you still up?”

Dick shuffled over to the bed, taking a seat on his side of the bed as Hayley pressed her head against his arm, desperate for his attention. “I couldn’t, uh, sleep. Can we talk?”

Y/N hummed out an ‘mhm’ before shifting to face her boyfriend, “what’s up?”

Dick began to pet Hayley’s head in an attempt to calm his nerves about telling Y/N the truth—that he was Nightwing. How would she react? How would she take the information? Would she think he was joking? Would she—god forbid—leave him?

“I need to tell you something important, and I need you to promise that you won’t freak out on me,” Dick slowly said.

“Alright, I promise,” Y/N yawned.

“I love you, Y/N…and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Dick calmly said. “But for that to happen, I need to tell you something…and you can be mad at me, but I need to tell you this.” He took a deep breath, “I’m Nightwing.”

Y/N only stared at Dick before sleepily smiling, “yeah, okay. And I’m Batman.” She yawned again, “you’re so sleepy Dick…you’re beginning to be delusional.”

“Y/N, I’m being serious.”

“So you’re telling me that you’re Nightwing,” Y/N repeated. She then glanced over at her Nightwing collection, more specifically the picture on her wall that someone had taken of him when he wasn’t looking. She slipped out of bed and walked over to the collection. She grabbed the picture and walked over to Dick, holding the picture beside his head, her eyes darting back and forth.

She then let out a small audible gasp, “you really are, huh?”

“Yeah, I am.” Dick agreed, “and I’m…sorry for how I acted earlier—.”

“—You’re sorry?!” Y/N exclaims, “I’ve been saying weird things about Nightwing and it’s been you this whole time?!” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “I am so sorry for the things I’ve said to you!”

Dick couldn’t help but laugh at her behavior. “Some of the things were weird, but I couldn’t exactly get mad. I mean, it was just my girlfriend talking about me, even if she didn’t know it.”

“You can’t get mad, but you can get jealous of yourself?” Y/N asked, crossing her arms with a raised brow. “Does that even make any sense?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Wait, why tell me now?” Y/N suddenly asked.

“I had a talk with Barbara about it, and she said if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, it was best if I told you now,” Dick admitted. “I’m sorry for being stupid and not telling you.”

“Dick it’s…fine.” Y/N says, “we both messed up…especially me for obsessing over you like I do. I now realize how weird it was and how uncomfortable I must have made you. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you if you forgive me?”

“Deal.”

[loganwritesprobably]

The Horrors (A.H.)

Synopsis: Reader is a member of the BAU and suddenly becomes struck by the horror of their job, and Hotch comes to save the day Tags: Hotch/GN!reader, mute!reader, reader uses sign (indicated by speech inside square brackets), pre-relationship, fluff, flirting Word count: 731

AO3 | Fanfic Masterlist | Request Rules | Fic Trades Guide

There was nothing worse than cases like this. Child victims. Something about seeing the lifeless bodies of children just amplified how horrific the violence felt, especially when it was so gruesome. Organs removed, bodies borderline unrecognisable when they got to the morgue. Generally speaking, you loved your job, loved knowing that you were making the world a better place by taking bad guys out of it - though, sometimes you doubted even that because realistically putting them into a prison doesn’t actually solve any societal issues that create killers but that was above your pay grade. On days like today though, you just wanted to curl up in bed and pretend the world didn’t exist, because how were you meant to keep going and keep focusing when people like this can exist?

Hotch’s hand pressing against the small of your back startled you slightly, but you were thankful to be brought from your thoughts. “Are you alright? You’re shivering.” Hotch asked, removing his hand and stepping forward slightly to have a clearer view of you. You lifted your hands to sign your response, but struggled. It was colder than any of you had been prepared for, and you’d been so caught up in your own thoughts that you’d not realised you were cold enough to make your hands stiff - too stiff to sign clearly enough for Hotch, who struggled to remember sign on a normal day. “Okay. Let’s get you inside then. JJ can you make a hot drink please?” He called out, his hand returning to your back to guide you into the building you’d been called to. The body had been inside, but the site you suspected was the kill spot was behind the building.

Hotch guided you to sit on a small bench in a window, letting the sun hit you without having to feel the biting cold of the winter air. When he noted you were still shivering, he silently removed his jacket and placed it around your shoulders, shielding you further. JJ passed over a hot drink to you, and you could only smile appreciatively. You didn’t drink it at first, instead letting it warm your hands so it would be easier to sign, and therefore communicate. Hotch didn’t leave, but he didn’t sit down either, instead he leaned against the window frame in front of you, looking mostly out the window, but you knew from experience he was keeping an eye on you in case he needed to catch a few signs. “[Thanks, boss.]” You signed with a warm smile, then finally lifted the cup to your lips to sip at it, the warm liquid starting to gently melt the ice that had slowly started growing inside your heart while you’d been so caught up in your doom spiral outside. “Of course. Will you be alright here while Rossi and I finish checking the rest of the building, and JJ interviews the guy who found the body?” He asked, and you nodded, then gestured for him to go on his way. He did, but he was clearly reluctant.

The rest of the day passed without issue, but Hotch’s jacket remained in its place around your shoulders, as if it was your armour protecting you from spiralling again. You’d not intended to keep it all day, you’d just grown used to it being there and he never asked for it back. Not until you all got back to the hotel that night, having decided that nothing more could be done for now, and you should all get some sleep to make sure you were at full capacity tomorrow. You tapped Hotch’s shoulder before he could round the corner in the hall to head to his room. “[You might want this.]” You signed, then pulled his jacket from your shoulders to hold out to him. “Oh. Thank you, I’d forgotten,” Hotch said, then for what felt like a year, he hesitated and lingered there in the hall, “it looked better on you anyway.” He finally said, leaving you entirely speechless.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Hotch finally said softly, his smile small but smug. “[Asshole.]” You signed, and he just laughed. “Is that what you always say to men who compliment you?” He retorted. “[Only pretty ones.]” And having successfully gotten the last word, you waved and slipped into your room, hands resting over your thundering heart.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @hyperfixationthingss @queenmimi2817

If you'd like to tip me you can head over to my Kofi

[mrsfrecklesmarauders]

Post for Reggie's birthday

CW: Mentions of depressive thoughts and self harm

Muggle AU

****

Regulus felt like shit even before he opened his eyes. The sense of nausea and the strong headache hit him like a lightning strike. All he wanted was to stay in bed and buried his existance inside the blankets.

But maybe Regulus had to force himself to class. No, it was the weekend he was sure. Sunday, yes. That was good. He had an excuse not to do anything.

People shouldn't drink. Alcohol was dreaful. That was why Regulus prefered weed. He had drunk at parties but never to the point of having a hangover like this. It had all had been because Sirius had insisted...

Shit, the flashes of last night memories came back to Regulus. Drinking with Sirius at his hiding spot by the lake, walking through corridors he didn't even know that existed in the castle, getting really pissed, being dragged by Sirius into the Gryffindor Common Room, commenting how awful the decoration was and being silenced by his brother. Giggles, laughter, more giggles and laughter.

And of course, ending the night insulting James Potter, vomiting on the carpet inside his brother's dorm, and hugging Sirius begging for forgiveness.

Regulus sat up in bed, realizing this was not his. Red covers. Red walls, forgein posters around it, The Marauders read in a sign stuck to the door.

Regulus had slept inside a Gryffindor Dorm, specifically his brother's.

Then the pain in his head got stronger and he got dizzy. Regulus wished he was one of those people who forgot everything they did while drunk, because he was regretting every single decision that was detailed in his brain but it was as if someone else had done them.

Regulus was on Sirius's bed he assumed. He had his weird drawing stuck on the wall and it was the nearest the window. Sirius loved windows.

The other beds were empty (thank god) except for the one right in front with two boys cuddled very close to each other. Lupin and Reg's own brother. Sirius had left him his so he could sleep with Lupin.

Yes, he knew they were together despite the fact they tried to hide it for the rest of the world. But still Regulus didn't know what to feel about it. Not because Lupin was a boy, but because Lupin was one of the causes of all of their problems.

Regulus decided he needed to run. Better pretend last night never happened.

The Slytherin boy tried to be careful not to make any noise. He got out of bed and realized he was wearing Sirius's clothes. He shook away the brief and nice sensation of feeling protected. That was dangerous.

Regulus put some shoes on, at least he hoped they were his shoes, and tiptoed to the door. He cursed under his breath when the wooden floor creaked and Sirius woke up. He had always been a lightsleeper.

"Morning Reggie" he whispered.

Shit, Regulus was so close to the door. He faced defeat as Sirius yawned and stretched.

"I'm leaving"

Sirius silenced him with his finger and pointed at the sleeping boy next to him.

It was true that when Sirius got out of bed, Regulus was panicking. He had wanted to avoid comfrontation from his brother.

"How are you feeling?" Sirius whispered as he walked to him, cheeky smile on his face.

"Never drinking again" Reg whispered back.

Sirius shrugged still smiling "We all say that. We still continue drinking"

Though Regulus founded pointless. It just caused damage.

"The others?"

"James is probably in his morning excersice" Wanker "Peter might've gone for breakfast with the girls"

Regulus remembered the four of them had tried to get him to bed and babysit him like a freaking child who didn't want to sleep. How embarrassing.

"I should probably go" Regulus said awkwardly "I shouldn't be here"

Not exactly for the school rules. He stopped caring about them long time ago. It was something else.

"I had good time last night" Sirius's eyes were literally glowing. Reg was understanding why he ressembled a dog.

The truth was that Regulus had an excellent night. It had been years since the two brothers had spent time together. Not without fighting or yelling at each other. Regulus had let himself be dragged outside the castle, into the forest. Sirius showed him a secret place that looked to be taken out of a fairytale. Then Sirius had taken a bottle from under his shirt.

Regulus started drinking because Sirius had dared him. But as alcohol loosened them they had talked, and joked, and laughed and maybe confessed things. It had been fun.

Regulus had missed his brother so much. He had missed this. Actually he wasn't sure he had had it in the first place. That was why these moments were golden for Reg. Even if maybe Sirius was bored and lonely and he just needed company.

But Regulus couldn't admit it. If he did now, everything would crumble. And he might never see Sirius again. Or Sirius might hate him forever. Regulus's plan had to work.

"Me too" he confessed, but then he quickly added "It was irresponsible, though. It shouldn't have happened"

"Why?" Sirius asked "Doubt you care about teachers since you've been skipping classes and avoiding homework"

What Regulus hated the most about Lupin being his tutor was that he told his boyfriend everything.

"Who is the one talking? Heard you did the same"

Sirius shook his head.

"You can waste time and get drunk with Mulciber and the others but not your older brother?" Sirius crossed his arms.

"They are my friends"

They weren't. He was just pretending.

"Since when do you like those people? I mean Snivellus hangs with them"

"I don't say anything about your friends, Sirius!" Reg snapped.

"Yet you insulted each one of them last night" Sirius grinned "Especially James. You wanted to punch him"

Regulus really despised that twat. But he still was embarrassed.

"Gotta go" He walked to the door and opened it.

Sirius closed it before he could leave.

"I just want to understand something, Reg"

Regulus wanted to escape. He was vulnerable and hangover. Sirius was too intelligent to notice his brother was lying.

"You've changed" Sirius added "You don't hang out with Crouch anymore, but the most disgusting crowd in Slytherin"

Barty understood it was all part of his plan.

"You're a heartbreaker now" Sirius continued enlisting "You date two girls at the same time when before you haven't even been interested in them"

He wasn't interested. It all had been a confusion. He didn't know how to get rid of Alice. And despite what other people say, Pandora was just his friend. Well, kind of.

"You speak like a total twat now, like a spolied rich boy" Sirius tutted "You know who you are ressembling more and more? Father"

That was the plan. Orion needed to like Regulus better. He needed to accept his son as the new heir. And leave Sirius alone. Otherwise he was going to make his life miserable.

Regulus was trying hard not to cry like the whinny little boy he used to be. Like the depressed arsehole he was.

Sirius needed to believe it in order to work.

"This is not you, Reg"

"Maybe it is" Regulus snapped with arms crossed "What if this is me?"

Regulus sensed Lupin was moving in his sleep and if he woke up, Sirius would stop caring about his brother. Potter was first. Lupin was first. Sirius just felt guilty for what had happened and how he left.

If Sirius didn't care then why was Regulus doing all of this? It was his depressive side talking that wasn't able to shut up.

Regulus reached for the door again. Sirius stopped him.

"Are mother and father forcing you to do this?" Sirius asked with concern "Is mother?"

It ached the way Walburga was drowning herself and Regulus couldn't do anything about it. Sirius just hated her. Regulus wished he could hate her that easily. But he loved her so much it hurt, because she was awful. She was not easy to love.

"Leave mother out of this"

"She can be very manipulative, especially with you"

Regulus hated those kind of comments. Those made Regulus feel weak and hate himself more than he already did.

"Just let me go, Sirius"

But Sirius was on the door, practically blocking Regulus's exit, escape route.

"You don't have to turn you into the heir they want. Just like they tried to do with me"

"Someone has to take your place"

"It doesn't have to be you"

Regulus's heart was beating fast. He needed to get out. He needed air.

"Sirius, please just let me go"

"So what? You can let them turn you into something you're not?" Sirius was raising his voice. Regulus's eyes flickered to the bult on Lupin's bed.

"They. are. not. doing. that"

It was really difficult to breathe.

"So that you can be the heir and miserable for the rest of your life?" Sirius carried on "So you can be just like father and mother. Full of pretending appeareances and smiles. Both still married but hating each other. And craving more money like a drug even if they already have enough... Manipulating people's lives even their own kids's"

"Sirius, move!"

And Regulus was speaking loudly because he was panicking. He felt like he was dying. On the burst of a panic attack.

"I'm not letting you go so you can be miserable and depressive because of them!" Sirius yelled back "So you would do this again"

Sirius grabbed Regulus's arm and the boy understood.

He still had some scars from the incident back in summer. He took pills that numbed him so he hadn't done it again. Although Regulus had wanted to. He had needed it many times.

Regulus knew he had scarred Sirius with his doing. He was crying now, shaking with fear. That was it.

Sirius was worried Regulus would hurt himself again. It was guilt and worry. Not love. Not like the one he felt for his precious Marauders.

"What's going on?"

Lupin was already awake, looking between the two brothers with concern. Regulus didn't know if Sirius had told him about summer, but he suspected Lupin had been awake a long time ago and he probably had overheard them.

If not, Sirius's tears would probably give it away.

"Moony..." he mumbled under his breath.

Regulus was already furious. He ripped his arm away.

"Very mature, Sirius"

He pushed his brother away from the door saying "Let me go" and opened it.

Sirius didn't stop him this time. He was crying.

"And don't worry" Reg added before leaving "I'm not going to kill myself"

Regulus said it because he knew it would hurt his brother the most. Then he slammed the door closed behind him. Lupin would figure it out anyway.

Regulus heard perfectly the way his brother yelled, cursed and banged the door from the other side. That was Sirius, pure fury.

This was better. If Regulus became the heir, Sirius could have the happy life he wanted. Live with his new family, date his boyfriend and do whatever he liked.

Regulus could take the burden. He was dead anyway.

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

me: did hori COMPLETELY forget about the eugenics text or was that all a collective fever dream

my beautiful loving spouse pez dispenser debris: what do you mean? there was a cathartic and honest discussion through the lens of mirio, remember

my unfortunate shadow self: HE BECAME A TEACHER AND EVERYONE WAS HAPPY FO-*gunshots*

pez dispenser debris, smelling strongly of gunpowder : it’s okay, they cant hurt you

(Genuinely in bafflement tonight; thank you so much for your very informative crash out)

me, with a gun: and in this chapter of pez—

I think dropping the line on discrimination was one of the most disappointing parts of my hero for me. It’s fundamentally one of the core conflicts back dropping the universe and implied to be a driving factor behind the central origin and it just like. Was treated as a nonissue.

The world is shown to severely struggle with quirk based discrimination. We have Izuku’s childhood, we have the fact that Aoyama’s family made a deal with AfO just to keep him from being Quirkless, we have people like Shinsou with “villainous” quirks facing social outcast, and we have people with mutation based quirks being literally chased out of shelters and onto the streets. But narratively it’s never addressed. Izuku never deals with the messy, complicated feelings that would be absolutely inherent with going from a maligned minority to suddenly being one of the most valued of the majority. The narrative never confronts it as a real issue, just treats the symptoms. And it only remembers that this discrimination exists when it’s convenient.

World’s first Quirkless hero Izuku? Everyone loves that guy. They’re thrilled. He shot up through the ranks at an unprecedented speed. And yeah, he had the benefit of being a major participant in the final battle. But that is inherently only going to help you with some of the people who would otherwise detract against you, not all or, if we’re in society that hasn’t addressed its blatant issues with discrimination.

People really love to pretend that discrimination is something society just kind of grows out of, but it isn’t. Discrimination is an invasive, aggressive plant species. It’s fucking mint and kudzu and knotweed and every other thing you see in the front yard of the new listing you’re touring and run for the hills. You have to root it out and keep beating it back until that shit stops growing. It is painful and bloody and and laborious work. Society does not just collectively wake up one day and decide it’s done being a piece of shit. Things get better when you don’t give it any other option. And Izuku knows that, and that’s why he’s never given an inch when it comes to Mirio.

Izuku in pez is shown to be aware of his own image and the world’s expectations for him when he’s in public. He’s the confident, smiling Deku and makes sure to maintain the demeanor of a calm, collected, and kind hero. It’s a mask, and one that most reliably slips when Mirio is involved.

Izuku is notorious for being an absolute nightmare to interview when someone’s coming after Mirio. He has every single receipt. He’s confrontational. He will call you a piece of shit to your face.

And that doesn’t exactly fit with Deku. Deku will save the day and then give the villain career counseling on his way out. He’s good with kids and kind to them even when they hit him with a life ruining quirk. He’s as steady as a rock and not really the abrasive type.

Until you try and talk shit about Mirio to his face. Then he’s having to be bodily carried away by Iida.

Izuku in pez knows what discriminatory assholes are like, because he grew up as their target. He knows that if he leaves any equivocation or doubt, if he tries to be gentle or placate people, they’re going to read in some kind of “Deku agrees with us but he’s just trying to be pc” bullshit and use it to make a bunch of other Quirkless kids feel like they’re worthless.

Izuku is actively trying to make people uncomfortable, because they should be. They should be uncomfortable because they’re saying some atrocious shit.

You choke out discrimination by refusing to pretend like what they’re doing is acceptable. You make them so uncomfortable and ashamed of their position that they have to confront why that is or at least stop sharing it openly. A room where a Nazi gets to comfortably talk is just a room full of nazis.

Izuku in pez is an angry, fucked up, traumatized kid who never got help and is repressing like a champ. He’s ten pounds of issues in a five pound bag. He’s got obvious problems with his own Quirklessness.

But it is undeniable that he loves the Quirkless. It is undeniable that he’ll fight for them.

And he makes sure that there is no fucking room for doubt, because he knows that people look up to him. He knows there’s a terrifying amount of kids out there who think of Deku the Hero the same way he thought of All Might. And he knows that those kids may not grow up telling their Quirkless classmates to kill themselves if they think Deku the Hero would be disappointed in them.

At the opening of pez, Mirio has been a hero for less than two years. Society has centuries of fighting and discriminating about Quirks that is baked into its collective consciousness. So Mirio is under extreme fire right now, but I like to think that he and Izuku are making change happen. Lemillion had a line of little kids who wanted his autograph. They didn’t give a shit about his Quirk. They thought he was a cool hero and they wanted an autograph to remember him by.

Those kids are more likely to go to school, to not talk shit about the Quirkless, to be kind to kids who are Quirkless, and to influence their peers to do the same. Because they know Lemillion, and he’s Quirkless, and he’s cool.

Mirio could equivocate about this. It’d be easier on him. There’s plenty of people on the internet who want to say that he’s inherently better and strong because he was born with a Quirk and he’s not really Quirkless, he’s just got a non-quirked human’s capacity. But he’s refused to at every turn. No. He’s Quirkless. He calls himself Quirkless. Quirkless people can be heroes, just like him. And he is out there at the forefront of the worst fucking fights, Quirk or no.

He’s not pandering to people who would be willing to accept him as long as they could still exclude the rest of the Quirkless population. He is under enormous fucking fire endlessly, and he is standing strong. He’s not even trying to make himself more palatable, because that would mean leaving the rest of the Quirkless behind.

It’s hard to see right now, but they’re making a difference. Things are getting better. But it’s not because one day the world woke up and decided they were thrilled for the world’s first Quirkless hero. The world is different because Izuku and Mirio changed it.

[xoln04f1xo]

Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?

LN4 x Reader

Angst blurb

You used to love the way Lando laughed with his head thrown back, unguarded and loud, like there was nothing in the world that could touch him.

Now, he barely smiles the same when others are around.

It's late. Your in his Monaco apartment, silence stretching between you like a chasm neither of you wants to acknowledge.

"Why are you like this?" you ask finally, breaking the silence with a quiet edge in your voice. You're not even sure what you mean by this anymore - just that everything feels different.

Lando doesn't look up from his phone. "Like what?"

You sigh, curling your knees into your chest. "Like somebody else. Around your friends, the team, even the fans... you act like I don't even exist sometimes."

He sets his phone down now, but his expression tightens. "It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" you shoot back, the pain bubbling out before you can swallow it down like you always do. "Because I liked you when it was just us. When we were driving with the windows down and you were ranting about F1 politics and Spotify algorithms like a dork. I like that version of you."

His brow furrows. "That's still me."

"No," you say, voice cracking. "It's not. Now you're watching every word, every move. Like you're scared to breath wrong. Like you're always switched on."

Lando runs a hand through his curls, clearly frustrated. "You know how it is. People are always watching. Everything I do gets picked apart."

"I get that," you say, softer now. "But what about me? I’m not the press. I’m not your fans. I’m just... me. And I need you - not this version that’s perfectly polished and filtered."

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the floor, jaw tight. You continue, voice trembling with a mix of anger and heartbreak.

"Why’d you have to go and make things so complicated?"

That gets his attention. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, he looks like the Lando you used to know. The one who showed up at 2 a.m. in sweatpants with a milkshake and a stupid grin. The one who held your hand like it meant something even when no one was looking.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers.

"But you did." You stand, grabbing your hoodie from the back of his couch. "You promised me you’d never fake it. You swore you'd be real with me."

"I know."

"I don’t want perfect. I just want you," you say, your voice barely holding together. "And if you can’t be that anymore... I don’t think I can keep doing this."

The silence that follows is deafening. He doesn't stop you when you walk out.

And maybe that's the answer you've been too afraid to face all along.

Library

Join The Taglist!

Taglist: @dessashippr @barcelonaloverf1life @kuinasstuff @bubble012 @fangirlmusicbiashoe @linnygirl09

[magentacat]

Thoughts on Pyrrha as a Faunus

The base concept

So, I'm my WIP, Pyrrha is a fox Faunus. Argus prohibits Faunus from entering combat schools.

I know that Marrow and Neon disprove Atlas from doing that anymore, and both Sun and Lionheart indicate that Haven academy accepts Faunus students. But Marrow also points out he is in an oppressive system, and well, Haven is also where we got the 'No Faunus' sign at a bar. So, segregation like that doesn't sound implausible in the smaller cities like Argus.

So, Pyrrha ties her sash to the back instead of to the side and sews the fabric to act like a 'pocket' to hide her fox tail when in Sanctum. She stays hidden the four years, with the intent of revealing herself once safe at Beacon.

But once there, she's too used to hiding and too afraid of the fallout to actually do it.

Pyrrha and Blake

Pyrrha 'clocks' Blake first, and offers all the support she can. Nothing straight out, like going together to a Faunus rights protest, but making sure to include Blake in activities like a shooting competition with Ruby or just being there to talk when the other members of RWBY-JNPR are busy with shenanigans.

Also, Pyrrha would expose herself first. I'm still figuring out how, but the base is her hero complex kicking in and her revealing she's a Faunus as a way to fight the racism of people like Cardin.

So, it makes her a foil to Blake too.

Pyrrha as a symbol

After being exposed, Pyrrha's sole existence defies a lot of prejudices. She's the Champion of Mistral, the Invincible Girl, and a Faunus. So, claims about Faunus not being as good as humans, or being dangerous are disproved by her existing alone.

Of course, it can backfire spectacularly if she's considered 'one of the good ones' or her hiding her Faunus heritage is considered her lying and cheating her way through. So there's that to work with too.

One of the good ones

I usually don't like overplaying Weiss' racism, since in canon itself she didn't cling to it that much either. It was a taught thing that didn't survive too long past meeting actual Faunus like Blake and Sun.

With that said, I can't help but imagine Weiss considering Pyrrha 'one of the good ones', and that being devastating to Pyrrha. Because of her hero complex, she would want to be an example of how good can Faunus be, both as a person and as a Huntress. But Weiss, a representative of the high society, considering her exceptional instead of exemplary throws all of that to the ground.

Up to The Stray/Black and White, Weiss is this reminder to Pyrrha that she can be a champion or a Faunus, but not both. No matter how much work she puts into, and how far she gets, she will be either be denied her humanity for being a Faunus or denied her identity as a Faunus.

So, there's also a parallel development in Pyrrha stopping trying to be the exemplary of Faunus and Huntress (stepping down of that metaphorical pedestal), and in Weiss learning to stop seeing people as 'the thing' they're supposed to be and instead the person they are (not too different from her arc in Ice Queendom).