#and i still don't know how to live without him

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

Was recently at a zoo where a man had his large service dog with him. The tiger at the tiger exhibit seemed like it wanted to kill the dog. It was pacing back and forth, following the dog alongside the exhibit. It looked agitated. The dog didn’t really react or do anything of note. The owner of the dog was loving this, bragging about how his dog wasn’t scared and trying to taunt the tiger further.

My question is: Do you think the tiger was stressed or enriched by this experience?

It's hard to tell if it was a negative without seeing it, but I can tell you that that's an inappropriate way to handle the tiger's reaction if you're bringing a service dog to a zoo.

To be really clear up front: I absolutely support service dog teams having equal access to zoos. But there are some constraints it is reasonable (and legal) for facilities to put on their access in order to protect the zoo animals. The most obvious one is excluding SDs from fence-less walk through exhibits for their safety and the safety of the collection animals. But part of the general rules for SD team access is that if an animal is agitated by the presence of your dog, you go somewhere else. This is very commonly a thing with large carnivores (and I know some zoos that prohibit dogs from those areas entirely because of it). It's important for SD teams to have access to zoos, but it's also important that they're respectful of the animals that live there too. Sometimes you just don't know if an animal is going to react or if your dog is going lose their mind over a stingray. What's important is how the handler chooses to deal with the situation.

As to whether it was enriching or stressful... if I'm being technical, it could be both at the same time. Stress over positive experiences (eustress) is still stress, and negative experiences are technically enriching (novel stimulus and experience). The best way to phrase the question is if the cat was distressed by the dog being there, and that I can't say without seeing the behavior myself and/or showing it to people with lots of years of tiger care experience. Regardless, if the tiger was having an outsized reaction the dog, moving along would have been the appropriate and respectful choice.

[unnounblr]

...Thinking about it, I feel like the only way Leed could know about Laios's obsession with monsters and monster anatomy (and how that could translate to him being gross about orcs, and "orc sweat") is if Zon told her.

Literally the only time she meets Laios herself, he's unconscious almost the whole time. When he wakes up, he and Chilchuck have an earnest conversation about returning to the surface. She's also present when Laios and company theorize about how to defeat the demon, but they don't interact, and Laios isn't being that weird.

Like. He shows up wearing a walking mushroom costume, but. So are Izutsumi, Chilchuck and Senshi, and it's presented as a strategy, to blend in with the monster hordes.

Laios mentions eating monsters, but she doesn't even judge the party for that earlier. When Chilchuck mentions eating the Red Dragon, she compliments them for it, says they deserved to for being stronger than it, for being victorious over it. It's a very "might makes right" sort of culture. And the orcs did threaten to eat the party earlier during the first meeting when they make bread.

Zon is kind of a shitty brother. Convincing her that she needs to marry a guy for the sake of their people, and also that the guy is a gross weirdo and a freak.

...Like, to a degree that isn't untrue. I could imagine Laios being weird to her the way he is about wanting to count Izutsumi's nipples.

But the key there is that there isn't much if any genuine sexual interest or desire. And I don't think he'd pressure her into sex, whether it's expected of them after marriage or not.

Honestly, it's hard to tell what Laios's actual sexual interests are. Like, his comment in the extra about orc breasts and bottoms. Could just be him talking about what's conventionally attractive, and not his own interests.

On the other hand, the succubus that looks like Marcille. Kisses him on the mouth. The succubi aren't just about sexual desire, Izutsumi is basically confirmed ace, and hers looks like her mom (or at least, the one for her human soul, it seems like the one for her animal soul is meant to appeal sexually, given her comment about the soul having good taste) but.

The succubus for Laios has multiple components, about turning into a monster, about his friends accepting him and his love for monsters and turning into monsters themselves, but. Even though the fake Marcille says she can turn anyone by biting them, anywhere. She still gets him with a kiss. So I can't quite tell what that's about.

Insofar as there's any shipping in the idea I have. I think, given the Orc propensity for polygamy, I think Leed could assume that Marcille is going to be Laios's other wife, or already is.

And I personally actually ship Falin and Marcille more, but also that they aren't in a relationship yet by the time of the series and have to figure things out afterwards, and. Like, Leed is very emotionally intelligent when dealing with Chilchuck, but. I think, insofar as she should be involved in any relationship drama, being as young as she is. I think it would be extremely funny for anyone to be dropped into that situation, without any context, and have to live in a building with those people while all that's going on.

She thinks she's going to be a child bride, and ends up becoming a relationship counselor slash military strategist. That's the funniest idea, to me.

Leed is a Minor!!

“I suppose she would be around her third year in middle school.”

This comment from Daydream Hour is the only info we have for her age/maturity, or orcs' age of maturity in general.

The whole "Bride of Laois" thing doesn't automatically mean that she is mature, it means that orc culture mirrors plenty of real-world cultures that also let women marry at 14/15.

She must be protected at all costs!

[smileycarat]

cozy comforts

your favorite part of the day is coming home to your boyfriend

masterlist

Returning home to an empty house is a luxury. The living room lamp casts a gentle ambient glow, creating tranquility that is nearly impossible to interrupt. Fatigue seeps into your limbs as you walk through your home in silence. When you pass the kitchen you spy a bright yellow sticky note fixed to the microwave sporting neatly written directions on how to reheat your dinner.

You can't help but smile subtly as you picture the faint furrow on his forehead when he discovers later that you disobeyed orders once more. You have to pick your battles for another day and continue your journey to your bedroom.

Behind the slightly open bedroom door, you can hear the TV humming. Warm and steady, the amber glow of your favorite salt lamp seeps into the hall. Mingi used to be the biggest tease about it, referring to it as "your little pink rock." But as your relationship progressed, he started flicking it on for you without even asking, reaching for that small comfort item the same way you did.

He is stretched out over the bed, face down, with one leg thrown over the tangled comforter and his face smashed into your pillow as though it were his.

Slipping into the bathroom, you start your shower. It's enough to lift some of the load of the day but it won't do anything to wake you up fully. By the time you finish, your boyfriend is still wrapped up in blankets and remains blissfully snoozing. He does slightly perk his head up when he hears you enter, barely managing to open his eyes.

Tenderly shutting the bathroom door, you say, “Go on back to bed, honey, I’ll be there in a minute.”

He softly lets out a sigh, rolls over onto his side, his soft, sleepy gaze following you as you put away your jewelry, and pad over to switch the TV off.

“How was your day?” he questions in a low, groggy tone from sleep.

"It was okay," you whispered, trying to match his quiet tone. You near the bed and kick off your slippers. "Long, but I'm so glad to be home."

Rolling onto his side, he automatically starts pulling back the comforter to make space for you as his arms slide under the blanket. The warmth of his body relaxes your back and with it, some of the tightness eases off. You exhale a long, content sigh at the comfort of your body against his.

He pecks the crown of your head, almost as a reflex. "I didn't hear you start the microwave. You know you need to eat."

You let out a soft chuckle at the tone of his voice. Despite having your back to him you can practically see the frown on his face. "I'm more tired than hungry right now, I don't want to risk the tummy ache."

His hand reaches for yours under the cover, long fingers crossing with yours as he rests your joined hands on your chest.

"You worry me sometimes," he says into your hair, his tone almost inaudible.

You press a kiss to your joined hands, "I know, honey. I'm fine, though, you take care of me plenty."

He hums and moves you to lie on your back so you can look up at his eyes. "Still. I just wish I could do more to ease the stress off your shoulders."

You can't help but melt at the pout on his face, his eyes struggling to stay open but fighting against sleep just to look back at you. "You do more than enough, trust me when I say that you are the reason I get through the day."

He smiles gently, eyes fluttering open. "You know, you're not supposed to steal my pick-up lines."

You laugh softly and turn to bury your face in his chest. "I learned from the best."

"True," he laughs gently, the movement from his chest slightly jostling you. A few seconds go by before he whispers, "I missed you today."

"I missed you too, I wish I were just here all day."

He kisses your hair again, his breathing starting to even out again. "Just quit your job and stay here with me then."

You can't help but snort. "Sure, I'll tell my manager that I've found my true calling, cuddling with my boyfriend."

Mingi smiles, his eyes already shut. "I could always write a strongly worded email."

"I know you would."

It's quiet for a moment before he whispers again, "I really love you, you know?"

Your heart does a dangerous flutter at the soft tone in his voice. "I know. I really love you, too."

By the time you finish speaking, there's already a soft snore escaping from Mingi's chest. You lightly shake your head, a soft smile on your lips as you press a kiss to his chest. It doesn't take you long to join him in slumber.

let me know what you think! life would be a whole lot easier if i had mingi by my side ngl

[nekoashiii]

Hiii Ashi!! I have a request! Can you make one where the lads love interest are showing MC/Reader affection by kissing or hugging her in front of their children? I would LOVE to their children's reaction ^^

Notes: How i feel after disappearing and re appearing, also incase you don't know whenever i say tonight i mean the next night (●'◡'●)

Pairings: Dad!Lads/MC + Their kid (Part 1: Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne)

Extra: Masterlist || Sylus and Xavier will be on part two

Zayne:

The clock above the stove ticked softly, its hands inching past midnight.

Zayne ran a tired hand through his slightly tousled hair as he leaned back on the couch. His white shirt was wrinkled, the scent of hospital antiseptic still faint on his skin. The tie had been the first casualty the moment he stepped through the door. Now it lay somewhere near the front shoe rack, forgotten in favor of the warm home. and you.

You’d been waiting. Despite the exhaustion in your bones from days of Constant Wanderer missions, you’d stayed up just for this. For the quiet comfort between you two, For him. The two of you sat side by side now, a half-finished dinner sitting on the table, the sound of some low, peaceful movie playing on the screen, though neither of you were really watching it anymore.

He turned slightly, eyes tracing your profile in the dim living room light. “You’re still in one piece, celebration worthy” he murmured, voice low and warm.

You smiled faintly. “Just barely. Wanderers don’t take breaks.”

“Neither do surgeons” he replied, and his hand brushed against yours.

You shifted closer to him without thinking. It was one of those small, shared silences. The ones filled with so much more than words could express.

Zayne exhaled, pulling his arm around your shoulders, settling you against his side. His head tilted to press a slow kiss to your temple, just the kind of tired affection built from years of choosing each other again and again, even when everything else demanded otherwise.

He kissed you again, this time lingering near your cheekbone, fingertips brushing your arm. Your body eased into his side, melting into the rare comfort.

And then—

SSLLLUUUURP.

You both froze.

Zayne stiffened mid-movement.

Another sluuurp, unmistakably from a juice box, echoed from somewhere in the room.

Very slowly, you turned your head toward the sound.

Standing in the corner of the living room, half in the shadows and completely still, was Elias.

Wide-eyed. Tiny. Hair sticking up in every direction. Holding a grape juice box in one hand and sipping it with all the dramatics of a cartoon villain.

Zayne blinked. “...Elias?”

The six-year-old didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sipped.

You sat up straight, heart thumping. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I was…” Elias said flatly, lowering the juice. “Then I heard Dad come home. And i was thirsty, and i couldn't reach the glass cupboard for water...”

Zayne ran a hand down his face, half-laughing in disbelief. “You scared us. You were just standing there.”

Elias took another slow sip, completely unaffected. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You squinted. “Interrupt what?”

He looked between you and Zayne, blinked slowly, then stared at the TV like the answer was too obvious to say out loud.

Zayne sighed. “Elias… were you watching us this whole time?”

The boy gave a single nod.

Zayne looked almost horrified. “Why?”

Elias shrugged. “You were...hugging. I didn’t know if I was supposed to say something.”

You stifled a laugh and patted the seat next to you. “Come here, juice ghost.”

He climbed onto the couch, wedging himself firmly between you and Zayne. He leaned slightly against his father, still holding the juice box with both hands like a protective artifact, knowing daddy deary might start nagging on the fact that he drank sugary liquid late at night.

“You should go to bed,” Zayne said softly, glancing down at his son.

“Okay. later” Elias leaned closer into him, almost shyly. “I just wanted to… be here.”

Zayne blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching. He draped an arm around Elias wordlessly, pulling him in without a fuss.

The three of you sat there in the quiet.

The movie played on.

Rafayel:

The bridge glowed under warm, golden lights strung between its beams like stars, their reflections glittering in the water below. The night air was cool but not cold it was perfect, the breeze was carrying a soft scent of sugar and sea salt from the snack carts lining the cobblestone walkway of the bridge. Tourists bustled everywhere. couples holding hands, kids licking their ice creams, musicians strumming guitars with bright smiles.

Rafayel, always the picture of effortless elegance, walked beside you with a quiet kind of pride. His dark-ish purple hair fell slightly over his brow, ruffled by the sea breeze. A charcoal-grey scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The edges of his long coat brushed against his boots as he strolled at a relaxed pace, holding a paper cone of roasted chestnuts. Feeding seraphina some.

Your hand was clasped firmly in his. Seraphina skipped ahead of you, her curls bouncing, face sticky from the powdered donuts she’d practically inhaled ten minutes ago. She was wearing the little yellow jacket you picked out for her months ago but never got the chance to give until now.

“Look, look!” Seraphina shouted, rushing toward the side of the bridge. “There’s a boat down there with pink lights!”

Rafayel chuckled, shifting his hand so his fingers laced through yours more tightly. “This place is surreal,” he murmured. “Almost feels like it was painted for us.”

You smiled at that. “Spoken like a man who’s painted enough cities to know.”

He stopped, tugging you just slightly closer to the railing, his voice lowering so only you could hear it. “No painting I’ve ever made could compare to you in this light”

You flushed and rolled your eyes at him, even as your heart fluttered. “You’re embarrassing.”

“I should be. I was gone for two weeks in Paris.” He leaned in slowly, his hand moving to the small of your back. “Missed everything. Especially this face.”

Before you could respond, Rafayel dipped his head and kissed you—soft and sure. Not rushed at all, Just the kind of kiss that said I know you. I love you. I’m home.

You melted into it for a breath or two, your hand settling lightly against his chest.

Then—

“EWWWWWWWW!”

The high-pitched shriek of your daughter cracked through the moment like a bottle dropped on tile.

You broke the kiss, laughing into Rafayel’s coat as Seraphina clutched each of your legs like she was about to faint. Her cheeks were puffed, her eyes wide with theatrical horror.

“I saw that!” she squealed. “Daaaad, that’s so gross! as gross as a legless crab!”

Rafayel grinned, turning toward her with an utterly unrepentant expression. “Your mom’s beautiful.You know I’m allowed little fishy.”

“Not in public!” Seraphina squeaked, stamping her foot. “Other people are looking! They’re gonna think you guys are in love!”

“Oh nooo, what shall we do now?! the seas are going to dry up and its all going to be my faullttt!” he said sarcastically, bending down to pick her up despite her squirming protests.

“Yes daddy! it is, and you two are married. That’s different from being in love!” she protested, though she was giggling as she tried to wriggle out of his arms.

You laughed, watching Rafayel nuzzle his cheek against hers while she let out a muffled scream of mock indignation. “Stop kissing everyone! You’re gonna get me cooties!”

“That’s the risk you take when you travel with artists,” Rafayel said, his eyes flicking to you with a wink. “We’re known for being passionate.”

"no!” Seraphina, now draped like a limp cat in her father’s arms.

“You didn't get that from me,” you teased, pinching her nose lightly.

“No, I get my normal me from you!”

“See?” Rafayel chuckled. “Now she’s turning into a critic. We’re doomed.”

Eventually, Seraphina insisted on walking again—only after Rafayel promised not to kiss anyone for the rest of the bridge walk. She marched forward with her chest puffed and her donut box like a shield, keeping at least a foot of distance in case her parents got weird again.

But every few seconds, you caught her glancing back. Her eyes were squinted suspiciously, sure, but they held something else too.

Joy.

Caleb:

It’s been a long day, you’ve been working two missions back to back in the new work program that the hunter’s association has established, also thanks to that Caleb had to take some shifts off to take care of your little 7 year old son Noah.

The sun was already setting by the time you trudged up the front porch steps, the weight of your gear dragging at your limbs. Your boots were covered in dust and dirt, Your shoulder throbbed from the recoil of your blaster rifle. Two missions back-to-back was brutal. But eversince your boss had been moved and replaced, the new work program at the Hunter’s Association didn’t exactly ask if you were tired. You were one of the few capable of handling the more grotesque, unpredictable alien creatures that kept breaching containment zones. So, you did what you always did: pushed through.

The scent of grilled cheese and Fried wings wafted through the front door the moment you stepped inside. The lights were warm and soft. Your hearing still rang faintly from the concussive force of earlier explosions, but even so, you caught the faint patter of socks on hardwood before you heard the shout:

“MOM!”

You barely had time to drop your pack before Noah launched himself at you like a guided missile, arms flung wide. He crashed into your legs with all the force his small body could manage, wrapping himself tightly around your waist.

“Whoa—hey, kiddo,” you breathed, crouching down, even though your back screamed in protest. “Easy, I’m still in one piece. I promise!”

Noah sniffled, clearly holding back tears. “You said just one mission.”

“I know,” you said, brushing his messy black hair back. “Got reassigned last minute. You know how it is.”

Caleb’s footsteps came from the kitchen, heavy and precise. “That’s not an excuse” he said, but his voice was quiet.

You looked up at him.

He had the sleeves of his gray undershirt rolled to the his biceps, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. His uniform jacket was draped over a nearby chair. His hair was slightly tousled—clearly Noah had gotten his hands in it earlier, but his eyes, those stormy Purplish pink eyes, locked on yours like you were the only person in the room.

“You’re home,” he said simply.

You nodded. “Mhm”

He didn’t say anything else. He just walked forward, wrapped an arm firmly around your shoulder, and pulled you into him. You let your face fall against his chest. The warmth of him, the strength, the safety, for a few seconds, it melted every ache of your bruises and every ugly image from the day. His hand smoothed down your back, a firm, slow drag. Then you felt him tilt his head down and press a lingering kiss to your temple, right against the place where your skin was still smudged with ash.

You closed your eyes. Sank into it.

And then—

“EWWWWWW!”

Caleb didn’t move. His lips curved against your skin instead.

“Disgusting!” Noah wailed, half-laughing, half-betrayed. “That’s—gross, Daddy!”

You pulled back just enough to glance at your son. He was standing there with both hands over his eyes, fingers spread wide enough to peek through, his nose scrunched like he’d smelled rotten milk.

Caleb smirked. “It’s affection, Noah. You better get used to it.”

“No! You’re not supposed to kiss Mom! She’s a Hunter! She fights monsters, she’s cool, she doesn’t get kissed like that!” Noah flailed his arms dramatically and dropped to the couch like he was dying.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Hunters don’t get affection, huh?” you teased, glancing at Caleb.

“I guess I missed the memo,” Caleb said, brushing your hair off your cheek and leaning in again—purposefully slower this time—to press a quick kiss to your lips.

Noah screamed again. “DADDY STOP! I’M RIGHT HERE!”

“Then stop looking,” Caleb muttered with zero remorse, pulling you even closer.

“I have EYES!”

You chuckled, resting your forehead against Caleb’s. “Come on now, no more, He’s gonna lose it.”

“He’ll survive,” he murmured. Then, quieter, meant only for you: “I missed you.”

You softened. “I missed you too.”

Behind you, Noah was flailing around on the couch again, trying to smother himself with a pillow and declaring that this was “THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE.”

Caleb rolled his eyes but gave you a final squeeze before letting you go. “Come on Pipsqueak 1 and 2 . Food is still warm.”

[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

[keraiiszn]

ᴏᴜʀꜱ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ

𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄!𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

ᴘᴛ. 2

ʙᴀʙʏ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ, ꜱᴏᴄᴋ ᴅʀᴀᴡᴇʀ ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ, ʟᴀᴛᴇ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴘɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ʀᴜɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛᴇ — ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʜɪᴄᴄᴜᴘ, ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ.

If someone had told me six months ago that I'd be watching my deadly, composed fiancé reorganise the baby's sock drawer for the fourth time this week while muttering about "proper size categorisation," I would have laughed until I cried. Now? I'm just trying not to pee myself laughing, which is a legitimate concern at thirty-nine weeks pregnant.

"Elijah" I call from our bed, where I'm propped up like a beached whale surrounded by pregnancy pillows. "The baby is not going to care if the newborn socks are arranged by colour or by cuteness factor."

He pauses, a tiny yellow sock in each hand, and turns to look at me with the most serious expression I've ever seen him wear. "But what if they have a preference? What if they're a colour-coordinated baby?"

I snort, which immediately turns into a hiccup, which somehow triggers the baby to start what feels like a full kickboxing routine against my ribs. "Oh, now you're awake," I mutter, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot is trying to escape through my skin.

Elijah drops the socks immediately and rushes over, his hands hovering uncertainly over my belly. The man who can disarm opponents without breaking a sweat looks panicked when our baby decides to practice their karate moves.

"Are you okay? Is it time? Should I get the hospital bag? I knew I should have packed a backup bag for the backup bag—"

"Breathe, babe," I interrupt, catching his hands and placing them where the baby is currently attempting to break free. "They're just saying hi to daddy. Watch."

As if on cue, the baby settles at Elijah's touch, and he gets that look—the one that still makes my heart do ridiculous, fluttery things despite the fact that I currently resemble a penguin who swallowed a basketball.

"Every time," he murmurs, wonder clear in his voice. "He always calm down for you."

"It's because you have magic hands," I tease, waggling my eyebrows. "Among other talents."

He flushes slightly, which is adorable on a man who radiates danger for a living. "Y/N..."

"What? I'm pregnant, not dead. And these hormones are no joke—I'm basically a walking ball of feelings and inappropriate thoughts."

Before he can respond, my stomach lets out a growl that could probably be heard in the next county. Elijah's eyebrows shoot up.

"Hungry again? You just ate an hour ago."

"Yeah, but that was dinner. This is the second dinner. Different." I pause, considering. "I think I want pickles. And ice cream. But not together—that's gross. Although..." I tilt my head, genuinely contemplating it. "Maybe together. Sweet and salty, right?"

Elijah stares at me for a long moment. "It's eleven-thirty at night."

"Your point?"

"The store is closed."

I give him my best innocent look, the one that usually gets me exactly what I want. "But you love meeeee."

He's already reaching for his keys. "I'll find an all-night place."

"You're the best baby daddy ever," I call after him as he heads for the door. "Get the good pickles! The garlicky ones!"

"I don't even know what the bad pickles are," he mutters, but I catch the smile he's trying to hide.

Twenty minutes later, he returns with not just pickles and ice cream, but also prenatal vitamins (because, of course, he checked if I'd taken today's), those weird crackers I've been craving, and a bag of mini doughnuts.

"You bought out the store," I observe, accepting the jar of pickles like it's a precious gift.

"I wanted to make sure I got the right ones." He settles beside me on the bed, watching with fascination and mild horror as I alternate between pickles and vanilla ice cream. "How is that good?"

"Don't knock it till you try it." I offer him a spoonful, and his face goes through several interesting expressions.

"That's... not terrible?"

"See? Our baby has excellent taste already." I pat my belly proudly. "Speaking of which, we need to finalise names. We can't keep calling them 'the baby' forever."

Elijah groans. "Not the name discussion again."

"Yes, the name discussion again! What if they come early? What if I go into labour tomorrow and we're standing there like, 'Hello, Baby McBaby Face'?"

"I still like the names we talked about," he says carefully, which is code for 'I'm trying not to restart the Great Name War of last Tuesday.'

"Okay, but hear me out—what about something unexpected? Like... Storm?"

"Storm?"

"It's dramatic! Powerful! And it goes with your whole mysterious vibe."

Elijah looks like he's genuinely considering it, which is both sweet and terrifying. "What if it's a girl?"

"Storm works for a girl, too! Very fierce warrior princess."

"You want to name our potential daughter after weather phenomena."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." I take another bite of the pickle-ice cream combo. "Weather is powerful. Unpredictable. Beautiful."

"Like you," he says quietly, and there he goes again, being all romantic when I'm eating the weirdest food combination known to mankind.

"Smooth talker," I mumble around my spoon, but I'm grinning. "Fine, what about something unique? Alheri? Journee? Kairo? Something our kid won't have to spell for people their entire life?"

"I like Alheri," Elijah admits. "Strong queens were named uniquely, you know."

"And for a boy? James is good. Classic. Respectable.”

I wrinkle my nose. "But also kind of... boring?"

The look he gives me is long-suffering. "You're going to suggest something like Phoenix or Raven, right?"

"Phoenix is cool—"

"No."

"What about—"

"No mythical creatures, no weather patterns, no gemstones, and nothing that sounds like a stripper name."

I gasp in mock offence. "I would never suggest a stripper name for our baby!"

"You suggested Candy last week."

"That was a joke!" I pause. "Mostly."

Elijah drops his head into his hands. "We're never going to agree on this."

"Sure, we will. When I'm in labour and screaming at you about how this is all your fault, you'll agree to whatever name I want just to make me stop yelling."

He looks genuinely alarmed. "You're going to yell at me?"

"Oh, honey," I reach over to pat his cheek sympathetically. "I'm going to say things that will make you question every life choice that led to that moment. It's normal. All the pregnancy books say so."

"Maybe I shouldn't be in the delivery room," he mutters.

"Try to leave and I'll hunt you down myself," I say sweetly. "After I push a human being out of my body, because that's apparently what we're doing now."

The reality of it hits us both at the same time—the fact that in just a few days, there will be an actual tiny person who depends on us for everything. The mood shifts slightly, becoming less playful and more... holy crap, we're about to be parents.

"What if we're terrible at this?" I ask quietly, suddenly feeling very young and very unprepared.

Elijah sets aside the pickle jar and pulls me closer, carefully arranging himself around my belly. "Then we'll be terrible at it together. And we'll figure it out as we go."

"What if the baby doesn't like us?"

"Babies don't have a choice. We're stuck with each other." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "Besides, look how much practice we've already had taking care of each other."

I think about all the times he's held my hair back during morning sickness, how he learned to make my favorite tea exactly right, the way he talks to my belly every morning like the baby can already understand him. And how he lets me reorganize his perfectly organized drawers just because the nesting urge is real and I needed to organize something.

"We're going to be okay," I say, more to convince myself than him.

"We're going to be better than okay," he corrects. "We're going to be disgustingly happy and sleep-deprived and covered in baby spit-up, and it's going to be perfect."

"Even when I'm crying over diaper commercials?"

"Especially then."

"And when you're reading parenting books at three in the morning because you're convinced we're doing everything wrong?"

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "You noticed that?"

"Babe, you colour-coded a feeding schedule. For a baby who isn't even born yet."

"Organisation is important—"

I silence him with a kiss, tasting vanilla ice cream and the promise of chaos and joy and sleepless nights ahead. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.

"I love you," I whisper. "Even if you do think our baby needs a sock filing system."

"I love you, too," he replies. "Even if you want to name our child after natural disasters."

"Storm is growing on you, admit it."

"Not."

But he's smiling when he says it, and as I settle back against his chest with my ridiculous snack and his hand protective over our baby, I think maybe we've got this whole parenting thing figured out after all. We'll make it up as we go along, argue about everything from feeding schedules to bedtime stories, and love this little person so fiercely it'll probably terrify us both.

And if our biggest problem is what to name them, well, we've got at least eighteen years to come up with nicknames anyway.

"Fine," I concede, closing my eyes as exhaustion finally starts to win. "Alheri or Kairo?"

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Alheri or Kairo”

The groan he lets out vibrates through his chest, and I fall asleep smiling, dreaming of tiny socks and big adventures and the beautiful, chaotic life we're about to begin.

[adoredvi]

TILL DEATH DO US APART

1x1x1x1 x GN!Reader

Vi notes: uhmm punctuations may be horrendous and there are some error in the process, because English is NOT my first language and I just made this for fun, so enjoy:>>

They say that love is the greatest thing that can happen to a being. And you agree— it is.

Growing up, you are taught that love is important, along with kindness, and being respectful to people around you. At first, you were defiant about it, you dislike how your parents constantly wanted to instill that mentality in you, and as you grow older, you kinda see the appeal in their words and what they wanted you to learn.

1x1x1x1, or 1x for short, always wondered what he went wrong whenever she tried to get him to notice them, it's frustrating, every attempt, every single time they tried, she always fails, hell she even tried to go and do what it takes for him to notice him, but alas— it always fails, it never worked anyway.

He feels so much hatred inside of him, it slowly builds up as time goes by— everytime he sees him paying attention to other's aside from her. He thought it was all going to be like that for the rest of their life, until you came in, you lit up their life, their darkening heart, you drove them mad with every little smile you flash their way, every little encouraging words that he thought he'll never hear again. She loved it, she loves you, even if they don't want to admit it out loud.

You noticed— of course you did, you always do, you seemed to have made a habit of being observant of their movements, behavior, even how he speaks— you just find him endearing, but was it really just that? You really don't know.

You don't know until you found out they suddenly disappeared. You asked and asked everywhere, even going as far as to asking his creator who only looked at you and turned away not wanting to break your sweet fragile heart.

He isn't the same person you know anymore.

She didn't get it, she didn't get why their creator sent him down to this hell hole, to his own personal hell, and there it is, the hatred— the emotion he buried deep. The emotion that they never wanted to come out ever again, they thought that it's not there anymore, you helped them didn't you?....

Or were you lying like he is too..?

He walked, stared and grew bored alone in that world, not a single living thing around her, even things started shifting— like her skin, it started darkening, their own body shifting differently from what they used to know, it was horrifying, but did he care anymore? No, he barely even felt anything aside from hatred. That feeling of need for revenge, for satisfaction of seeing those who wronged him fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness while she stare at them condescendingly.

But from amidst of these thoughts, you always come crawling back to their mind, her heart pounding painfully, they don't know if they even have that anymore but it somehow did whenever they remember you smile and the way you lit up the room around you.

They groan whenever that happens, they just want to keep you in arms reach, or in other words, in their arms, and keep you away from prying eyes where others can disgustingly lay their eyes on your illuminating self.

It was yet another day of being alone in this dark world, 1x is seen wondering around the place, they seemed to have memorized it already, it was the only thing he can do in such place really, so he has no choice anyway.

1x sighed in boredom, the whole area felt empty without your presence, even though they've been there for what seemed like eternity, she still haven't forgotten who you are.

And when it seemed like it was getting too boring, she was teleported in a deserted hallway, that was until— of course a flash of red ran past him, only stopping a few feet away from behind her, and coming back once more.

"Oh oh!! A new person!!!" It? He said with so much enthusiasm, jumping up and down before physically dragging her from the place he came running out of.

"Lookie guys!! A new person arrived!!" The little guy yelled as soon as he entered the room, the door practically forcing open with his entery, his voice carrying that of excitement, cutting off the chatter in the room.

1x grunted in disapproval and distaste, brushing the kid's hand off of her, before standing there with his arms crossed, looking all too observant to his surroundings.

That went on for hours, and of course, 1x got the information they wanted, why were they here, and where are they.

1x sighed, the noise echoing through the confined space if their room, their first match is tomorrow, already, he already knows his abilities so is it even a surprise her first match is just right after she came to this world? No. The Spectre doesn't either.

You were confused, you spawned in on a room— a cabin, right on the cold wooded floor, luckily, a few people saw you and Introduced themselves and explained where you are, thankfully.

You understand the concept, but you don't know why you're here to begin with, judging by what the survivors around you, some looked like they hadn't seen a better day— which kinda is true considering their situation.

They also told you about your supposed abilities, which were pretty surprising considering you are just pretty much a normal robloxian, there is nothing important about you whatsoever, but did you complain? No, you're already here anyway.

Meeting again isn't in both of your bucket list, but here you are, face to face with one another— the other bleeding, and the other staring them down with so much emotion mixed into one.

You never expected to see him again, but neither did she expect to see you again, but here you are, faced to face with one another.

The time is running out, all your other teammates were down and dead, leaving you last, but did 1x made an attempt to move? No, they didn't, instead? They surprised themselves and you. He hugged you, brought you into his arms in a tight hold, muttering things about how stupid you are for getting hurt.

It was their way of saying they care and they missed you, but you didn't speak about it and just leaned into her hold, you missed this, you missed her.

"Death can't separate us," you would mutter in the past while you hold them in your arms similar to what she was doing now. It always made them smile and sigh in relief whenever you mutter those lines.

And now, they seem to be the one to be saying that, although albeit, silently, their hold on you tightening in the slightest while the time runs out.

It seemed like even when obstacles keeps you both apart, you will find each other over and over again, even after death.

IM SORRY IF 1X SEEMS OOC IN THIS I'M BAD AT CHARACTERS PERSONALITY...and it's not the canon either, I think....I also got lazy at the end😣😣

[keirareidss]

unknown/nth - a.h

♡ summary: hotch nearly breaks when you're in danger, and afterwards, realizes he can't live without you pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: violence, case details wc: 1.4k based on this request

You know the distance never made a difference to me I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea Ignored the vastness between all that can be seen And all that we believe So I thought you were like an angel to me

Hotch was going to have a breakdown. Mental, or physical, he didn't know. All he knew was that, if they didn't find you soon, he was going to start breaking shit.

You'd been gone for nine hours now, and it was all his fault. If he hadn't decided to split up, the unsub wouldn't have found you alone and you would still be with him, by his side.

He didn't know what was happening to you. Were you hurt? Were you conscious? Were you even still alive? He quickly pushed that thought from his head, focusing on how to get you back. They knew the unsub was dangerous, they knew he had a hair trigger so they had to be very careful about how they went about this. Hotch didn't care. He would do whatever it takes to get you back. He'd travel to hell and back if it meant you'd be waiting for him when he got there.

"Hotch? You listening?" Morgan said, snapping him out of his stupor.

"Yes." Hotch rasped, his voice rough from shouting at everyone. A regrettable moment, he'll admit.

"Garcia got a lead. A hardware store he might work at."

"Good. Take Prentiss with you." Derek's eyebrows furrowed.

"Prentiss is with Reid at the morgue. Hotch are you alright?" When had she gone there? Aaron was really losing it.

"Alright then take Rossi." Derek hesitated a moment, watching his boss carefully. He left the room, finding Rossi in the kitchenette, leaving Hotch alone in the conference room of the police precinct. Alone with his thoughts of what you could be going through right now.

It ain't the being alone It ain't the empty home, baby You know I'm good on my own You know, it's more the being unknown So much of the living, love, is the being unknown

Hotch typically worked better on his own, or at least taking the lead which worked out for him, being the boss. He had his own office where he could isolate himself, close the blinds, fully shut himself away from the rest of the world.

But then you broke down his walls. You permeated his office, filling his space, his senses, with you. He didn't know what he was like to be alone without you anymore. You were always there. Every day, bringing him coffee, dropping your files off and lingering for a chat, taking your lunch break in his office, forcing him to eat as well.

Now, while you were gone, he couldn't eat. He couldn't force himself to focus on the case, couldn't stand to look at the files because every step closer he got to finding you, the more he envisioned what could be happening to you.

It wasn't the fact that he was alone. It was the fact that he was alone, without you.

"We've got him." The words rang in his ears, the blurry world around him becoming clearer. He blinked and he was surrounded by his team, awaiting instructions. Garcia found a name, an address. They were so close to finding you.

"Let's go." Hotch said, standing from his chair. The team followed, wary of their bosses state right now. They couldn't tell if he was just a tick away from a breakdown or a murder. Maybe both. Maybe he'd end up fainting again.

They drove to the address, sirens blaring, lights flashing, though, as they got closer to the house they slowed down, turning off their alarm. This had to go perfectly. They had to get in quietly and take him down quickly. If he heard the police coming, he'd kill you and run. They pulled up a few houses down the street.

"Hotch." Rossi called to his friend, pulling the man's attention away from the vengeance on his mind. "I think you should stay back."

"What? No way, I'm going in there."

"I don't think that's a good idea and if it was anyone else in your shoes, you'd be saying the same thing. You're too close to this, Aaron, you know that." Aaron considered Dave's words and then nodded. His heart did feel as though it was beating a bit too fast and he could feel sweat forming on his forehead. He leaned back against the SUV as his team headed on without him, creeping up towards the house.

Any minute now, you'd come out of that house, perfectly fine, and right back into his arms, where he'd never let you leave from again.

Do you know, I could break beneath the weight Of the goodness, love, I still carry for you? That I'd walk so far just to take The injury of finally knowing you

Fourteen minutes and thirty five seconds. Fourteen minutes and thirty five seconds he stood at that vehicle, waiting for any glimpse of you. Any indication that you were okay, alive somewhere in that hell house. Just when he was considering storming into that house himself, the door opened, Derek leading you out of the house.

Your arm was over his shoulders, you didn't have any visible severe injuries, no limp, no dislocated shoulder. From what he could see you were fine but as he got closer, his feet bringing him closer and closer to you, he saw more injuries along your body. Bruises on the exposed skin he could see, blood on your temple and running down your bicep.

His eyes didn't leave you as he rushed across the yard. You spotted him, a sigh of relief leaving your lips. You took your arm from Derek's shoulders, stumbling forward to meet your boyfriend. He wasted no time pulling you into his arms. His lips pressed roughly to yours, his large hand cupping your cheek as your eyes fell closed, the passionate kiss making all the pain and aching in your body disappear.

"I thought I lost you." Hotch murmured against your lips.

"I'm right here." You whispered, Hotch pulling you back to kiss you again. The feeling of you pressed against him felt familiar, felt right. His arm wrapped around your waist before he remembered himself, pulling back again to look in your eyes.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He was out of breath, from the running to you or the kissing, you didn't know. Maybe a combination of both. Maybe it was just you alone who took his breath away.

"No. No, I'm okay." He leant down, burying his face in your neck, holding you tight. He didn't care who saw, the team, the press, the fucking president could watch him forgo his professionalism to embrace you and he would tell them to go fuck themselves.

"We should get you to a hospital." He says, leaning back to scan over your body for injuries.

"I'm fine, Aaron, just a few bruises."

"We need to be sure-"

"I'm sure." You said firmly, placing a hand on his bicep.

"Hotch." Derek called, pulling the yearning man's attention away from you. Morgan nodded to where the unsub was cuffed in the back of a cop car and the team was awaiting instruction.

He didn't let you leave his side as he finished up the case, keeping you within arms length as the team headed back to the precinct, packing everything up and heading back to the hotel. The two of you, in his hotel room, laid almost nose to nose on the bed, his hand clutching yours.

"I wasn't very helpful with this case." Hotch admits in the dark of the room.

"No?" You implored.

"No. I couldn't stop my mind from wandering. I kept thinking about what he was doing to you." He said softly. You sighed, raising a hand to his face, cupping his cheek softly.

"I'm here. I'm okay."

"I know." His hand found your wrist. And he was telling the truth. Seeing you in front of him, feeling your soft skin under his callused fingers, he finally felt at peace. He finally felt as if the calm, the constant in his life was returned to him.

Taglist: @cinnamoncunt, @dramioneforevertilltheend, @tinythebunni

[clairewritesfanfics]

civilian au: vtuber shiesty mark

I headcanon that Shiesty struggled financially growing up. Unlike the others, he didn't have access to a secure house and Debbie struggled to put food on the table. She juggled multiple jobs and her son getting labeled as a troublemaker at school and hanging out with the wrong crowd made it difficult to be the ideal mother.

Eventually, she died and Mark dropped out of school. He committed petty theft with his friends, but he never killed anyone and avoided physical altercations. He was the type of robbers who are all bark and no bite, which is still a bad thing but he didn't like hitting people.

He lived in a dingy apartment with barely any furniture. He kept it clean, but not neat. He also taught himself how to cook decent meals under 25 dollars because he got sick of eating instant noodles everyday.

At some point, Mark gets his hands on a gaming laptop. He always wanted one but Debbie couldn't afford any, but now he can finally play.

He started streaming for fun, just his voice. He didn't expect to blow up in popularity. He has a handsome voice plus he can be funny without trying so he has a lot of fans.

He uses most of his money on his friends and to get better gaming equipment, but he never intended to move to a better place. 

A lot of fans want him to do a face reveal but he's too shy, plus he knows that if his looks don't match their expectations they'll abandon him, so instead of showing his face he saves up and commissions for a really cool-looking Vtuber model. (I haven't decided what that would look like. You guys decide your own headcanons.)

He avoids drama and keeps a professional distance from everyone, fans and colleagues. He just wants to play, he isn't interested in dating, and if he were, he wasn't going to use his job to find a partner. All in all, he's a successful dude.

He can be toxic though in that he shares a lot of male players’ cozy games aren’t games mentality. He doesn’t go out of his way to bully others for calling themselves gamers for playing The Sims or Infinity Nikki, but you just know he’s one of those guys.

But then he meets you. (How? I’ll leave that to you.) Love happens and you become his first and only serious partner.

He starts branching out from his typical content (fighting, action, racing, shooting, RPGs–the so-called “serious” games) and tries cozy and casual games. 

He loses a portion of his original audience for this but he ends up attracting even more fans, especially since he gets so serious about the silliest things, like building the perfect house and decorating the best office for his partner’s in-game character.

He’s a puritan when it comes to gacha and discourages spending as much as he can. When he does pull for a new character or weapon or costume, he has you sit with him.

During streams you would knock softly on his office door (yes, you eventually moved in together) and if he can, he’ll pause his game and greet you. When you “interrupt” his streams it’s usually to give him a snack or drink. His viewers like to make bets about what’s on the menu because that’s how often you do it.

He always tells you his schedule so you know when he can’t open the door. During those times, you will knock to let him know and then leave the tray outside for when he gets a break.

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[dragonmasterhiccup]

Part of him did want to show Astrid his world. The other part of him was scared to. At least, scared to show her his pod. They didn't exactly like him all that much.

But, if they could find a way to get her there without them knowing she was human...it could work, at least long enough for her to get to see it. Then, he'd bring her home, back to the surface.

There was however the issue of the water pressure...

"I'll see what I can do. You've shown me so much here, I'd like to return the favor."

He leaned in again, closing his eyes, when a sudden shout caused him to pull away. His eyes widened at the old man's accusations, the merman at a loss for words as Astrid helped him get to his crutch.

Evil. Sea-devil. Creature.

It echoed in his mind, bringing back bad memories from his pod. His heart was racing, and he felt as though he couldn't get enough air.

Outside. He needed to get outside...

Using the crutch, he hurried out as fast as he could, with only Phlegma seeing him escape.

The door was left ajar as he continued on down the massive stairwell.

A spell. He'd never put a spell on Astrid, let alone drag her to the depths. That wasn't who he is! Even then, that wasn't how his magic worked. He knew he'd have to go back eventually, but that was to be temporary. Hiccup wanted to live among the humans, but if they would only see him as some trickster creature, could they ever truly accept him?

The sun was low, lower than he thought it would be. He had to get to water before moonrise, he knew that. But where? He still had to keep the end of his tail dry.

🐟

He didn't make it.

Hiccup had gotten the human clothes off, and just as he was about to climb into the wash basin, his tail returned, leaving him stuck in the grass.

Flopping over to his back, he let out a frustrated groan. "Why can't things ever be simple," he wondered aloud, hands in his hair and his eyes closed, "she's a human, and I'm a merman. I should have expected that it wouldn't be received all that well..."

Astrid, the best warrior on Berk. And Hiccup...the cowardly merman who ran at the first sign of trouble.

His hands lowered to cover his face. "She deserves better..."

"I'm not so sure about that," said a voice from above. Startled, Hiccup opened his eyes to find Phlegma standing above him. Her arms were crossed, a basket of banging on her arm. "Aye, you shouldn't have left. You missed quite the spectacle. But, Hiccup?"

She knelt down, looking him in the eye. "What my daughter deserves is someone who loves her, cherishes her. You may be part fish, but you fit that bill."

Hiccup shook his head, "She's a warrior. She shouldn't be with a coward."

Phlegma paused before motioning for him to give her his tail. He curled the end of it towards her, and she began to change the wrappings, "Hiccup. I get the feeling that something caused that reaction of yours. It wasn't just Mildew, but something else."

Hiccup didn't respond, averting his gaze.

"Hm. I thought so. Something also tells me that you can be quite brave when the situation calls for it. I don't know how you did it, but you befriended a dragon. That takes bravery, lad."

"You're both young. You both have a lot to learn. But don't be so hard on yourself, Hiccup. Even mermen deserve love, you know," she gave him a soft smile, tying the new wrappings after applying some salve.

"Astrid is inside, worried about you. I told her to let me speak with you first," she rested a hand on his shoulder, and he finally met her gaze. "You did nothing wrong, Hiccup. Mildew, he's just looking to cause trouble. He always has been that way. If you had stayed, you would have seen just about everyone come to your defense. Axel and Astrid were the most vocal."

Gathering the supplies, she got to her feet. "I'll send Astrid out to you. I'll see you in the morning, dear."

Without another word, she left, leaving Hiccup a bit speechless as he stretched his fins out.

A moment later, he heard hurried footsteps approaching. Looking over at his girlfriend, he said, "I, I'm so sorry I ran off like that, I can explain..."

After a long training session, all Astrid wanted to do was cool off on the beach. Maybe a tiny swim, even though the ocean was so cold at this time of year. She pushed through the brush and staggered down to the shore.

Only to find a boy lounging in the shallows.

“Oh!” She dropped her axe in the sand. From his bare torso, she assumed he was naked. “Sorry! I didn’t know someone else would be…here…” as the apologies flowed, she realized from the waist down, he had green scales and a pair of fins.

No wonder she hadn’t recognized him.

“No way…” she inched closer. “A real mermaid! In the flesh! Are the stories true?” She stamped down her overwhelming curiosity for a moment to give him a stern point. “Don’t try anything fishy, mermaid. I’m very capable of protecting myself, got it?”

((I saw the prompt and went feral, hope you don’t mind))

[X]

Hiccup started, the water around him splashing as he sat up straight in surprise, before he moved a little further back, his cheeks flushed.

"No, sorry, I, I shouldn't--" Ducking his head, the merman awkwardly held up a hand, "Usually no one comes here..."

But his movements only caused his tail to briefly break the surface, emerald scales glittering in the sun for a moment before dipping below the water again.

Firmly, he responded, "Merman. I am a merman. And no, don't worry, I, I wasn't going to try anything...I know you'd probably kill me if I did..."

Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his hair, which had partially dried in his time sitting in the shallow water. "What, what stories are you referring to?"

He knew, or at least had a gut feeling about what she was asking, but he wanted to hear it from her. She appeared wary, but not fearful. Maybe these humans didn't have the same fears of his kind like the others?

[alltoolewis]

Sports car- Lewis Hamilton

GIF by solgif

summary- Since joining Ferrari, Lewis has grown close to all members of the Leclerc family including Charles's sister. Despite knowing she's forbidden, he offers to take her to the gala where the tensions begin to rise in his sports car...

I LOVE THIS HOWEVER IT IS VERY STEAMY!!! PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!!!

You’ve always lived in someone else’s shadow.

Not because you were invisible — quite the opposite. As Charles Leclerc’s younger sister, you became part of the Leclerc legacy before you even understood what that meant. In Monaco, people knew your last name before they knew your first. At family dinners, relatives discussed your future in terms of your brother’s next podium. Even at school, teachers smiled at you like they expected greatness — or at least headlines.

You didn’t hate it. You loved Charles. But you learned early that silence was easier than explaining who you were beneath the family name.

So you built a career on the sidelines. Quietly brilliant. A digital strategist for Formula 1 media — someone who belonged in the paddock without drawing attention. You were everywhere and nowhere, a lens behind the lens. And that’s exactly how you preferred it.

Until him.

Lewis Hamilton doesn’t enter rooms. He arrives. He doesn’t speak; he commands attention. And somehow, in a sport obsessed with youth and fresh talent, he still walks like he owns every corner of every track.

You never intended to notice him. Older. Untouchable. Far too famous. But notice him you did — and that changed everything.

It started with a glance across a crowded paddock. A glance that held weight. Electricity. The kind of look that rewrites personal histories in a single breath. He didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just saw you — really saw you — in a way no one ever had before. Not as someone's sister. Not as a background figure. But as you.

The first time you actually spoke was three weeks later. You were rushing through the Ferrari garage with a tablet full of content schedules, head down, focused on deadlines. You didn't see him until you collided — shoulder to chest, your tablet clattering to the concrete.

"Shit, sorry—" You dropped to your knees, scrambling for the device.

"Easy." His voice was lower than you expected. Warmer. He crouched beside you, picking up the tablet before you could reach it. "No damage done."

You looked up. Met his eyes properly for the first time. They were darker in person, more intense. The kind of brown that held secrets.

"Thanks." You reached for the tablet, but he didn't immediately hand it over.

"You're Charles's sister." Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered without the usual reverence people used when connecting you to your brother.

"Guilty." You tried for lightness, but it came out flat.

"I'm Lewis."

As if you didn't know. As if everyone in this garage — in this sport — didn't know exactly who he was. But something in the way he said it made it feel like an introduction between equals. Like he was offering you his name, not his reputation.

"I know who you are." You finally took the tablet from his hands, fingers brushing briefly. "Everyone knows who you are."

"But I don't know who you are." He stood, extending a hand to help you up. "Beyond the obvious family connection."

You hesitated. Took his hand. Let him pull you to your feet.

"I'm nobody important."

"I doubt that." His smile was slight, knowing. "Nobody unimportant moves through this world the way you do."

That moment — that single, electric moment — became the first thread in a tapestry you never expected to weave. You didn't know then how profoundly Lewis Hamilton would unravel everything you thought you understood about yourself, about visibility, about the quiet spaces you'd carved so carefully between the headlines.

You didn't fall. Not immediately. Not obviously. But something shifted in that moment — a tectonic realignment of your carefully constructed universe. You felt it in the way your pulse quickened, in the subtle electricity that lingered where his hand had touched yours. This was different. This was unexpected. This was the beginning of something that would rewrite every narrative you'd ever told yourself about who you were supposed to be.

And that it did...

The connection deepened in stolen moments. Brief conversations in empty corridors. Shared glances across crowded press conferences. Text messages that started professional and slowly became personal. Lewis had a way of asking questions that made you forget to guard your answers — about your work, your thoughts on the sport, your dreams that had nothing to do with racing.

You found yourself looking forward to race weekends not for Charles's results, but for the possibility of running into Lewis. The way he remembered details from conversations weeks old. How he listened when you spoke, really listened, like your words mattered more than the noise surrounding them.

"You see things differently," he told you one evening after a particularly chaotic qualifying session. You were both lingering in the paddock long after most people had left, the setting sun casting everything in golden light. "You notice what others miss."

"Occupational hazard," you deflected, but your heart was racing.

"No." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "It's who you are."

The almost-kiss happened in Singapore. Rain had delayed practice, and you'd found shelter in an empty hospitality suite. Lewis appeared like he always did — as if the universe had conspired to put him exactly where you needed him to be. The conversation flowed like wine, intimate and intoxicating. When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn't pull away.

"We shouldn't," you whispered, even as you leaned into his touch.

"I know," he replied, but neither of you moved.

The space between you crackled with possibility. With want. With everything you'd been denying for months. But as his thumb traced your cheekbone, reality crashed back. The cameras. The headlines. The inevitable comparisons. Lewis Hamilton's Mystery Woman. Charles Leclerc's Sister in Secret Romance.

You stepped back.

"I can't be another story, Lewis. I can't be the girl who fell for the famous driver. I won't disappear into someone else's narrative again."

The hurt in his eyes was immediate, but so was the understanding. He'd watched you navigate this world, seen how carefully you'd constructed your independence. He knew what you were protecting.

"I would never ask you to disappear," he said quietly.

"You wouldn't have to ask. It would just happen." Your voice cracked slightly. "I've spent my whole life being someone's sister. I won't spend the rest of it being someone's secret."

So you pulled back. Created distance. Kept your conversations professional, your glances brief. But the want remained, simmering beneath every interaction. The way his jaw tightened when you laughed at another driver's joke. How your breath caught when he said your name. The careful space you both maintained, electric with everything you weren't allowing yourselves to feel.

You were falling — had already fallen — but you refused to let yourself land.

The Ferrari gala changed everything.

You'd managed three weeks of careful distance. Three weeks of professional smiles and conversations that never strayed beyond work. Three weeks of pretending your heart didn't skip when Lewis entered a room. It was working — or at least, you'd convinced yourself it was working.

But Monaco's grandest hotel had other plans.

"What do you mean there's no room?" Charles frowned at his phone, Alex beside him looking equally confused. "We booked the car service weeks ago."

You stood in the hotel lobby, evening gown already on, makeup perfect, watching your carefully laid plans dissolve. The Ferrari gala was in an hour. The venue was twenty minutes away. And apparently, the luxury car service had overbooked.

"They can send another car in forty-five minutes," Charles continued, running a hand through his hair. "But we'll be late. Really late."

"Go without me." You forced a smile, already calculating backup options. "I'll figure something out."

"Absolutely not." Alex shook her head. "We're not leaving you behind."

"I could call—"

"No need."

The voice came from behind you, warm and familiar. You turned to find Lewis approaching, car keys spinning around his finger. He looked devastating in his tuxedo — all sharp lines and confident elegance. Your carefully constructed composure wavered.

"Problem solved," he continued, those dark eyes finding yours. "I was heading there anyway."

Charles looked between you and Lewis, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You sure? We don't want to impose."

"No imposition." Lewis's smile was easy, casual. But when he looked at you, there was something deeper. A question. An invitation. "What do you say?"

You should have said no. Should have waited for the delayed car service, shown up fashionably late rather than risk twenty minutes alone with Lewis Hamilton in an enclosed space. Should have protected the distance you'd worked so hard to maintain.

Instead, you heard yourself saying, "That would be great. Thank you."

Charles kissed your cheek, whispered "have fun" in your ear with a knowing look that made your stomach flip. Alex squeezed your hand. And then they were gone, leaving you alone with Lewis in the marble lobby.

"Shall we?" He offered his arm, perfectly gentlemanly.

You took it, trying to ignore the way your skin burned where you touched him.

The car was exactly what you'd expected — sleek, expensive, powerful. A reflection of its owner. Lewis held the passenger door open, his hand briefly touching the small of your back as you settled into the leather seat. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent electricity shooting up your spine.

He slid into the driver's seat with fluid grace, the engine purring to life. The first few minutes passed in careful silence, Monaco's glittering streets sliding past the windows. You focused on the view, on anything except the way Lewis's hands looked on the steering wheel, the subtle scent of his cologne filling the small space.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said quietly, eyes still on the road.

Your breath caught. "Lewis—"

"I know." His voice was rough. "I know we agreed to keep things professional. But sitting here, with you looking like that..." He glanced at you briefly, and the want in his eyes made your heart race. "I'm only human."

The car slowed at a red light. In the sudden stillness, the tension became unbearable. You could feel him looking at you, could sense the careful control he was maintaining. When you finally met his gaze, the air between you crackled.

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," you whispered.

"What? That we'd be alone together? That I'd tell you how stunning you look? That I'd want to pull over and kiss you until we both forget why we're fighting this?"

Your pulse thundered. "Yes."

The light turned green. Lewis accelerated smoothly, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"Then we're both afraid of the same thing," he said.

The rest of the drive passed in charged silence, broken only by the occasional comment that danced dangerously close to flirtation. When Lewis mentioned how the dress brought out your eyes, you countered by telling him his tuxedo was "almost unfairly handsome." Each exchange felt like a small rebellion against your own rules.

By the time you arrived at the venue, the tension had wound so tight you could barely breathe.

The Ferrari gala was everything you'd expected — opulent, crowded, buzzing with the energy of Monaco's elite mixed with Formula 1's biggest names. You found your assigned table quickly, settling between Charles and your parents, grateful for the familiar buffer of family conversation.

But across the room, at the drivers' table, Lewis Hamilton was impossible to ignore.

It started innocently enough. A glance in his direction during the welcome speech. He happened to be looking back, and for a moment, the crowded ballroom faded away. He raised his champagne glass slightly — a subtle toast meant only for you. You looked away quickly, cheeks warming.

Ten minutes later, during the appetizer course, you caught him watching you again. This time, when your eyes met, he smiled. Not the polished, public smile he wore for cameras, but something private. Intimate. The kind of smile that made your stomach flutter and your resolve weaken.

"You okay?" Charles leaned over, following your gaze. "You seem distracted."

"Fine," you lied, forcing your attention back to your plate. "Just tired."

But it was impossible to stay focused on your family's conversation when Lewis kept drawing your attention like a magnet. When he laughed at something Lando said, you found yourself watching the way his whole face lit up. When he stood to greet someone, you noticed how the tuxedo fit perfectly across his shoulders. When he ran a hand through his hair, you remembered how it felt when those same fingers had brushed your cheek in Singapore.

The worst part was that he seemed equally distracted. You'd catch him looking during your father's story about Monaco's early racing days. During your mother's animated discussion of charity work. During Charles's analysis of the upcoming race weekend. Every time your eyes met, the air seemed to thin, the noise of the gala fading to background static.

"Excuse me," you murmured during the main course, needing air, needing space, needing to escape the magnetic pull of Lewis's attention. "I'll be right back."

You made your way toward the terrace, weaving through tables of glamorous guests, but you could feel his eyes following your movement across the room.

The terrace was quiet, cool marble beneath your heels, the Monaco night spread out like a glittering canvas. You knew he would follow. It wasn't a question of if, but when.

Three minutes later, the glass door slid open behind you. No hesitation. No pretense. Just Lewis, closing the distance between you with the same deliberate grace he brought to everything.

"You're running," he said. Not an accusation but an observation.

"Always," you replied, turning to face him. The Monaco night framed him perfectly — city lights glinting off his skin, the sharp lines of his tuxedo cutting a silhouette that was equal parts danger and desire. "Running is what I do best."

He took another step closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle notes of his cologne. Close enough that one more step would mean touching. "Not always," he said softly. "Sometimes you stand perfectly still. And those are the moments that change everything."

He was right. And in that moment, with Monaco's nighttime skyline as witness, you knew you were about to make a choice that would rewrite everything.

Your hand reached out — almost involuntarily — and touched the lapel of his tuxedo. Not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Just contact. Connection. A point of no return.

"Lewis—" your voice was barely a whisper, "—we can't."

But even as you said it, you both knew the word "can't" had lost all meaning. The space between wanting and doing had collapsed, and there was nothing left but pure, electric possibility.

His hand covered yours where it rested against his chest. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Simply acknowledging the electricity between your skin.

"Watch me," he said, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was everything you'd imagined and nothing you'd prepared for. Soft at first, tentative, like he was asking permission even as he took it. But when you didn't pull away — when you leaned into him instead — it deepened. His lips moved against yours with practiced confidence, tasting like champagne and promises you weren't sure you could keep.

Your free hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. He made a sound — low, appreciative — that sent heat spiraling through your chest. His other hand settled at your waist, thumb tracing small circles through the silk of your dress.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. "I've been thinking about doing that for months," he murmured, voice rough with want.

"Lewis." Your pulse was racing, every nerve ending alive. "We can't do this here. Anyone could see—"

"My room," he said immediately, the words barely more than breath against your lips. "Come back with me. Please."

The please undid you. Not a demand but a request, vulnerable in its honesty. You could see the want in his eyes, but also the question. The choice was entirely yours.

You thought about the gala still happening inside. About Charles and your parents at the table, probably wondering where you'd gone. About the careful distance you'd maintained, the professional boundaries you'd constructed.

Then Lewis's thumb brushed across your lower lip, and all those careful considerations scattered like leaves in the wind.

"I can't," you said, stepping back from his touch. The words felt like glass in your throat. "Not your room. Not tonight."

The disappointment that flickered across Lewis's face was immediate and devastating. His hand dropped from your waist, jaw tightening as he processed your rejection. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, might push back against your boundaries the way he pushed his car to its limits.

Instead, he nodded once, sharp and final. "Of course. I shouldn't have—"

"Wait." The word escaped before you could stop it. Lewis paused, hope and wariness warring in his expression. You glanced back toward the gala, toward the golden light spilling from the ballroom windows, then back to him. "Your car."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "My car?"

"You're not leaving the gala completely. Not with so much time left." Your heart hammered against your ribs as you spoke, each word a small rebellion against your better judgment. "But we could... we could have privacy. Just for a few minutes."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed immediately by something darker, hungrier. "Are you sure?"

You weren't sure of anything except the way your body responded to his proximity, the way every careful rule you'd constructed seemed meaningless when he looked at you like that.

"Lead the way," you whispered.

The walk back through the gala required careful choreography. Lewis left first, weaving through tables with the easy confidence of someone simply making social rounds. You waited three minutes — counting each second — before following a different path toward the exit.

You almost made it undetected.

"Going somewhere interesting?"

Alex's voice stopped you cold just steps from the terrace doors. She was standing near the bar, champagne flute in hand, eyebrow arched in that knowing way that meant you were absolutely caught.

Your heart hammered as you glanced around, confirming no one else was paying attention. Charles was deep in conversation with Ferrari executives. Your parents were laughing at something with the Binotto family. The coast was clear except for Alex's sharp, amused gaze.

You pressed a finger to your lips — the universal gesture for please keep this between us — and gave her your most pleading look.

Alex's smile was pure mischief. She raised her champagne glass in a mock toast, mouthed "have fun," and turned back to the bar as if nothing had happened.

Relief flooded through you as you slipped out into the Monaco night, but it was quickly replaced by anticipation. Lewis was waiting by the valet stand, car keys already in hand, looking like sin in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.

"Ready?" he asked, and the single word carried the weight of everything you were about to cross.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and followed him into the night.

The valet brought Lewis's car around with practiced efficiency, the sleek machine purring in the Monaco night. Lewis moved to the passenger side, opening your door with the same careful attention he'd shown all evening. But as you approached the car, reality crashed over you like a cold wave.

"This is insane," you breathed, stopping just short of the open door. "Lewis, I can't— we can't do this. Charles trusts me. He trusts you. And here I am, sneaking around behind his back like some kind of—"

"Hey." Lewis's voice was gentle but firm as he stepped closer. "Look at me."

But you couldn't stop the words tumbling out, months of suppressed anxiety finally finding their voice. "He's going to find out. Someone's going to see us, or Alex is going to say something, or—God, what am I even doing? This is so disrespectful to him, to our family, to—"

Lewis's hands found your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. "Breathe," he said softly.

"I am breathing, I'm just—"

He kissed you. Soft, brief, just enough to quiet the spiral of panic in your chest. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Charles loves you. More than racing, more than winning, more than anything in this world. And you know what he wants most for you?" Lewis's thumb traced along your jaw. "He wants you to be happy. To find someone who sees how extraordinary you are."

"But—"

"No buts." His smile was tender, understanding. "We're not betraying anyone by feeling this. We're not disrespecting Charles by wanting each other. We're just... human."

His hands slid down to yours, fingers intertwining. "If you want to go back inside, we go back inside. If you want me to drive you home and pretend this never happened, I'll do that too. But don't run because you're afraid of what other people might think. Run because it's what you want."

The choice hung between you, suspended in the warm Monaco air. Lewis waited, patient and sure, while you wrestled with every careful boundary you'd ever constructed.

Finally, you stepped toward the car. "Help me in?"

His smile was radiant as he guided you into the passenger seat, his hand warm and steady at your elbow. The leather was soft against your skin, the interior intimate and shadowed. When Lewis closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, you felt the last of your resistance crumble.

This was happening. You were letting it happen.

And for the first time in months, that felt exactly right.

Lewis started the engine but didn't drive anywhere. Instead, he found a secluded spot in the venues's private parking area, tucked between shadows where the valet lights couldn't reach. The sudden quiet felt intimate, charged with possibility.

"Come here," he said softly, and you found yourself sliding across the leather seat until you were close enough to feel his warmth.

His first kiss was feather-light, barely a whisper against your lips. Testing. Asking permission. When you didn't pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand cupping your cheek with reverent gentleness.

"You're trembling," he murmured against your mouth.

"I'm nervous," you admitted, the honesty surprising you both.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to." The words came out stronger than you felt. "I want this. I want you."

Something shifted in his expression then, heat replacing the careful tenderness. His next kiss was hungrier, more demanding, and you met it with equal fervor. Your hands found the lapels of his tuxedo, pulling him closer, and he responded by threading his fingers through your hair.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone. "I've wanted this for so long."

The careful control you'd maintained for months began to fracture. Your usual composure, your measured responses, your need to be perfect and untouchable — it all started to dissolve under his touch. When his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear, you made a sound you'd never made before, breathy and wanting.

"Lewis," you gasped, and his name on your lips seemed to undo something in him too.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice rough with desire.

The question hung between you, heavy with implication. This was your moment to retreat, to pull back into the safe space of almost-but-not-quite. Instead, you surprised yourself by meeting his gaze directly, letting him see the want you'd been hiding for months.

"I want you to stop treating me like I might break," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "I want you to stop being so careful with me."

His eyes darkened at your words, pupils dilating in the dim light. "You sure about that?"

Instead of answering with words, you kissed him with a passion that had been building for months, pouring all your suppressed desire into the contact. Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound sending heat spiraling through your chest.

This time, when his hands moved to your waist, there was nothing gentle about it. His grip was firm, possessive, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, rapid and strong, matching the frantic rhythm of your own pulse.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said against your lips, and for the first time, you let yourself believe it might be true.

Your hands moved to his bow tie, fingers working at the silk knot with surprising steadiness despite the way your pulse hammered. The fabric came loose under your touch, and Lewis's breath hitched as you pulled it free, letting it fall forgotten to the car floor.

"Back seat," he said, voice rough with want, and you didn't hesitate.

The transition was clumsy, graceless in the way that real desire always is. Your dress caught on the gear shift, his knee knocked against the steering wheel, and you both laughed breathlessly at the awkwardness of it all. But then you were in the spacious back seat, and the laughter died as the reality of what was happening settled over you both.

Lewis's jacket came off first, your hands pushing it from his shoulders while he worked at the tiny buttons running down your spine. Each one he freed sent a shiver through you, his knuckles brushing against your skin as the silk loosened.

"You're sure?" he asked one more time, even as his fingers traced the newly exposed line of your back.

"Stop asking," you breathed, reaching for his shirt. "I'm sure."

The crisp white cotton parted under your hands, revealing the lean muscle beneath. You'd seen him shirtless in countless photos, magazine covers, social media posts — but this was different. This was intimate, private, yours to touch and explore without the barrier of cameras or crowds.

His skin was warm under your palms, and when you pressed your lips to his collarbone, he made a sound that sent heat pooling low in your belly. The careful control he'd maintained all evening was finally cracking, and you could see it in the way his hands shook slightly as they found the zipper of your dress.

"Beautiful," he murmured as the silk pooled around your waist, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in the dim light. "So fucking beautiful."

The reverence in his voice made you bold. You arched into his touch as his hands mapped the newly revealed skin, your own fingers working at his belt with determined focus. The leather came free, and Lewis groaned when your hand brushed against him through the fabric of his trousers.

"Christ," he breathed, head falling back against the leather seat. "You're going to kill me."

But his hands were moving too, sliding the dress down your hips until it joined the growing pile of expensive fabric on the car floor. The cool air against your heated skin made you gasp, and Lewis took advantage of your parted lips to kiss you again, deeper this time, hungrier.

You were both breathing hard now, the windows beginning to fog from the heat you were generating. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint sounds of the gala continuing, but it felt like another world entirely. Here, in the intimate darkness of Lewis's car, there was nothing but want and touch and the electric connection that had been building between you for months.

His mouth moved lower, trailing hot kisses down the column of your throat. You arched beneath him as he found the sensitive hollow at the base of your neck, his tongue flicking against your pulse point in a way that made you gasp his name.

"So responsive," he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you.

When his lips moved lower still, lavishing attention on the swell of your breasts, your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close. He took his time, worshipping you with a patience that bordered on torturous, his mouth and tongue drawing sounds from you that you'd never made before.

"Lewis, please—" you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for.

But he seemed to know. His kisses moved lower, across your ribs, your stomach, each press of his lips like a brand against your heated skin. When he settled between your thighs, his dark eyes met yours in the dim light.

"Still sure?" he asked, though his hands were already sliding up your legs, thumbs tracing maddening circles on your inner thighs.

You could only nod, words lost to the anticipation building in your chest. And then his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible.

The first touch of his tongue made you cry out, your back arching off the leather seat. He worked you with the same focused intensity he brought to everything else, learning what made you gasp, what made you writhe, what made you forget your own name.

"God, you taste incredible," he said against you, the words sending vibrations through your core that made you tremble.

Your hands fisted in his hair as he continued his ministrations, building you higher and higher until you were balanced on the edge of something overwhelming. The sounds you were making would have embarrassed you if you'd been capable of caring about anything beyond the sensation of his mouth on you.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders as he found a rhythm that had you gasping his name like a prayer. The careful, methodical way he explored you — tongue tracing patterns that made your vision blur — spoke to the same precision he brought to the track. Every flick, every gentle suction, every moment where he pulled back just enough to make you whimper in protest.

"Don't stop," you managed, voice breaking on the words. "Please don't—"

He hummed against you in response, the vibration making your hips buck involuntarily. His hands moved to hold you steady, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs with just enough pressure to ground you even as he sent you spiraling higher.

The tension coiled tighter in your belly, every nerve ending alive and singing under his attention. You could feel yourself getting close, that familiar tightening that promised release, and Lewis seemed to sense it too. His pace intensified, tongue working against you with devastating accuracy.

"That's it," he murmured, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in with renewed focus. "Let go for me."

The command in his voice, rough with his own desire, was what finally pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, back arching as you cried out his name into the heated air of the car. He worked you through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rolled through your body, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you came back down.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction and want. "You're incredible," he said, voice rough as he kissed his way back up your body.

You pulled him up to you, tasting yourself on his lips as you kissed him deeply, your hands already reaching for the waistband of his trousers. "Your turn," you breathed against his mouth.

You kissed your way down his body, tongue tracing the intricate ink that decorated his skin. Each tattoo told a story — victories, losses, moments that had shaped him into the man beneath you now. Your lips followed the compass rose on his chest, the script along his ribs, the geometric patterns that wound around his bicep.

"Fuck," he breathed as your mouth moved lower, his hands tangling in your hair. "You don't have to—"

But you wanted to. Wanted to worship him the way he'd worshipped you, wanted to draw those same desperate sounds from his lips. When you finally took him in your mouth, his reaction was immediate and devastating.

"Christ," he gasped, head falling back against the seat. "Your mouth—"

You worked him slowly at first, learning what made him groan, what made his hips buck involuntarily. He was generous with his praise, voice rough with pleasure as he told you how good you felt, how perfect you were, how long he'd dreamed of this moment.

The power of reducing someone so controlled, so commanding, to breathless gasps and whispered pleas was intoxicating. You could feel him getting close, his breathing ragged, muscles tense beneath your hands.

"Stop," he said suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. "I want to be inside you when I come."

The raw honesty in his voice made heat pool low in your belly all over again. You moved back up his body, straddling his hips, both of you breathing hard in the steamy confines of the car.

"Are you sure?" he asked, hands settling on your waist as you positioned yourself above him.

Instead of answering with words, you sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you were fully seated in his lap. The stretch was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what you'd been craving without even knowing it.

"God," you breathed, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you.

His hands roamed your back, soothing and possessive at once. "You feel incredible," he murmured against your ear. "So perfect."

When you finally began to move, it was with a rhythm that built slowly, deliberately. Each roll of your hips drew soft sounds from both of you, the leather seat creaking beneath you as you found your pace. Lewis's hands guided your movements, helping you find the angle that made you both gasp.

The windows were completely fogged now, the outside world invisible beyond the steamed glass. There was nothing but this — the slide of skin against skin, the sound of your breathing mingling in the heated air, the way Lewis looked at you like you were everything he'd ever wanted.

"You're so beautiful like this," he whispered, voice strained with pleasure as you moved above him. "So fucking perfect."

His words sent electricity through you, spurring you to move faster, to take him deeper. The praise fell from his lips like a prayer — telling you how incredible you felt, how he'd never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, how watching you take your pleasure was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Lewis," you gasped, feeling that familiar tension building again, stronger this time with him buried deep inside you.

"I know, baby," he breathed, one hand sliding between your bodies to find that sensitive bundle of nerves. "I can feel you getting close. Come for me again."

The combination of his touch and his words and the perfect angle of him inside you was devastating. Your rhythm faltered as the pleasure built, becoming erratic, desperate.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing ragged now. "Let me feel you."

When your second orgasm hit, it was even more intense than the first. You cried out his name as you shattered around him, your body clenching and pulsing in waves that seemed to go on forever. The sight and feel of you coming undone above him pushed Lewis over the edge too.

"Fuck, I'm—" he groaned, pulling you down for a desperate kiss as his own release claimed him, his body tensing beneath you as he spilled himself deep inside you with a broken cry of your name.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat despite the cool Monaco night. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the aftershocks slowly faded, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

"That was..." he started, then trailed off with a breathless laugh.

"Yeah," you agreed, not trusting yourself with more words yet.

For a long moment, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other in the steamy confines of his car, hearts gradually slowing to normal rhythms. Reality would intrude soon enough, but for now, there was only this perfect, stolen moment of intimacy.

Not worried about sneaking back into the gala. or your brothers reaction. It was just you and him.

[messysketchyobeyme]

Something hit the back of Satan's head. He snapped his head back and saw a paper airplane flutter to the floor. He was ready to scold Asmodeus for passing notes in class, again, until he saw your face a couple of rows away. Although the way your eyebrows scrunched together in concentration suggested that you were diligently taking notes, the fact that you kept sending glances his way every few seconds tore your ruse to shreds.

You were still relatively new to the Devildom, having only just freed Belphegor from the attic a few weeks prior. Despite having a pact together, you were such an enigma to him. Why pass notes in class when the two of you lived in the same house? What would be so urgent that you couldn't bear to wait an hour to speak in between classes?

Satan picked up the airplane from the dusty floor and unfolded it on his desk. One word was hastily scribbled in the corner.

Hi.

He rolled his eyes. Were you a child? Satan wrote a note of his own. Why are you writing notes in class?

Satan folded the notebook paper into a crisp square and turned to face the demon behind him. He raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head toward you. You were grinning at him in the most conspicuous way possible, but Satan chose to ignore that. The demon followed his line of sight before scoffing and taking his note.

Satan turned back around, not bothering to see if the paper had made it back to you. He didn't need to, considering how, after a few minutes, your note—now folded back into an airplane—fluttered toward him. He grabbed it mid-air. He was glad that the professor was too busy writing on the chalkboard to notice anything going on.

After unfurling the page, he noticed that you had basically written a paragraph this time.

Because it's fun! We do it all the time in the human world. Ask Levi. He would know. Besides, I am SO bored. I would rather listen to another one of Lucifer's lectures than hear a word about how the Devildom used to be a forest or whatever.

P.S. Sorry about hitting your head earlier. That was an accident.

Satan flicked the corner of the page. While he was glad you had apologized, you didn't need to. Satan wasn't upset at you. You probably saw him scowling when he first turned around, but that wasn't directed at you.

I know it was an accident. You don't have to apologize, but you do have to pay attention. We have an exam next week.

He refolded the piece of paper and handed it over his shoulder without turning around. The demon grumbled under her breath, but she took his note, anyway.

In less than a minute, the paper was back on his desk.

Can't. Someone's distracting me.

Despite himself, heat crawled up Satan's neck and sprawled across his cheeks. He squeezed his pen in his fist. What was wrong with him? Satan wasn't the type of person to blush so easily, especially not at a few words messily written in the margins of a page ripped straight from your notebook.

It was nothing. This was nothing! Satan didn't even know whether you were talking about him. You could have been referring to some demon who was smacking their gum or something.

He tried repeating these words to himself, but that did nothing to stop the way his heart had ever so slightly sped up in his chest.

Satan spun around in his seat to face you. You were resting your cheek against the palm of your hand, not even bothering to hide your blatant staring. You were unabashedly waiting for his response. Satan understood your little game, now.

I have a private study room booked after class. Come find me.

He folded the note and handed it back to you.

[hearteyes4logan]

the way he loves in winter — ls¹⁸ lance stroll x fem!reader requested by no one word count: 737 words! fluff

Image from Pinterest!

synopsis: snowed in a canadian winter wonderland, you and lance spend your offseason together

British Columbia, Canada. Off season.

It was the type of cold that nipped your cheeks, leaving them rosy red and making your face bury deeper into the depths of the scarf around your neck. And yet, you didn't mind it. Not here. Not with him.

The mountains stretched endlessly around you — dusted in white and ethereal in the late afternoon. It was a postcard dream, something you could only ever dream yet it was a reality, one with you were currently living. You and Lance were halfway up a hill behind a chalet he rented out for the off-season. Your snowshoes clung loosely to your feet as you dragged them uphill, stomach sore from laughing.

"We're never beating Alonso." You huffed, watching the Spaniard far up the hill, close to the top. "Despite being old, the man does have energy. And spirit." You joke whilst glancing behind you.

Lance looked up at you, face half hidden beneath a beanie, eyes crinkled. "He's probably been training for this, who knows. He does have a home in Switzerland, he probably visits the Swiss Alps without anyone's knowledge."

You laughed, stumbling forward a bit before Lance caught you. Your bundled bodies collided as he wrapped his arms around your waist, steadying you and grounding you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"Careful babe." He said, grinning. "Can't have a repeat of face-planting in the snow."

"Again?" You teased. "You forget this happened a year ago.. and you still won't let go?"

"Hey, I'll bring up Lake Louise every time you trip, stumble or fall in the snow."

You narrowed your eyes. "Don't.."

He laughed, nose brushing the crook of your neck as he turned you around, both of your chests rising in sync as the air thinned. He brushed a strand of hair from your face with a snowy finger as he pulled you in for a kiss — gloved hands sliding down to your waist, despite the amount of layers you had on. As you both pulled apart, you both glanced up at Fernando who had just reached the top and flailed his arms about signalling the two of you to hurry up.

"God forbid a boyfriend gets to kiss his girlfriend occasionally." You said, earning a laugh from Lance as he held an arm around your waist, the two of you beginning your journey uphill again.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

That night, the chalet glowed golden against the blue dusk. Inside, the fire roared quietly, and Fernando had disappeared upstairs, muttering something about 'muscle recovery' and a suspicious amount of epsom salts.

You were curled up on the couch, a fuzzy blanket over your legs and Lance beside you in grey sweats and a long-sleeve shirt that hung loose over his frame. His hand rested lazily on your thigh, thumb brushing slow and absent circles into your skin.

"Remember when we first did this?" He asked, voice low. "First ski trip, first winter together."

You nodded, smiling into your cup of spiked cocoa. "You got frostbite."

"You made me stop for selfies mid-blizzard."

"You told me it was romantic snow." You teased.

He leaned over and kissed your temple. "Still is. You make everything feel like that."

Your heart melted, warm and slow, as you looked at him—the firelight soft on his face, shadows dancing across his cheekbones. He looked genuinely relaxed, which was rarely seen during the season. There was no team radio, no grid pressure, just Lance — your Lance.

Later, in the quiet of your shared room, the cold stayed outside whilst the sheets grew warm. His arms wrapped around you from behind, your bodies tangled beneath heavy quilts.

"You ever think how weird it is that we found each other in that world?" You murmured into the silence.

"In the world of motorsport? Yes, sometimes." He said, voice groggy with sleep. "It's weird how you were always a presence in the grid yet I only met you only 2 years ago."

"I know. It honestly feels surreal Lance." You paused as you turned in his arms to face him. "I love you."

His eyes softened, fingers reaching up to brush your baby hairs away from your face.

"I love you too." He whispered.

And he kissed you like it was a promise. Slow. Safe. Home.

Outside, the snow kept falling and inside, you were wrapped in warmth and each whilst Fernando bathed in the other room.

© hearteyes4logan

[jaimebluesq]

*cracks knuckles* I hope you don't mind me adding to the SangCheng agenda, as an avid participator in it :-p

What existing problems does the ship solve?

It gives JC a connection to Qinghe Nie, the only great sect he doesn't have a connection to in some way via his sister and nephew (Lanling Jin) and martial brother (Gusu Lan).

End of canon - it gives JC one of the few people left alive who knew him before he was sect leader. This is huge because his optics changed so much during the time skip for Yunmeng Jiang to be the sect you don't mess with. Most of the people who knew JC the boy are dead - but NHS is one of the few who still remembers him as Emperor's Smile and peanuts and *innocent*.

Post NMJ death - it gives NHS someone steady in his life who reminds him of his brother, and someone who knew *him* before he became the Headshaker.

Even though their methods of expressing it are very different, they both have strong senses of duty to their clan and family.

What new problems does the ship create?

Post-canon - not only did NHS' (alleged) machinations put Jin Ling in trouble, but NHS is (allegedly) responsible for WWX's return. The extent of which we don't know from canon as even WWX is trying to make links from limited knowledge, though fics have tons of fun exploring that. This will be a huge obstacle for them to overcome.

Timeskip/Post-canon #2 - As someone who knew NHS before he was the Headshaker, did JC ever suspect something was off? Like a moment of "you can't make a decision without crying over JGY or LXC, but I remember you catching birds and strategizing how to cheat on tests, don't you tell me you can't handle this". Not to mention being fellow sect leaders with someone who's seen you drunk off your ass and looking at porn XD

Because both have such strong ties to their families, it's hard to imagine them spending much time away from them - not impossible, but definitely a challenge.

Their personalities can clash as much as they can complement each other - duty bound and serious JC vs lackadaisical spoiled-rotten NHS.

Overprotective sects - depending on the author's take on the sects... Qinghe Nie has been participating in the spoiling of NHS alongside NMJ, so if you want to be with him, they need to like you. Similiarly, JC has risen his sect from the ashes and these disciples are *his* - and they have a reputation for not being ones you should mess with, particularly if you try to court their sect leader ;)

What in-law drama does the ship cause?

They each have a beloved older sibling who practically raised them (JYL & NMJ), whom they look up to, worship, and adore above all others - and against whom significant others might be consciously/unconsciously compared.

NMJ. Has spoiled his didi rotten, so if you want to court him, you'd better prove yourself damned worthy of it - or else you have to face him and Baxia.

WWX. (Pre-timeskip) What happens when your porn-sharing bestie gets together with your little martial brother? Do you give your bestie a shovel talk, or just be thankful someone you know and like is sharing your didi's time (and therefore less likely to get between you)?

JFM & YZY. Omfg, like JFM would probably not blink if he even notices, but can you imagine YZY's reaction to the idea of having NHS as a son-in-law?! (*coughs and hides my fic where she's the one trying to set them up*)

Nie family. In an AU where the 3 Nie parents live, JC has to face not one but *two* mothers-in-law - one of whom birthed the powerhouse NMJ, the other who birthed the mastermind NHS. Tremble, JC XD

call for propaganda

looking to advance from the golden core brainrot stage to the nascent soul brainrot stage - in other words, looking to get into more jiang cheng ships lol

everyone please respond with propaganda for your favorite jiang cheng ship

for maximal propaganda effectiveness please follow this format:

what existing problems does the ship solve?

what new problems does the ship create?

what in-law drama does the ship cause?

imo an ideal ship has content for all 3 questions

please and thank yew

[ssentimentals]

Hi honey, first I want to congratulate you on your 1.8k! ♡ Next, I want to ask you for number 11 with Seungcheol and angsty. But could I add anything else? Something like Cheol doesn't want to sleep alone in the bed because he's gotten used to sleeping with you, and also, the bed smells like you. Thank you so much ♡

hi, dear! thank you soo much 💜 of course you can add it, i'm always happy when you guys make your request specific, at least that way i have more hope that you'll like it in the end :') thank you for requesting!

prompt: 'i'm not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house'

'i swear to god, seungcheol, one more word and i am getting out of here.'

seungcheol stills. it stings; the fact that you're so mad at him that you better leave your own house than stay here with him stings, but he knows he deserves it. the truth is, seungcheol is just as lost at the whole 'we will figure out this life together' shit as you are and sometimes he trips and makes mistakes and falls.

'go,' you say in a tired voice. all your anger faded away and you look so fragile that his heart squeezes. 'i can't be in the same room with you.'

these words are horrible. the way they hurt him make seungcheol wonder how bad he fucked up, how irreversible the damage is; has he lost you? for good? 'don't do it,' he croaks out. 'let's talk this out-'

'i don't want to talk anymore,' you interrupt, shaking your head. 'i am not breaking up with you, but i am telling you that i am done for tonight, alright? and if you won't leave then i will do it myself.'

without saying anything else you grab your pillow, blanket and storm past him to the living room. seungcheol turns and watches as you throw everything on the couch, seemingly ready to sleep there. he turns back and stares at the bed in the middle of the room like on a foreign subject - what he is supposed to do with it? he can't sleep alone anymore, not after he got together with you. so many months of falling asleep and waking up with you in his arms spoiled him, he can't possibly get on the bed without you. why would he? any bed in the world is made for you two, not for him only. and it hurts - the notion of you not wanting to share the bed with him, not wanting to stay in the same room with him - it hurts. seungcheol's throat tightens as he tries not to lose his mind. with slow steps he goes to the living room, where you're tossing and turning in futile attempts to get comfortable.

'i'm not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house', he says, stopping two steps away from you. 'please go to bed. i will leave, but please go to bed.'

you turn, eyeing him with a frown. seungcheol sighs, squatting until his face is right in front of yours. he grips the edge of the blanket, looking at you with regret: 'i'm sorry for being such a mess.'

seungcheol can add many more things. he can add how he never ever wanted to hurt you, how life without you is a life with no light or love, how he will kneel and beg for your forgiveness if he knew it'd help. you stare at him in silence before muttering: 'why are you acting like we're breaking up?'

'because it feels like it,' seungcheol lets out shakily.

you sigh, sitting up. you are not even close to forgiving him, but you can't let him think that this is it. 'i told you that we're not breaking up, cheol. i just-'

'i can't sleep without you,' he says, looking up. 'i can't- it's wrong. it's so wrong.'

when your hand wraps around his, seungcheol's breath halters. his eyes glimmer with hope as he looks at you. 'you, big baby. let's go to bed then.' you stand up, grabbing your pillow. 'i'm still mad though.'

seungcheol grabs your blanket and follows you to the bedroom, holding his breath. 'we will talk tomorrow?' he asks hopefully, hovering by the edge of the bed, not getting in.

you nod and smile weakly. 'yeah, cheollie. we will talk tomorrow.' you pat the space next to you. 'get in now.'

when seungcheol cautiously wraps his arms around you and your body goes lax, leaning on his, he finally breathes again.

a/n: i hope you liked it!! very random, but cheol is one of the easiest members to write these kinds of scenes for, idk why :D - nini

my other seventeen works are here

request your own here

[hvacfucker]

Miscellaneous Hector Headcanons! SFW!

A short list of me contextualizing Hector in the real world versus the object world. Please feel free to comment your thoughts! Also, I haven't explored anything beyond Hector's romance route, (yes, I'm talking about [ ] which I don't yet know the details of!!) so please keep things spoiler free if you'd like to comment!

🎭 Hector lived, breathed, slept Shakespeare as a child/teenager. Like ugh, he'd never seen such beauty in poetry before! Every lesser-known sonnet, every underrated play, Hector studied them all, agonizing over Shakespeare's wit and mastery of iambic pentameter, hoping to one day emulate even just the faintest shadow of his literary prowess. In fact, so enamored with the mystique of theater, Hector secretly longed for the stage.

🎭 It probably comes as no surprise those dreams were never realized.

🎭 God, it took him ages to recover from his Hamlet audition. (Or, did he ever?) The hours he spent practicing his lines, the paragraphs upon paragraphs of dense analysis searing his retinas at 3AM. To think it amounted to nothing? Hector still cringes at that particular chapter of his youth.

🎭 He can still see his taped mark from behind the cover of red velvet. Feel how his legs turned to lead, willing them to step up, but they wouldn't— couldn't move. Oh and the sounds of the drama directors shuffling through their clipboards, somehow taking the driest sips of water as they conferred their watches over the winding minutes? Don't remind him. (Sorry Hector)

🎭 Yeah, turns out stage fright and acting exist as such irreconcilable antipodes it's simply possible for them to find any common ground. Let alone cease their vying for control over Hector's autonomy so that he might dare to try again. Life lesson swiftly learned.

🎭 Although, he makes for an excellent stagehand! Working behind the scenes, that's much more Hector's speed anyway. He's content to spectate from the shadows, wistfully mouthing Juliet's lines as she laments her dear Romeo, Hector's arm maneuvering the industrial-grade fan so that her curls gently dance in the synthetic moonlight at just the right rhythm.

🎭 Outside drama club, crew work is thankless, but it's something Hector takes pride in. Without stagehands, there'd be no production to enjoy, after all! (To me, Hector makes so much sense as a theater kid lmfao)

🎭 Side note: I used to live in the heart of a city that had Shakespeare fests/ren faire parades/events. I feel like Hector would attend those?? Fair-goers would even wear those feathered, masquerade-style masks and get allll dressed up. So maybe he'd utilize such costumes to help with his shyness? I could see him taking advantage of the roleplay pretenses to get out of his shell and embrace a crowd of like-minded people!

🏰 Hector also gives me the vibe of someone who adores The Princess Bride. It's familiar, humorously fantastical, oozing romance with juust the right amount of cheesy, and unapologetically sincere. It's so... safe, and brings him unrivaled comfort when he finds himself yearning for a romance a fraction of the fairytale of which Buttercup and Westley have. (And yes, I feel like he'd love Phantom of the Opera and V for Vendetta for obvious, masked romance related reasons)

💝 Speaking of romance, ohmigod, he's so corny when it comes to Valentine's day. The chocolates, the roses, the oversized, overpriced pink-furred teddy bear. Hector bought them all; tolerated the knowing looks as he waited in line at the grocery store, afterwards writing the most heartfelt card his lover has ever read. (Hector's the type to make someone cry with how personal his letters are.)

💝 If his partner were to reciprocate in kind? Well, he could cry too — wait, he is crying! This is the extravagant display he's longed for: the one where someone isn't afraid to show-off how deeply they're in love with him; how proudly they're committed; to the point they're even willing to endure a bit of social heckling, just as he did. Of course Hector's moved to tears. He just loves them so much! To think his lover could match his affections, he's elated and made humble all at once.