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sarahroutldge · 1 day ago

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caveman.

a/n: I wrote this for the brilliant 'make rafe great again' campaign by @zyafics!! It's a bit of a mess and unedited but I hope someone enjoys it!

summary: you may love rafe cameron, but that doesn't mean you have to love his borderline toxic possessiveness and jealousy.

word count: 4k

warnings: angst, fluff, creepy guy behaving creepily (nothing graphic), violent rage on rafe's part (what else is new), alcohol, weed, smoking, mentions of past messy relationships, I'm lazy so I didn't proofread this... uh I think that's it. lmk if I forgot anything!

Parties at the Boneyard are practically rites of passage for the kids who grow up there; whether you’re a kid from the cut or the heir to a multi-million-dollar fortune on Figure Eight, you’re probably spending those summer Friday nights getting drunk or high—most likely both—at the Boneyard. In high school and college, those nights are treasured, rare moments where the parents and grandparents aren’t eyeing their kids, waiting to see them fail.

And sure, maybe, on occasion, things get messy. The Pogues and the Kooks are never quite at peace for long, but usually it blows over before anything truly terrible can happen, as the Kooks involved know that once Deputy Shoupe gets notified, so will their parents. And for the Pogues, one run-in with the police is a future discarded—a scholarship taken away, a college acceptance thrown out, a job opportunity lost.

But it’s hard to care so much about that when you’re a bit tipsy, a bit high, and dancing with your friends under the moonlight. Your boyfriend is just across the beach, drinking with his friends, and you can almost swear that the winks he sends you every once in a while feel like a jolt of electricity. Truly, they’re almost as intoxicating as the weed and the alcohol.

Kiara spins you around, and the two of you twirl across the makeshift dancefloor (which is really just sand), as you enjoy a drama-free night. The wind is just strong enough to provide an extra breeze to what would usually be a much hotter, much more humid Outer Banks night. And the music has mellowed from Top 40 hits to some softer, bedroom pop. You don’t know the words, but you’re having too much fun to care.

Unfortunately, though, nothing in the Outer Banks is ever truly uneventful. The bliss you’ve taken for granted is shattered without warning, when you feel a sweaty, unfamiliar hand grasping at your midsection. Immediately turning around, your hand drops from Kiara’s, and you make eye contact with the tall, unfamiliar man before you (a Touron, if you had to guess). Not wanting to make that much of a fuss, you simply shake your head, hoping he’ll get the message. But he’s either too wasted or simply doesn’t care, and he reaches for your waist again, and this time his grip is strong enough to pull you back into his chest.

“What the hell, dude?” Kiara bites, before pushing him off of you. “Get off our beach if all you’re planning on doing is acting like a perv,” she adds. You grab her hand, squeezing it in thanks.

The man raises his hands up as if he’s totally innocent, and you just scoff. Thankfully, though, he seems to finally take a hint, as he turns around. Kiara looks up at you, and opens her mouth as if to speak. But unfortunately, before she can, you hear the familiar but worrying shout of your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, from behind you.

“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Rafe starts, before shoving the man’s back.

You can immediately sense where this is going, and frankly, you’re not up for it. “Rafe, it’s fine. Let’s just go.”

Rafe turns around. “It’s not fucking fine. He’s scum.”

And just as you’re about to grab your boyfriend’s hand and pull him away, the stranger turns around. “Hey man, it was an honest mistake.”

“Yeah? Well, next time, ask a girl before you put your fucking hands on her, especially when that girl is my girlfriend.”

“Rafe, please, let’s not do this. I just wanna go home,” you chime in, hoping that you’re loud enough for him to hear over his rage.

“You didn’t want to go home until this prick put his hands on you,” Rafe argues.

And while you were annoyed before, now you’re irritated. “Rafe, let’s go,” you say, colder.

He stares at you for a minute, and then looks around, noticing that the man who touched you has walked away. He huffs, his fists balled in anger, and then he walks away from you. You watch as Rafe walks across the sand, away from the crowd.

“Do you want to go after him?” Kiara asks, feeling awkward about the obvious tension between you and your boyfriend.

“No. He just needs to blow off some steam.”

Kiara nods. “Are… are you okay?” she asks, seeming genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… That was gross. And I’m mad at that guy, but unfortunately, shit like this happens. And I’m tired of having to deal with Rafe’s temper tantrums every time we go out.”

“Any other time, I’d get it. Believe me. But this wasn’t just a guy getting too close—he wouldn’t back off. That piece of shit deserved whatever punch Rafe was gonna give him.”

“It’s not about what the guy did. Trust me, I’d be happy to see him get punched. It’s the possessiveness that bothers me. It’s like Rafe thinks I’m helpless without him,” you explain.

“I promise that’s not true,” Kiara assures you, but even she seems a little unsure of the words she’s saying. “Look, I’m not Cameron’s biggest fan—”

“I’m aware,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes.

Kiara chuckles. “But this time, I think that guy deserved what was coming to him. And it’s so obvious that Rafe loves you. Maybe your anger is a bit misplaced.”

You shake your head, trying to get her to understand your point of view. “Shit like this has happened before, Kie. And with guys that were way less upfront than that one. It’s not that I’m mad he defended me; I’m mad that he sees me as some damsel in distress, someone who can’t function without him as a bodyguard. I just wish he’d have a bit more faith in me.”

Your friend considers your words for a minute, ultimately giving you a tight smile. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You can hang with us at the Chateau while your man figures his shit out.”

She tosses her arm around your shoulder, and your mouth curves into a reluctant smile. As the two of you make your way off the beach, your head turns behind you, looking out for your troublesome but usually well-meaning boyfriend. He’s far away now, but you can still sense the frustration radiating from him in waves.

A few days pass before you see Rafe again. You’ve texted a bit back and forth, putting some space between the two of you. You know you’ll forgive him eventually, but you need time to consider how to move forward. Rafe’s issues with anger and jealousy span far back into his childhood. And it might not be your job to “fix” them, but you can’t help but want to.

Rafe is complicated, always has been. From his issues with his father to his struggles with hard drugs and history of getting into fights, there’s a lot of darkness swirling around in that brain of his. For the longest time, he struggled with asking for help, lacking the attention and care of a parent who could teach their child how to deal with the toughest emotions. But you won’t deny that he’s gotten better at it. He’s matured in a way that his younger teenage self would never have imagined, and the responsibilities of adulthood combined with the weekly therapy appointments (that only you and his sisters know about) have helped to mellow him, giving him the tools with which to face his demons.

And that’s why you won’t give up on him.

Midsummer’s is just around the corner. Though balls and galas in the name of “charity” are certainly not rare on Figure Eight, Midsummer’s is always one of the grandest and most important (at least in the minds of the Eight’s parents and authority figures). For the teenagers, it’s a time to converse with adults about the future, hopefully landing connections that will help with the process of college applications and even internships later on. For the parents and grandparents, it’s the perfect time to show off the family unit; those who live on the island year-round and the families that stay just for the summer all come together to brag about the past year’s “achievements.” For those in their early twenties like you and Rafe, it’s a time to take advantage of the open bar and see the friends from high school that you haven’t seen in a while.

This year, however, is the first year that Rafe and you are attending as a couple. Your table is a mix of the Cameron family (plus Sarah’s boyfriend John B. who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else), your own family, and a few singles. Normally, this would be an occasion for pressure, but your families have known each other throughout the years, as the Figure Eight scene has always been a tight circle.

After the main courses have been served and the parents have swapped conversations about business for the latest gossip, the band’s music starts to slow. The sun has set and the moon looks stunning over the country club, reminding you of just how lucky you’ve been to grow up in a place so beautiful. And even though you and Rafe are a bit rocky, you almost forget it. The tipsiness from a few too many unclassy shots behind the bar with your friends has set in, and Rafe’s hand on your thigh feels almost too hot for a night like this. He squeezes the bare thigh uncovered by the slit in your dress every once in a while, as the two of you shift in and out of conversations with your family. It’s almost going too well.

That is, until your father mentions your cousin’s upcoming marriage when he speaks to Ward.

“She’s the first of my nieces to get married. We’re all thrilled, and the wedding is only two months away.” He shifts a bit, seeking your attention. “Y/N, honey,” he says, and you turn your head to face your father, away from the pleasant and lighthearted conversation you’ve been having with Sarah and her boyfriend.

“Yes, Dad?”

“I still need to book the tickets for your trip with your cousin, so please send me the dates tomorrow at the latest. Or else you’re going to have to find your own way to pay for them,” he adds, laughing at himself like it’s the most ludicrous thing in the world.

“Will do, Dad,” you add, and as soon as the words have left your mouth you go back to the conversation with your friends.

But before you can speak, you feel the hand that’s been on your thigh move to your hand, squeezing to get your attention.

“What trip was your dad talking about?” Rafe asks, unsure of why this hasn’t been mentioned before.

“Oh, Rafe, I’ve told you about this. I’m going away with my cousin and a few other girls in a few weeks for her bachelorette party.”

Rafe considers this. He knew you’d mentioned a vacation, but he could’ve sworn it was a family trip up to visit your grandparents. His jaw clenches, though his tone remains the same. “Where is it?”

“Miami. We’re all staying in one large suite at a beach resort that I can’t remember the name of.”

He nods. “Why can’t I come?”

You hesitate. He did hear the word bachelorette, right? “Rafe, it’s a bachelorette party. You’d be the only guy there.”

And yet he doesn’t seem to get it. “Exactly. Babe, you’ll be going to bars in Miami without me or any other guys. And as much as I love you, you’re the clumsiest drunk I know,” he adds, with a smirk. Clearly, he thinks you’ll find his comment funny. Though you normally would, he says it with a condescending tone that makes you drop the hand you’ve been holding.

“I can take care of myself, Rafe.”

“Can you?” he asks, not yet sensing the change in mood.

“Yes!” you respond, more sternly but without raising your voice. “I’ve taken care of myself drunk way longer than you and I have been together. I think I can manage a few days in Miami with my cousin and her friends.” His eyebrows furrow in confusion, not understanding where your anger is coming from.

“I know you can take care of yourself, babe, but you shouldn’t have to. I’m a guy—I know how guys behave. And you’re nice—sometimes too nice—and it makes me worry about you.”

“I am a grown woman, Rafe. I’m not helpless.”

“I never said you were helpless, and you know it. Why are you fighting with me over this? It’s like you think I’m the bad guy, and not whatever perv is gonna start groping you in a sticky Miami bar.”

Frankly, you’re stunned, and a thought comes to your head. Is he really worried for me—or does he not trust me? But you don’t feel like voicing your opinion out loud, and you need to cool off. You stand up out of your seat, and shove your chair in. The action draws the eyes of your family, but you ignore your mother asking where you disappeared to. You need fresh air.

Taking the path you and every other Figure Eight kid knows from the time they’re fifteen years old, you follow through the winding hallway of the club that leads out back, to where the waiters and other club employees take their breaks. The immediate gust of wind feels refreshing on your face, and you walk to the edge of the parking lot.

Your feet take you to the abandoned dock that, for whatever reason, was never taken down when the country club was renovated a few decades ago. It’s hidden behind overgrown trees and weeds, and you breathe in relief at the absence of anyone else there. Though from here you can still faintly hear the sounds of the event behind you, it’s quiet enough to where you can also hear the swamp waters crash against the dock, and the night bugs buzzing around you.

The edge of the dock is too dirty for you to sit down on—your eagle-eyed mother would immediately notice any stain on your dress and berate you for it—so you simply stand there, thinking about the boyfriend you left at the table. The look on Rafe’s face just makes you let out a harsh chuckle. It occurs to you at that moment that your boyfriend is either an idiot or really entitled. Maybe he’s both.

You’ve dealt with this shit before, and Rafe knows that. He knows that your most recent boyfriend before him was controlling and overprotective in a way that made you feel uncomfortable. It’s why you broke up in the first place.

Does he not even listen to me?

The small but effective cardigan that covers your shoulders begins to itch, and you reach to take it off, only to stumble upon something in the left pocket. When your hands grasp the item, you immediately sigh in relief, pulling it out.

The pack of cigarettes is old, of course; you haven’t worn this sweater since high school, but it was the only one that even somewhat went with your dress tonight. And Outer Banks summer nights have always had a bit of a chill to them. Your fingers carefully open the pack, pulling out one of three cigarettes left, before setting the pack down next to your feet. You drag it to your lips, holding it there as your fingers naturally reach for the lighter in the opposite pocket.

It takes a few flicks before a flame is successfully lit. You draw it to the end of the cigarette, an inhale.

About halfway into your second cigarette, you hear the sounds of footsteps on the creaking dock.

“You hate when I smoke,” he says, and though the immediately recognizable voice of Rafe Cameron should be comforting, in the aftermath of the argument it’s only agitating.

“I don’t want to do this now,” you say without turning around to face him. He nods, though you don’t see, before walking a few more steps.

He’s about a foot away from you, and you still haven’t turned. “Look, Y/N, I only—”

And his insistence on talking only adds to your irritation. Turning around your heel, you look him right in the eyes, meeting his blank face. “No, Rafe, you don’t get to speak.”

“But I—”

“No,” you say, and he finally seems to understand.

A beat passes, and he nods, encouraging you.

“Rafe, I love you. I really love you. But I don’t love you enough to deal with distrust that clearly comes from a place of insecurity rather than genuine concern. I’m not saying that you don’t have any concern for me; I’m saying that whatever your little interrogation was back at the table felt more like an insult than anything else. And you know the shit I went through with Noah. So don’t act as if my rage is misplaced or coming out of nowhere. I’ve done this shit before and I know I deserve better, Rafe.”

You take an inhale of the cigarette, before exhaling right in his face. He rolls his eyes at the action, but you remain unbothered. “Can I say something now?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He looks hesitant, but he proceeds anyway. “I’m not great with words—you know this. I’m not good at expressing myself eloquently, and one of the things I like so much about you is that I don’t ever feel like I need to. You know what I’m feeling even when I can’t find the words to describe it, and you don’t push me to.”

He waits a bit, eyes searching your face to ensure that you’re paying attention. When he finds at least a bit of interest in your eyes, he continues.

“I’ll be honest. I didn’t get why you ran off before.”

“I can tell.”

He ignores the snark in your comment. “But it doesn’t matter whether I get it or not. What matters is that I love you and I trust you. And I did sound a bit like a dick.”

“Just a bit?” you ask, and he tries not to smile at your question. Clearly, he’s headed in the right direction with his speech if you’re willing to even joke with him.

“Fine, I deserve that,” he accepts. “I mess up a lot. Like a lot. I don’t always say the right things and I don’t always express my feelings in the most polite way, but I’m working on it. I promise.”

“Rafe, that’s just the problem. I’m tired of hearing you say that you’re working on it—I want to actually see the change. I can’t do the possessive caveman shit again, I can’t. And I don’t like feeling like your teacher. I’m your girlfriend; as much as I care about you and want to help you with shit like this, it can’t be all our relationship is.”

He nods. “I know, babe. You deserve better than that.” And something in his tone makes you want to lean into his sincerity, trusting that he actually gets how you feel. You drop the butt of the cigarette, and he stomps it out with his foot. “Your mom would go insane if you ruined those heels.”

You smile… just a bit. Testing the waters, he brings a hand up to your face, and your body reacts by leaning in, craving his touch. Even when you’re mad at him, he’s the one you yearn for. But before you can get swept away in the magic, you need to make sure that he gets your point. Your hand reaches up to his and pulls it down. He immediately frowns at the action, and it takes all the willpower you possess to not abandon your speech when his lips pout in that adorable way that they do.

Instead, you squeeze his hand in assurance, and his pout morphs into something less worrying, more hopeful.

“Rafe, I don’t mind that you get worried sometimes. I don’t even mind that you get a little jealous. They’re your feelings and you’re entitled to them. But you’re not entitled to talk to me the way that you just did. I love you and I would never, ever do anything to risk that.” You punctuate your declaration by bringing your hands to his face, pulling him down to meet you. He settles into the familiar action, and leans in.

“I’ll work on it, I promise,” he says, only an inch away from your lips.

You nod, sensing the truth in his words. “Thank you.”

His blue eyes look into yours with a gleam of hope. With the natural habit that comes with almost a year of dating, his lips come to press against yours, as his hands fall to your hips. The moment is picture perfect, and your hands run down his tux-covered chest. It’s gentle at first, almost hesitant—just like when you first started dating. But then it moves into something deeper, as you feel his hands squeeze at your hips and his lips move against yours, his tongue finding its way into your mouth. What started out as something soft and romantic quickly becomes something much more crazed and heated, with whines and sloppy kisses drowning out the noise of the waters behind you and the country club in the distance.

You make out like teenagers, hidden away from everyone else as if you’re not both grown adults in a serious committed relationship. It’s thrilling and messy, filled with passion and earnestness, as if he’s trying to convince you of his promise with the kiss. And you love it.

But unfortunately, the fog of youth can only last for so long. Your immature but intoxicating makeout session is too-soon interrupted by the sounds of your boyfriend’s closest friends, Kelce and Topper.

“I told you they’d be making out,” Topper says, and you and Rafe immediately jump apart as if your parents have caught you. But he refuses to drop you entirely, instead pulling you with him as he turns to face his friends.

His mood quickly shifts from slightly annoyed to severely unimpressed when he sees Topper take a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet, passing it to Kelce. “Really?” he asks. You roll your eyes at the juvenile bet. He pulls you in front of him, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Hey, you have no reason to be mad, Cameron. You’re not the one with twenty dollars less in their pocket,” Kelce bites back, and Topper just snickers.

“Not really my problem and also not my fault,” Rafe retorts. You can’t help but giggle at the petty argument, and Rafe’s heart swells knowing that your argument has been resolved. Maybe not completely, but he knows the two of you will move forward. You always do.

As the two boys in front of you begin to bicker more about God-knows-what, Rafe leans down to your ear. “You reek of cigarettes by the way.”

“And since when does that bother you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t care less. But your mother—”

You huff, not letting him finish. “Don’t even go there. Let’s sneak out through the back parking lot.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth. Come on.” He grabs your hand, tugging you forwards. The two of you shove through Topper and Kelce, but Rafe couldn’t care less. You quickly make your way across the parking lot, hand-in-hand.

“And maybe since I won’t be joining you on the Miami trip, you could give me a little show of all the bikinis I won’t get to see,” he adds with a smirk.

You gasp in mock agitation, but the mischievous glint in your eyes tells him that you’re back in tune with him. “Only if you’re on your best behavior,” you tease back.

I'm soooo bad at endings so apologies for that - but otherwise hope y'all enjoyed!! and here's a reminder that requests are very much open :)

also again - shoutout to zyafics for this clever campaign!! I loved participating and I encourage y'all to read the other great fics written for it <3

#zyafics-mrgacampaign #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron reader insert #obx fanfiction #obx x reader #she writes

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colossrat · 2 days ago

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Captain Marvel can't be a member of the Justice League because he has a LOT of shit to deal with in his first years as the champion of magic after so many centuries without one.

So when Superman asks this new hero, who only appears in Fawcett or in world-ending situations, if he wants to join him, he's met with a big, polite "Oh, no thanks."

But Captain Marvel and the League keep bumping into each other.

Zatanna does a spell that the League requested, and Marvel just "POFF" appears and says something like "Guys, I can't let you do this. It's a scale 12 spell, it could cause a rupture in the fabric of this universe. Here, let me redo this for you, sorry, I just need to make sure, okay?"

And someone says "YOU CAN'T DO THAT" and the magic users explain that, yes, yes he can. he is the new champion of magic and he is in fact responsible for keeping magic in its rightful place, making sure it doesn't go ruining the interdimensional worlds or universes, and that this IS his role in magical society and no one in that room can really take away his authority in matters related to magic. They can try, but the chances of success are very low.

So Captain Marvel takes care of it.

Like, are they on a mission to retrieve a magical artifact? Marvel will show up, grab it, and leave because he needs to put it in the rock so it doesn't cause more trouble.

Are they dealing with a cult that's probably going to summon a demon or something? Marvel will probably be there to banish the demon, close the portal, and reprimand Constantine, because why not?

The magical villain that Marvel saw the League having trouble with? Well, just a little finger shock should do the trick to help them take the villain away.

Got a problem with a God? Marvel is there.

Are the portals opening? Captain is in charge.

Have goblins invaded Gotham? Are fairies loose in Metropolis? Are there talking snowmen in Central City? No problem, Captain Marvel is ur guy.

After a while, JL is dying to have him on their team. Or at least let him keep a communicator in case they need to call for help. Because, well, this guy IS super powerful, a HUGE nerd about magical things, and it's MUCH better to have him on their side than not.

But he always refuses, because taking care of all the problems related to magic and Fawcett's stuff is already too much, hes just like 8-9 years old, give him a break.

Yeah but of course one day, after a long day, Superman goes back to Fawcett to ask about it for the thousandth time, and he's so tired of this subject that he just waves his hand and says: "Okay, okay, give me a year to make magical society at least more stable so they can keep going without me present all the time, then I'll go with you, okay?"

And Superman is beaming with happiness, he agrees, leaves, and Billy goes to sleep that night dead of exhaustion on his little couch on the rock of eternity, wondering HOW he's going to make magical society stable after CENTURIES of instability. in. one. year.

That's future billy problem tho, not billy of the present. that being said, time for the champion's nap

#billy batson #headcanon #captain marvel #dc #shazam #dc captain marvel #batman #superman #john constantine #zatanna #dc constantine #alternate universe

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be-xkyy · 1 day ago

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𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔

Warning: obsession, forced marriage (mentioned), soft yandere?

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★ @riawrld ★ @darkuni63 ★ @minshookie29 ★

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

This is very short but I didn't want to leave you abandoned without publishing anything, in a week I will go on vacation and I will be able to upload more things and be more active. I hope you like it despite everything, take care of yourselves ♡

Yandere King who ascended to the throne after his three older brothers were murdered under mysterious circumstances, leaving him as the sole candidate for the throne (no, he didn't kill them... okay?).

Yandere King who reluctantly (and thanks to much insistence from the council) organizes a party at the palace with all the kingdom's nobles just to find him an ideal wife and queen.

Yandere king who isn't at all interested in the annoying and arrogant daughters of even more annoying and arrogant nobles; he makes a huge effort not to roll his eyes every time one of them opens her mouth (annoying rabble).

Yandere king who gets excited and fascinated when he sees you, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, standing in a corner, your hair beautifully up and adorned with pearls, matching your elegant, silky dress, fitted in just the right places, not at all exaggerated and pompous like the dresses of the other women around him, who look more like clowns.

Yandere King who walks away from the horde of women surrounding him, ignoring their whimpers and attempts to get him to stay, approaches you with a firm step. When he stands in front of you, you make a reference only for him to ask you in a serious voice.

"What's your name?"

Yandere King who nods curtly when you tell him your name before leaving as quickly as he arrived, only to retreat from everyone's sight by leaning against the wall of the empty hallway, one of his hands over his madly beating heart. Yes, you will be his.

Yandere King who is scolded by his advisors the next day for leaving the dance without notice, but he curtly silences them before announcing that he has already found his wife and queen. When he calls your name, the advisors aren't very happy, believing there are young women from more important, influential, and beneficial families for the kingdom. But they fall silent when he slams his hands on the table and says in a disdainful voice:

"You dare compare your future queen to that insignificant rabble? Do you want to die?!"

Yandere King who ends up getting his way and a month later marries you in a luxurious ceremony unlike any other seen in the kingdom (only the best for his queen). During the banquet, you are by his side, adorned in a beautiful wedding dress and sparkling jewels. You are undoubtedly the image of beauty.

Yandere King who, when it comes time to have his wedding ceremony, doesn't let anyone in as a witness; you are for HIS eyes only. HIS queen, HIS wife, HIS everything. He would kill anyone who dared to get close to you, but don't worry, he knows you're nervous. He promises to make you feel great...

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mrs-delaney · 1 day ago

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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."

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

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narcjsistx · 1 day ago

Text

the rhythm, the notes, the lights. everything is frighteningly perfect, starting from the perfect time, ending with the fact that the concert is practically over. the screaming crowd is just the proof of how much the sleepless nights made sense, how much this job makes you feel alive even if it exhausts you. in your entire career, this is probably the most important moment, the one where you know you have to shine

the rush of adrenaline that runs through your veins makes you almost forget what you're about to do, unbeknownst to anyone. you want to do it, you have to do it, because you know that otherwise you will lose him completely. the more the guitar melody pushes towards the end, the more you think about what you're about to do, how your gesture could improve or ruin everything you have worked so hard to build

but you're in love, and you know he's too

you turn to him: RIN ITOSHI is focused, precise, no movement is casual. he plays as if his life depends on how he makes the notes come out of his electric guitar, with an anger mixed with adrenaline and the argument you had a little while ago. it sounds like he has to prove something to you for the last time, because he also knows that tonight will decide what your future will be: whether you will continue the fake relationship with the singer of his band or actually tell the world that you love the guitarist of the blue lock. he knows full well that, by the end of this evening and this concert, he will know whether his girlfriend of 1 year has chosen him or fame

your heart beats faster than the speakers that are still playing. your hands sweat, your throat tightens, the microphone between your fingers almost becomes even heavier. you need a very big deep breath, almost as if to find courage in your lungs, because the song is practically over and the audience is waiting for the icing on the cake: the kiss between you and the singer. the crowd erupts as the song ends, as you slowly approach the singer who is already smiling at you, even though he is the first to know that this is all fake

anxiety does not disappear, but it transforms: it becomes energy, adrenaline, truth. you advance briskly, the audience slowly seeming to become one voice. you look at the singer, accustomed to the stares, the attention, the farce that has been going on for far too long. he thinks he's the reason you're there. but that's not the case, because behind him, just outside the cone of light, there's the real reason you're approaching: your real boyfriend, the one who plays like he's only talking to you. he's playing as if nothing could disturb him, until his eyes meet yours: it's just an instant, but enough to make him miss a note. his gaze becomes tense, almost an impossible emotion for a phenomenon like him

"are you sure?"

he leans down, while i cup his face "more than sure" you say, and the microphone on the side of your cheek makes the words echo in the big arena. without saying anything else you take his hand and guide it to your side, to your waist, as if he hadn't already done it hundreds of times. RIN ITOSHI lowers the guitar almost instinctively, as if nothing matters anymore in that moment. the singer, behind him, throws a look full of everything: confusion, annoyance, maybe jealousy, but he doesn't even see it, too busy holding you before kissing you in front of thousands of people. a kiss that doesn't ask the audience's permission, nor apologizes to the stage

you feel the taste of anxiety mixing with relief, your heartbeat quickening as the crowd slowly erupts into another big scream. he kisses with hunger, anger, with all the desperation of those who have waited too long to finally give in

it's a kiss that seems to say: finally.

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luck-lasts · 2 days ago

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Please correct me if I am wrong because I am slightly fuzzy on the details, but why is it assumed that the actions done by JGY were purely in self preservation? I don't think we can believe all his claims at Guanyin Temple, because A) He was already established as a manipulative character and B) He was trying to convince LXC, his only potential ally, of his innocence. I am genuinely asking because from how I interpreted the text (purely subjective), it doesn't seem like we are supposed to believe everything he says.

And once again, I am fuzzy on the details, but the curse on Jin Zixun, or even the killing of Nie Mingjue doesn't make sense as an act of protection, because if I recall correctly, JGY had been in the process of somewhat regaining the trust of NMJ, which would have allowed him to turn the situation in his favour. Also, if we do talk about his primary motive to get to a position of safety, how do we determine what this position is? Is Chief Cultivator the only position where he is truly safe? Or would the future reign of Jin Zixuan, who treated him better than his father did, mean a better, safer position for JGY, if he had bided his time? Power means safety, absolutely, but at what point do we say his actions stopped being for protection and started being solely for power? I think that depends a lot of how individuals intepret the Guanyin Temple scene, so there won't be an objective answer.

In matters of intent, I am unfortunately a corp lawyer who really misses studying criminal law, and any discussion of mens rea will have me rambling way more than anyone would want. So to summarize my views, I would say intention matters because without intention it becomes very difficult to determine the morality of any action ( basic example would be why there is a lesser punishment for manslaughter than for culpable homicide). How dangerous someone is does matter, but your culpability for causing that danger again ties back to intention. (which is why someone who is legally unsound may be more dangerous than a legally sound person, but is seen as less culpable) (also relevant is that it is indicated that WWX, by a point, had become unstable, and while not unsound, was not fully in his right mind either).

Basically, from my perspective, WWX made horrible, horrible choices, which caused a lot of damage. If he had done so with malice, the consequences would be far far worse, and I agree, the Wens would not have survived because it would have triggered even worse escalation. JGY also made horrible, horrible choices., some of them out of necessity. But as per my interpretation (again, very subjective), he didn't just do it with the aim of self-preservation, he did it with malice, for political gain. And intention cannot be eliminated as a relevant consideration, because once we do that, we reach a slippery slope of essentially legal and moral chaos (not going to expand because I guarantee, I will end up rambling, but this is the most agreed upon perspective in most branches of jurisprudence, not sure about it works in moral philosophy).

Really sorry about how all over the place this reblog is, just putting my thoughts out there. TLDR; The veracity of JGY's claims is doubtful, and his actions show malicious intention. Intention absolutely matters, and that is what sets WWX and JGY apart.

As much as I love and appreciate fandom metas, especially in mxtx fandoms, a lot of times I find myself thinking "the book is deep but not THIS deep". There are many layers, but there is clear intention from the author in portraying things a certain way. Acting like Wei Wuxian is a villain and Jin Guangyao is a poor meow meow who did all of this because he was poor just detracts from the fact that both characters had a certain level of autonomy and they used it in very different ways. Despite his flaws, Wei Wuxian used his abilities to help the innocent. Jin Guangyao, despite how much he sufferered, chose to murder and destroy lives because he wanted to be at the top. His background humanizes him, it isn't intended to justify his actions.

#again I am cringing at how messy this argument is but the English part of my brain is shutting down #and some of the arguments are based on common law perspective #i have no idea how chinese philosophy views this but I would love to know #and there might be certain info I am missing out on which renders all of these arguments void because there are things I don't remember #but yeah #it doesn't make sense to remove intention from the equation #and I think that just like how we acknowledge that victims don't need to be perfect #we also need to acknowledge that aggressors can be victims but that doesn't justify their actions #it only explains it and gives us an understanding of their perspective #and for sure his actions were fuelled by the abuse and humilation he faced #but it also shows his intention in terms of political gain #he is a victim but he is also the aggressor and both can coexist

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lunatf-ao3 · 5 hours ago

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SICK CARE ☀︎︎

[TFWFC] Optimus Prime/Human!Reader

[⚠︎]: ...

Okay, question: Should I or should not I do more of this? wfc Optimus get so little attention!! Taking the idea that the reader arrived on Cybertron in a similar way as in the fic 3.000 million years in the past. ⁱ'ᵛᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ⁱᵗ ˢᵒ ᶠᵒʳᵍᵒᵗᵗᵉⁿ, ᵇᵘᵗ ⁱ ʷⁱˡˡ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗ ⁱᵗ ᵃᵍᵃⁱⁿ!

"Your system is rejecting all food. I don't... understand why."

You can't respond immediately, interrupted by a cramp in your stomach. To Optimus's concern, you've been experiencing physical discomfort for a cyclo and thirteen groons.

Honestly, it's driving him crazy.

Your delicate organism rejects the only organic food they have to offer you, expelling it not long after ingestion. He wasn't quite sure what to do. You had assured him that it was "normal," that you were "sick" and had a "stomach virus."

The term was unfamiliar to him, of course, but he really didn't think it was normal for you to forcefully expel the contents of your tanks through your mouth.

He had to admit that it disturbed him quite a bit. He had never seen anything like it.

"And it will continue to do so. The best thing I can do right now is not eat anything, Optimus. You don't have to worry so much, it will pass... I think. I just got intoxicated from eating something weird."

He didn't like the word "intoxicated" at all.

"I don't think it's healthy for you not to eat anything right now. You're expelling your fuel and you don't look well. It's been my fault. I should have made sure to detoxify them." Optimus sighed, looking at the various organic foods in front of him that he had gathered to try to feed you. His optics turned to your face. You were paler than usual and... wet.

"It's not your fault-"

"You are wet." Optimus pointed out, cupping your face between his digits with concern. "You are releasing fluid."

"T-take it easy, it's just sweat. It's not bad, it's natural."

"I'm sorry... I'm worried I can't help you. How do they deal with that back there, on Earth?"

"On Earth..." Or what will be, in the future, many years after the present, this present. You swallow hard, your ship has been difficult to repair without the necessary resources and tools. Not even you can fully explain the anomaly that brought you here.

But for now, you're fine.

...Fine...

"Medicine. But only to speed up recovery or when it gets too serious. Nothing else."

That reassures Optimus a little, who resigns himself to believing you. "All right," he murmurs, putting a couple more blankets around you. It's been too cold lately, and he doesn't want that to make you worse in any way.

An internal reminder popped up on his processor. "Time to drink some water."

You don't say anything, accepting the small makeshift metal container he had made for you. Purified rainwater.

It quenches your thirst. Vomiting so much dehydrates you.

"There you go." Along with his words, he gently wiped your forehead with a small cloth, cleaning up the liquid you were secreting.

At that moment, a wave of nausea hit you.

Optimus didn't hesitate to bring the dented metal you had been vomiting into earlier, holding it for you while... you emptied your tanks.

He held your hair carefully, making sure the tiny strands didn't get in your way.

"Uhh..." You gasped, finally pulling away after you were done. The sheets felt more comfortable when you lay down again.

Optimus silently wiped your mouth.

"Oh, you don't have to do that..."

"It's okay, it's no problem for me. Your comfort makes me happy. Do you want to rest?"

You smile. "Thank you. And yes, I think I'd like to rest now."

He nodded, sitting down next to your little makeshift nest. Even though he didn't have much time, he wanted to keep you company while he could. "...Would you like to hear some stories from Cybertron?"

"absolutely yes."

"Perfect." He stroked your head. "Make yourself comfortable."

#transformers x reader #transformers #transformers x human #transformers x reader smut #optimus prime x reader #optimus x reader #optimus prime #transformers war for cybertron #war for cybertron #optimus prime x you

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sandgold · 3 days ago

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one of the changes that the film made from the book was to make lawmeli accuse aldo directly of taking bribes from tremblay. it was odd to me bc if you read the book, lomeli really doesn't like to think ill of anybody much less accuse them of wrongdoing without any solid evidence. lomeli does have a sort of bitchy internal monologue but its clear that he views it as a negative part of himself. his conscience is quick to catch up to him and sometimes he even quickly makes amends for his internal thoughts like when janusz wanted to meet before they get sequestered.

this is one of my favorite things about lomeli tbh. he's a sweetheart. he sins but is quick to catch himself and tries to correct his own behavior.

so thinking badly enough to even accuse aldo of taking bribes was very odd to me.

i'd like to point out that lomeli in the book did think someone was taking bribes in exchange for future promotions and that thought was directed at giulio and not aldo. even then he considered that thought unworthy and didnt outright accuse him.

#jacopo lomeli #thomas lawrence #conclave #aldo bellini #giulio sabbadin #guess film really just want to crank up drama for some reason

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sirensoul-min · 2 days ago

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Hello! I would like to ask how pjms feel about the possibility of a new JM project with JK, music-related or otherwise. I wasn't in the fandom space during AYS?! to see the reaction, so I would like to know how the fandom deals with this. Because from what I've seen, JK's fans are already saying they won't support it, some even say they'll stop being his fans because of it. In my opinion, pjms are smarter and have an unconditional love for JM. Personally, I support everything that makes Jimin happy. He always gets very involved in all his projects, which gives me even more satisfaction to show my support.

subunits have happened before and is always a possibility within BTS. this topic was even mentioned during the minimoni album exchange, so it shouldn't really surprise us if it happens more often now.

jimin has already collaborated with jk on a few projects: their feature on lauv's song Who, song covers—which were more like gifts rather than for commercial success—and their latest, AYS?! i have supported jimin throughout these; both when i was still part of the army fandom, and during AYS?! when i had stepped away and was not jk's biggest fan (and i still am not).

AYS?! isn't perfect, but seeing jimin relaxing before MS was enough for me. now, judging by the sightings, it's almost confirmed that both of them are back at it with AYS and might even drop a theme song for the show. it doesn't surprise me. they both enjoyed the show and have already said they want more seasons, so it makes sense.

what i'm skeptical about is a potential song collab between them (outside of AYS?!) so soon, because although it's always a possibility, what we are getting so far are rumours without basis. for all we know jk probably doesn't need additional song, especially one with jimin, because his new ones are likely already written and ready to be sung, courtesy of the company. anything that jk would want to do would have to be approved by bang pd and scooter before it could come into fruition, so good luck with that. we're also clueless if jimin plans on making a single with jk in the near future.

regardless, if any of this turns out to be true, will i support them for jimin? yes.

jimin working with jk or other members doesn't completely repulse me because my appreciation for jimin outweighs any negative feeling i have for the others and their fans. jimin has a great bond with the members, and in no way will i and can i control that. i know my boundaries as a fan.

yes, jimin's solo works are my top priority, but i will always show up for his side projects/collabs. the difference would only be the level of support and energy that i'll give out depending on the project and on how much i think it would benefit him. (having reservations isn't always bad.)

obviously, i cannot speak for all pjms/jiminettes, but i trust that many of us are mature enough, in touch with reality, and would focus on our love for jimin. constructive criticism is okay, but straight-up hating and acting like a goddamn dictator is not.

i couldn't fully blame fans if they might prefer to protect their peace and would only wait for jimin's solo works. i get where they're coming from given all the challenges we've faced and could face again. however, i hope that they could at least reconsider or give any collabs a chance. it's not easy, but we can always support jimin without getting too caught up in any drama.

remember that ultimately, it's up to jimin. if he's happy doing something, who are we to get in the way? after all, when making a decision, he's probably focusing more on how it could make his fans happy and not the negative effects.

and if jjks won't support, that's on them—that's indicative of how far their support for their fave could go. many of them are unbearably shallow and hateful towards their own fave, so...🤷🏻‍♀️.

anyway, nothing is official yet, so let's contemplate and weigh things in the meantime. let's try to ease into the possibilities.

PS. i also touched on this topic (but about the group comeback) in this post. feel free to check it out. 👇

#some things are bound to happen #being frustrated is one thing #being a borderline hater is another #pjms not giving too much energy for another season of AYS is understandable because that's a travel show #but when it comes to music that's when we should show up no matter what #and anyway who can resist jimin?#if supporting an artist becomes a burden to one #that's a sign they need to step back for a bit before they end up totally hating it

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broodwoof · 2 days ago

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Inquisition's "Bad Future" and its Relationship to Solas' POV

please do not add hate to this post, bring up the art book, or bring up the books/comics. thank you!

if you decide to recruit the mages to help seal the breach, then the inquisitor and dorian will be plunged into a "bad future", going forward a year

there is no way to proceed without "resetting" the timeline, without putting it back to the moment that they were flung into the future. but during the bad future, leliana says - accurately - that while dorian and the inquisitor see this almost as a bad dream, a thing to be undone, that it was real. their hurt was real. their joy was real. they existed in that year

and we as players are made complicit in erasing the entirety of that existence

this puts us in solas' position! this shows us his fundamental perspective!

he woke a year before the events of inquisiton, to a world that he, too, felt needed to be "reset". like the inquisitor and dorian, he saw the current state of the world as an intolerable deviation from what should be, and was willing to sacrifice people - as the inquisitor and dorian did - in order to put it back on the right path

granted, the world was in great peril in this bad future. the inquisition itself was destroyed. maybe many of those in southern ferelden would have welcomed the chance to have this all "undone"...

but what of those beyond? somewhere, a child was born in that year, and then erased. not killed, to be remembered, but fully erased from the course of history, made into something that never existed. somewhere in the world, someone did something that meant a great deal to them or to others in that year: again, that action was erased. they cannot be remembered, it cannot be remembered, it is gone

so, did the world need to be reset? i mean... that was probably the safest bet, if you want the world itself/the cultures as a whole/the people as a whole to have the best chance of survival

which, again, is kinda solas' thing. he's not out here just mercilessly killing for its own sake. he openly resents having to kill anybody, even enemies, although resenting it has certainly not stayed his hand

solas thought it would be necessary, which is something i've talked about before:

Solas and Veilfall: Why it Was Necessary... Until it Wasn't

Solas and Veilfall; Not a Hero, Not a Selfish Monster

"People are always dying. It is what they do." (contains an analysis of this bad future timeline as well!)

and what he was doing was necessary - perhaps not all of it (was tearing down the veil necessary or desired? it's unclear!) - but certainly dealing with the evanuris was necessary. even flemythal, who discouraged him from tearing down the veil, admitted that dealing with the "gods" was a necessary action. even the veilguard believe that what solas did in the time of arlathan was just and right

in the bad magic future, we are solas. we are waking to a world rendered horrible, a miserable experience compared to that which we knew. but, really, what all do we see? redcliffe castle. we hear about more, but it's just hearsay. in-game, it clearly doesn't take more than a day to erase that year in its entirety

what if the corruption was contained? what if there was an effort being mounted against it, one which might have been successful? what if all that remained of ferelden and orlais had joined forces? what if the dwarves had regained their ancestral magic somehow? what if spirits freely interacted with the world outside of this area of prime corruption?

hell, put all that aside: what if the corruption was false? what if everything we experience in that bad future was the work of a demon, or of alexius himself? what if having the inquisitor and dorian "undo" what he had done was his final effort to save felix? what if he created a horrific showpiece that presented a nightmare as reality and forced them to change it back?

is any of that likely? probably not! but the thing is: the inquisitor and dorian do not and cannot know

just as solas did not and could not know... in the beginning!

had his initial plan succeeded, he would have been as willing as the inquisitor and dorian to take that step. as confident that, even with the costs, it was right, it was just, it was necessary

i'm pretty sure more people do the mage route than the templar route. but whatever the analytics may say, certainly many people have done the mage route and have played through this entire narrative, up to and including erasing it and then continuing on with the game

and, narratively, it prepares us for solas' announcement. and it draws a comparison between the inquisitor and dorian and solas himself

and the thing is... the inquisitor and dorian remember that. as two individuals opposed to solas in some manner in canon, they also have to carry forward the knowledge that, in somewhat similar circumstances, they made the choice that solas tried to make. it is entirely likely that they bury this awareness, that they cover it, that they try to forget... but their actions remain, and the unknown cost remains, even though it has been erased

#da4 #davg #dai #solas #broodmeta #solasmeta #daimeta #davgmeta #inkymeta #dorianmeta #<- sure. why not. they're decently involved here and have some analysis just for them

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ivypos-writes · 3 days ago

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put your lips (where i’m rotten)

— aemond targaryen [3/?]

[SERIES MASTERLIST] | [GENERAL MASTERLIST]

summary: There are times when Aemond thinks he hates her, if only for the crime of reminding him about the chains of servitude shackled to his throat. Other times, he convinces himself that he feels nothing towards her at all. She is a stranger. A no one. A face without a soul. She is but another prisoner within these walls; a spoil of war, only one he never wished for.

He cannot condemn her for existing.

(He does. He does.)

Or, in which war puts them together, bound by duty and united in wrath.

warnings: 18+, aemond x unnamed!betrothed, angst, implied/referenced abuse, canon divergence, dance of the dragons, arranged marriage, falling in love, tension, morally grey and dark characters, doomed from the start, dual pov, eventual romance

word count: 7k

notes: we are so back!

just to make sure, here’s a form for those interested in being tagged in the future updates. fill it if you’d like to be added to the list. as always, thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

Her hand aches.

It's still early in the morning, skies a blend of dark and light blues, and there's a candle burning beside her elbow to provide illumination. It's almost burnt out. She's been seated there for hours.

Parchment lies scattered about, creased and torn to pieces. Nothing she has written seems to be sufficient. It is as though she's forgotten how to communicate. It would make sense—she rarely speaks, and is even more rarely listened to. Every ear in the vicinity strains in search for mistakes. They want her to trip over her words, hoping for a spark of controversy. Stubbornly clinging to the last remnants of pride, she adapts to silence. It is not so foreign. Even back home, she was ignored more often than she was acknowledged.

Isolation suits her. It blooms into flowers with sharp thorns, and she caresses the petals with her lonely hands.

Time in the Red Keep works in odd ways. It trips and stumbles on a once clear path, bending out of place, twisting and turning. It refuses to pass. Like a being full of spite, it chooses to stretch itself out into unimaginable lengths. When it feels like it's been years, barely a day has gone. The sun refuses to give way to the moon; the skies take too long to once again lighten. Sometimes, she spends hours seated on a windowsill, and though her body goes numb, the clouds above stubbornly remain in the same spot.

In many ways, it is not so different from her father's castle. The skies are the same. Solitude carries similar weight. The walls are cold and indifferent, and they watch her torment in a detached silence.

(Sooner or later, it will start to feel like home.)

She remains a dutiful prisoner, forever mindful not to cause disruption. Her footsteps are quiet and breathing shallow, and sometimes it feels as though she became one with the stone background. She is not truly there. Her mind wanders through the skies and fields and forests, and when she closes her eyes, she dreams of dissolving into air.

And then she awakens.

Breathes in. Breathes out.

And she is forced to live through another day.

It doesn't get easier. Contempt breeds contempt. Ever since King Aegon decided to publicly announce her betrothal to Prince Aemond, making it irrevocable, it's become a constant theme of her existence. The dragon prince is not loved within these walls—he evokes dread and fear and never any warmth. As an extension of him, she is not subjected to much kindness, either. Being tied to Aemond Targaryen is a curse. A burden weighing upon her shoulders. Hollow-cheeked and bone-tired, she carries out her duty. Shackles tighten. They become one with flesh.

In another life, such unjust treatment might have prompted understanding. Perhaps, plagued with the same fate, she could glimpse through the many layers of Prince Aemond and see something real. A boy. A scar they hate him for. In another life, she might have looked at his anger—an ugly, festering thing—and understood why it was bound to erupt. Like a puppet, he once obediently kept it restrained, holding it tightly in between bleeding fingers. Like a dragon, he unleashed it upon the realm, and it manifested itself in flames.

If they had never demanded he keep his wrath smothered, would it have burst? If it hadn't had years to grow, would the aftermath have been this bloody?

But she was once a girl. A girl who wept for her late mother. A girl whose sisters would press their palms to her mouth, trying to stifle the cries that rang loudly enough to disrupt the world outside. She kept her head bowed, and learned to swallow tears down, and her own father's hatred ruined anything that had ever been pure.

She has no wish to see beneath his mask. Understanding for him will not bloom—she will uproot any compassion even if she must bleed to do so.

In her gilded cage, she will learn to live with the contempt they give her. She will learn pretty smiles that do not waiver underneath burning flares. She will be soft and gentle, and she'll build walls around her heart, and she'll get used to it. She must get used to it.

And she'll do it alone. With a rotting soul. With no soul at all. It is her fate to do so.

Dear sister, she writes at last, even away from the graveyard that is home, I am more dead than alive.

This letter, too, shall burn.

The Dowager Queen's eyes pierce through her skin like a dagger.

Summer breeze hits her cheeks, soft wind currents blowing her hair. In an attempt to appear collected, she keeps her spine impeccably straightened and chin proudly raised. The sense of discomfort serves as a reminder of the chains. There are dozens of faces in the courtyard, some turned away in feigned disinterest, though the majority tilted just enough to freely glance at her time and time again. They're unknown faces. Unfriendly faces.

Her future good mother's face is much the same. She refuses to openly meet her eyes, fiddling with her hands, nails sinking into already reddened flesh. Even when greeting her first, that day she arrived at the Red Keep, Alicent Hightower's gaze remained lost somewhere no one else could follow. Time and time again, she glances at her briefly, so quickly that no one else notices, and when she does, her eyes induce shivers. It is a stark contrast to her son's scorching gaze. Hers brings about a biting cold.

The Dowager Queen keeps up the pretence of enthusiasm each time her daughter or grandchildren turn their faces towards her, but it is a futile attempt. There is a permanent frown upon her countenance. Her lips tremble. She offers empty smiles and watches the skies, and sometimes, it seems as though she's trying to hold her breath for long enough to suffocate.

Her voice remains foreign. She has yet to speak a word.

In a crazed sort of amusement, she thinks she and the Queen are not so different. The thought is a fleeting one, gone before her joy-starved fingers can latch onto it. She remains seated without mirth lightening her overcast mind. Queen Alicent keeps up her glances.

A spoil of war.

It seems that no one, be it her betrothed or his family, truly wants her here.

Anger is a curious thing. She once thought she had lost it somewhere amidst the darkness of night, lip split open and left to bleed onto the pillows, her father's fading footsteps echoing outside the door. It would surface at random times and ebb away moments later, and never would it become strong enough to break out of its dusty shell. Indifference came in its place. It was made of a thicker layer—thick enough not to let pain pass through. It was a shield. At some point, it, too, dissolved into nothing.

And yet she sits there now, in a room abound in rich ornaments and silken furniture, and emptiness gradually gives way to unbridled rage.

She is paraded around but never acknowledged. Stared down but never spoken to. She is more one of the embellishments than a person—a spoil of war in a gilded cage, with its mouth stuffed to stifle any words.

A prisoner. Back home. Here. Always.

Anger does nothing to assist her. She wields it without grace, trying not to let it slip.

The sun persists.

She feels no warmth.

It may be hours later that Queen Helaena finally rises from her seat—or entire years, she thinks, given the odd stiffness in her bones. The children are due for a nap. When they walk away, clutching their mother's hands, whispers of laughter linger in their wake. She commits each sound into her memory, neatly tucked into the deepest corners. Joy is scarce within the walls of the Red Keep. If she must survive on crumbs of it in order not to forget its existence, she will do so without shame.

The Dowager Queen remains seated in the same spot. From this close, she resembles a marble statue. Harsh lines. Cold eyes.

(Like her son.)

Just when she gathers the skirts of her dress into a hand, making to excuse herself, Queen Alicent's voice stops her. It is soft in all places she might have expected a cutting sharpness. "I'd like you to join me in the sept."

And so she smothers the need to flee, dons the mask of obedience, and nods.

The sept emanates no comfort. She watches the building with indifference, making sure to mimic most of the Queen's movements, and half-wishes for the walls to crumble before subjecting her to a falsely pious torment. Religion is not equal to mercy. She sees no point in kneeling before gods so ignorant of pain.

Does the Queen ever blame them for her own sorrows? She doubts that she ever could. There is reverence in Queen Alicent's gaze; devotion with which she sinks to her knees before the altar. Soon, they are kneeling beside one another. Are they both sinners? She supposes that no ruler could keep their soul pristine. Certainly not one to crown a son not meant for the throne, marking him with blood. That crown is death. That crown will soon kill them all.

She watches the candles and imagines their fire engulfing the realm.

"You and my son must make appearances together."

The flames flicker. Their lights hit Queen Alicent's pale face. Like this, her eyes turn ablaze. She looks as though the words left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth but doesn't take them back.

Fire remains contained within the candlesticks.

It should be freed.

It should devour them all.

"The betrothal of a crown prince ought to be celebrated," Queen Alicent says, "but we are now facing difficult times. It is paramount that the masses witness the strength of your union. They must see you as one."

The one who bleeds and the one who drives the dagger through. How could they ever be one, she wonders, if he is the blade that cuts through flesh? If she is the corpse?

(Fire and blood. Only most days she thinks that he is both while she is none.)

Her mouth parts. No words come out. They cannot. She's succumbed into the deepest depths of obedience and can no longer crawl out of them. Instead of responding, she reverts her gaze to the candles. The fire dances, mocking her agony.

The Queen breathes out, bending forward. Her forehead nears the edge of the altar. Like this, she appears deep in prayer, though her mouth moves in a way that refutes this. "My son is—"

The words die into nothing, their frail existence leaving behind a weak echo.

Silence returns in all its glory.

Kind? They both know it to be untrue. Gentle? In the past, perhaps, before he lost a part of himself and filled the empty hole with fury. His touch burns through skin, and his wrath ends in bloodshed, and he is not a good man.

Her son is war personified.

Whatever the Queen says next will be a lie.

(Let her lie, she thinks. Here, before her gods. Let her cheeks paint in shame. Let her soul rot. Let judgement come.)

But then the Queen takes her hand into hers, squeezing so hard it almost hurts. She is icy-cold; long fingers wrap around her palm like thousands of frozen needles. And the gesture says everything her mouth does not.

Flames bear witness to their enveloped hands for the entirety of its duration. When the Queen lets go, the remnants of her touch linger.

Do the gods see the way she trembles?

Do they know it is because of all her sins?

The pious Dowager Queen. The statue of faith. Here, in the heart of King's Landing, even her reverent hands are not spared from the crimson stains. Here, in the sept, her heart continues to decay. Her nature comes undone. Beauty yields to the atrocity that is her soul. The gods spurn her pleas for deliverance. They demand continued penance.

"If nothing else, then at least my son will keep you safe," the Queen insists. Her glow grows dimmer.

Maybe he will. But who, she wonders, will keep her safe from him?

The answer is the same as always: no one, no one, no one.

(Does she love her son? Did she love the boy he had once been?

There is something in her eyes that indicates there was no place left in her heart by the time her children came.

Maybe she has no heart at all.

Maybe her soul had decayed long before her husband did.)

Alicent Hightower returns to her prayers without speaking again, but the memory of her pleading gaze long echoes a quiet: forgive me.

On the morrow, she is awakened by one of the servants, dressed in another grey gown, and forced outside of her bedchamber. There is no time for confusion: down the corridor, she finds silver hair and two stony faces. Violet eyes stare back. Two clouded. One violent.

Her gaze finds his with a swiftness and ease, though it comes not without an undercurrent of self-reproach. It is a curse, she thinks, to be able to meet his eye without hesitation. Would she fare better if she tried to evade him instead? She ought to bow. Curtsy. She ought to dodge his attention as though for fear of being scorched. She remembers sunlight stretching between them, back in the haunted tower, entire worlds away from here. All that remains now are dark, thick shadows.

No greetings are exchanged.

When they make their way down the hall, curious eyes follow.

Queen Helaena is a poor choice of a chaperone. Her eyes are lost amidst the turf beneath her bare feet, a low hum creeping up her throat, fingers weaving three blades of grass into a green plait. She doesn't seem to remember that she is there to watch them, lost in her own world made entirely of solitude. It seems as though someone has raised a wall between her and everyone else. Reality remains repelled by the border.

It isn't like there's anything to watch too intently. Distance stretches, a thorned thing risen from seeds of mutual repulsion, and keeps their steps well apart. They share no more glances. They do not exchange any words.

In silence and subdued fury, she allows herself to be paraded around for the court to see.

Let them witness the union.

Maybe the fire that has risen inside her will burn them, too.

She was not made for light, but finds herself yearning for it all the same.

It must be why she seeks out the sunrise. Each morning, precisely when the moon caves in to the pressure of the sun, she is there to greet the victor's first rays. They bathe her skin in golden hues; they blind her with their force, and she lets them scorch her unseeing gaze. Sometimes, she rolls up the sleeves of her drab gowns, welcoming the spells of warmth that flicker through her skin.

(This heat is only ever ephemeral. Coldness has long since been engraved into her bones.)

It's a newfound purpose of hers; a reason to rise from her bed, no matter the amount of dread that rattles her heart. She leaves her chamber before most of the fellow residents awaken, darts out of the main gate, and then stalks down a path that is not frequented and thus unpaved. There is a slope on the northernmost edge of the gardens that she's encountered by accident but now strolls down deliberately. It leads her through the greens of trees and bushes, and eventually clears into a small creek. Water curves along the edge of the forest, glinting in the sun.

Its surface remains calm.

She is not yet bold enough to break it.

Her eldest sister has always been a capable swimmer. In the long summer days they'd had the privilege to share, years before she was sold to the highest bidder, they would sneak out to the nearby lake—just the two of them, flushed faces beaming from the secrecy of the act. Her sister, possessing every ounce of courage she herself missed, would dive right in; most days, she'd stand there and watch, daring only to immerse herself to her ankles.

You needn't be brave, her sister would say on their way back. I will be brave for the both of us.

Her sister is not here now, and not being brave means death.

Her knees scrape against rough pebbles.

This is a routine she maintains with reverence. Here, by the water, she sinks to her knees with hands pushed into the ground. Like a sailor who has not seen land in years, she caresses the soil beneath with a tenderness she otherwise smothers. There are no bystanders to witness the rare display of fragility. Just the creek. Just the trees.

It is easier to sit amidst grass and cobblestone with earth staining her palms. It is easier when wind currents tangle her hair, long tendrils freed from intricate confines of plaited patterns atop her head, now dancing with the breeze. She rests the heels of her palms on the ground and lets her fingers weave in between the grass, and when she settles on her knees, all she knows is peace.

She kneels, and she is not herself. Her body blends into the canvas. She is a part of nature not created to bleed.

There is a humidity to the air in King's Landing that she's never known before. It sticks to skin like a wet cloth, sending scorching shivers down her spine. A sheen of sweat clings to her forehead, and though she has wiped it away many times, it keeps coming back. She was wrong to anticipate coldness and darkness. The skies remain clear, taunting her with the brightness of their hues. She wishes it was raining instead; again and again she yearns for a storm. A heavy downpour would be more befitting to the thunderous way her heart beats. This heat is a stark contrast to the chilling coldness that sits deep in her bones.

The stillness lasts. She imagines drowning in it. Waves of tranquility collide with her unmoving form before a sudden storm disrupts their flow.

She should have known whatever semblance of peace would be transient. Torment clings to her with an unconquered resolve.

They have thus far existed without clashing. Prince Aemond belongs to the skies. Each day, he makes it a point to remain high above the ground, bathing the realm underneath in shadows. Sometimes, he yields to his mother's demands and arrives outside her bedchamber, always accompanied by his sister. When he does, his presence is as fleeting as the winds and rains and storms. Rarely do their gazes meet. Whenever they do, flames flare up.

She feels the burn now.

"You truly are a nuisance," he drawls dispassionately. She is glad that he forgoes greetings. False pleasantries don't suit him. "The guards couldn't point the way you'd gone."

"Then they make poor guards." Her own voice is just as flat. She ensures that it doesn't pitch despite the suddenness of his arrival. "War hardly allows for such shortcomings."

He hesitates. She imagines the corner of his mouth twitching, though the vision is distorted by the absurdity of it. "Indeed."

She doesn't search for his reflection in the water but knows that it is there. Like a predator, it lingers just outside of her reach. Waits. Searches for weak spots. She presents none, remaining perfectly still. Like this, it seems easier to pretend that she is not the chosen prey.

Wind currents soften. In the following silence, she can hear the sound of his breathing.

"Your hands are bleeding."

They are. She must have scrapped them against the harsh surface of the rocks. Blood sticks to her palms and mixes with dirt. Water laps at both.

"A scratch," she mutters, eyes trailing the injury. "Nothing more."

(Haven't they brought her here to watch her bleed?)

Blades of grass rustle under his feet. It is clear that Prince Aemond has no intention to allow her any more respite. Something bitter rises in her throat. Even without being near him, she always remembers the duty resting on her shoulders. It weighs more than the realm. She lays flat beneath its crushing force, donning suffocating submission. Why would he haunt her, she wonders, in the rare moments when the pressure abates? Why is he here?

The answer remains the same: because he can. Because she is his to torment.

"The stone can hardly be comfortable," he muses, breaking through her enraged pondering. His voice inflicts a rush of unease she aims to cover up with lips pressed together. Can he see the side of her face? She has moulded it into a perfect replica of his stone-cold expression. "You've chosen an odd place for a prayer."

Queen Alicent has not invited her to the sept again. It is a small mercy. She doesn't think she could bear kneeling before the gods without spitting on their feet.

Would the Queen have her whipped for such transgression?

Would she have taken away the shackles to enact the final blow?

(It's not often enough that she thinks death would be a kinder fate. Sometimes, shame rises in her chest at the realisation. Shouldn't she yearn for the freedom of passing away, if only to rid herself from silver chains?

Doomed.

Maybe even death could not save her.)

"I have nothing to pray for."

"No?" Prince Aemond taunts, and he must be standing closer now; the inflection of his voice is clearer. "Not health or safety? Guidance? Not even happiness?"

"Happiness is deceitful. It renders you gullible."

"Does it?"

She pictures him in the shadows, striding forward without meeting anyone's eyes. Shrouded in darkness. Shrouded in solitude. "I suppose you would not know."

"A cynic," he murmurs in response. "And a profane one, too."

"How many of your own prayers have been answered, my prince?"

Has he prayed for his eye to grow back? For the gods to meld together what has shattered within his soul? Has he prayed for the artful constraints surrounding his rage to last? After they failed to do so, has he ever thought to pray for the life that was lost in the aftermath?

The answers come in a rush of unbridled honesty that only he could wield with such cold detachment. "I would not know. I no longer remember my last one."

"Funny," she replies, though it is not. "They say it's sinners who pray the most."

"Perhaps I have not sinned enough."

A storm. A boy. Fire and blood.

"Or you're well beyond atonement."

It is eternities later that she finally turns to face him. He looks like a dark stain against a pastel background, tall and pale and utterly cold. Prince Aemond stands closer than she would have expected him to. Tall and slim. Rigid. As always, he appears prepared for battle—and maybe he is. Maybe today he's chosen this one. Her.

Leisurely, he lowers himself to the ground, crouching right beside her. The scar peeks from beneath the eyepatch. Silver strands fall upon his sharp cheekbones. The air accommodates him. Nothing has changed. He still smells like smoke.

"Atonement evades our like." His voice is no more than a whisper carried by the wind. He's so close that she doesn't need to strain her ears to catch it. "I suspect that we're equally godless."

Fury returns. She latches onto it like a lifeline. "There is nothing equal about us."

He tilts his head, gaze calculating. "Not even the shackles?"

To this, she has no answer.

She looks away. It wouldn't do her any good to linger on the mangled mark of the past that cuts through his face. A huff of warm air hits her cheek, and she holds her breath in response. He is not permitted to come this close. Not yet. Please, not yet.

"Why are you here?"

"I was alerted that you left the keep." A hum follows; like a brush of a feather, the sound vibrates across her skin. "The guards are not completely useless."

"Was I not allowed to?" she demands, watching her scrapped hands. It is a better sight than the violet eye and whatever storm brews inside.

"Not alone."

"Right. Lest I lose my one purpose."

The silence that follows is a perturbing one. She can hear him breathe in, right beside her face. Does he feel superiority over her now that he has deemed it fit to impose on her space? They are so close together it could elicit a scandal. If someone saw, they'd be condemned to another onslaught of disdain.

She wonders, not for the first time, if there is any descent from how much doomed they already are.

She supposes not. Here, amidst war and raging fires, no fate seems worse.

Prince Aemond catches a strand of her hair in between his fingers. She doesn't let her breath stutter when he brushes it behind her ear.

"You will honour the arrangement."

"Did my stroll in the gardens dishonour it?"

"It could have." His hand lingers at the side of her face. Her skin tingles from the closeness. "All it takes is one person and a blade."

Her gaze drops. The Prince's sword peeks out from the sheath.

She had once urged him to drive the blade through her neck and he refused.

If she begged prettily enough now, would he be more merciful?

When her eyes find his, their gazes clash. Slowly, as if to taunt, he reaches for the handle of the sword. Long fingers wrap around the intricate metal. His grip is strong.

But she knows the truth. Eyeing the blade, she says, "I'm perfectly safe here."

As if to prove her wrong, he offers a cold smile before pushing himself even closer. The grip on the sword remains; the silver of his hair shields her vision, but she knows that his fingers have not forgone their clench. They blur together, drab greys and deep blacks against green grasses. If someone happened upon them now, the last stretch of distance eradicated, would they be able to point where the lines of their Prince begin? The proximity is suffocating. Maybe all the others cannot breathe, too. Maybe fate yearns for their union to be the ultimate end.

"And yet you're bleeding," he whispers.

If she wanted to, she could capture the words with her own mouth. Their lips are close enough that she could do so without a strain. She blinks. Something vulnerable and foreign rises within her. It lingers even once Prince Aemond moves away.

The scratches on her palms. She's already forgotten. With his reminder, the wounds begin to sting.

Her gaze drops. Defences rebuild. "Your smothering is hardly an upgrade from the past indifference."

"As is your fear," Prince Aemond muses. Something akin to mirth lightens the tenor of his voice. "There was a time I could find none in your eyes."

"I'm not afraid."

"Oh, but you are." That cold, detached smile returns. It is more of an ugly pull of his lips; her eyes trail the thin line as she imagines scraping it off with her nails. "I do not blame you. You're all alone in a place where no one cares about your life. If you're not afraid, you are a fool."

"Then we truly are equals."

"I have no fear left."

"No. But you are alone." She doesn't let herself cower at the storm inside his eye. "In a place where no one cares about your life."

Equal. The word lingers. Haunts.

The shackles that connect them may be the only thing that makes them valuable.

For a moment so fleeting she can barely grasp it, something about Prince Aemond changes. Coldness turns into flames. His eye is ablaze. The intensity renders her still; unmoving, as if for fear of retribution, she watches his expression come to life. Gone is the marble statue. A man stares back at her, unguarded and open. The lines of his face seem smoother. All his thorns are gone.

When he cracks a smile, it is one void of deceit.

(Doomed, she reminds herself.

The word has never rung truer.)

Calm seas. The sun. Like this, she could almost pretend that the storm was never there. Gentle waves lap at her fingertips, beckoning her closer. If she emerges, she will never again resurface.

(A boy, she reminds herself. A storm. A beast cutting through the sky in its hunt for vengeance. Blood falling from the skies, bathing the realm in gruesome sorrow.

Kinslayer.

Kinslayer.)

Like all things, the odd tranquility cannot last. She catches the sound of heavy footsteps long before she sees the metal armour. Ser Criston Cole marches towards them with a purpose, his presence obliterating any remaining semblance of peace. She has not seen much of him in the days of her captivity. Sometimes, he is there in the training yard, slicing the air with his sword. Mostly, he trails after the Queen, a permanent frown etched on his face. He always looks eager to spill blood. The war suits him the most.

"Prince Aemond!"

He doesn't move.

Why doesn't he just move?

"Go on," she insists, if only to once more drown in blissful solitude. She wants him gone. His presence evokes something she has no desire to name. "I shall become as docile as you command if you allow me one more moment alone."

Even when she wills sparks of submission into her gaze, it slips away. Almost as if it had no right to exist before the dragon prince. Almost as if to doom her further.

Finally, entire lifetimes later, Prince Aemond rises from his crouching position.

The scent of smoke is gone.

Air fills her lungs.

"No." The stone wall of resistance returns, but it is weaker than ever before. Remnants of softness linger in the corners of his mouth, in all places it has no right to exist. "I don't think I want you docile."

Before he departs, Prince Aemond reaches in between the side weaving of his leather tunic. White fingers wrap around a white piece of cloth. With the speed of a warrior, he drops the fabric into her lap and turns away. His footsteps are quiet. They fade into nothing as winds carry their echo.

Just to spite him, she lets the blood on her hands be.

She's so attuned to silence that it's easy to catch any disruption.

Servants retire for the night before the hour of ghosts. Guards rarely make any noise. Once the moon rises high enough above the horizon, the dark serenity persists without interruptions. It is why she shoots upwards upon the clattering sound outside her bedchamber. The commotion is a breach of her routine. She's on her feet before another sound follows.

Drowsiness clouds her judgement. Like a being suspended on the precipice of dreams and lucidity, she seeks out the unknown despite her mind's protests. Her hand moves on its own accord. When she pulls the door open, dread runs down her spine.

"Would you look at that?"

She freezes. Stiffens. All that remains in motion is her heartbeat, wild inside her chest, its force bruising her from the inside.

The man stands right in front of her. His face is strange and slick with sweat, but it's the eyes that her gaze is drawn to. There is something mad flickering inside. Something dangerous. She takes a step back, but it is futile. The stranger follows. He reeks of cheap wine she remembers from back home. In the subdued light, he almost looks like her father.

"Hello," he simpers, a leering smile stretched across his face.

Her hand clenches around nothing. No weapons nearby. No guards outside.

There's two of them. It occurs to her now that the situation is hopeless. She could scream until her throat goes raw and it would change nothing. Before anyone reached the chamber, she'd be long torn to pieces. She stands there, numb and frozen and suspended in time.

It is her father that stands before her.

No. It's a stranger.

(There is no difference between the two when both so clearly seek bloodshed.)

Her body knows how to mould into the vice hold of calloused hands. The man tightens his arm around her pliant form, her back pressed tightly against his chest. Muscle memory has her submit without any hesitation—fighting back means more pain.

Her father pulls out a blade and puts it to her throat.

Stupid. Stupid. Her father is not here. It is a foreign blade that rests against her neck, ready to draw blood. She stands still all the same, waiting for the strike. Waiting for the end.

The second man steps closer, taller and broader but with similar darkness in his eyes. He measures her with curiosity that induces another onslaught of shudders. "A princess?"

"Not without a white mop of hair, she isn't."

"I'm a servant," she rasps out, glad that her voice seems to work even when her mind does not.

The words seem to amuse them. Hungry eyes take her in. She's wearing a white nightgown and a golden necklace; skin void of signs of hard labor. Whatever false declarations she makes to spout cannot change her pristine appearance. They know. Of course, they know.

"Ain't you too pretty for a servant, girl?" The man behind her tightens his hold, pulling her closer. He's still there when she squeezes her eyes shut. When she holds her breath. When she imagines dissolving into air. "Yes, you are. I've seen faces like this only once, all the way down the Street of Silk."

"The most expensive you'll find," the second man agrees. He's close enough that his foul breath wafts the air and hits her face. A dirt-stained finger rises up to trail her cheek. She wonders if she'll ever wash away the imprint. "Always worth every damn penny."

She winces when the one holding her still grabs her hair and pulls. Her scalp burns, wildfire spreading out from where the man's nails have sunk into skin.

"Who do you serve, then?”

"The Queen," she murmurs, broken words of a broken being.

"The Queen," he parrots. Cackles. "Lots of those these days, ain't there?"

"Suppose a good cunt warrants the title." With sparks of malicious glee lightening his eyes, the tall one bends to put their faces closer together. "Think yours is nice enough to have you crowned?"

Her attempt at thrashing is as weak as it is futile. The arms that hold her captive may as well be steel. Amidst her crazed bout of writhing, the tip of the blade nicks her neck. The stinging sensation gets lost in the oncoming onslaught of terror.

(It begins like this: the peaceful lull of nightfall lures her into a state of repose, moonlight brushing her cheekbones with tender care. Fatigue comes in gentle waves, claiming her eyes first. Whenever they fall shut, she always sees the same things. Fields of blooming flowers. Her mother's dress dancing in the wind.

It's all gone by the time the footsteps appear. She tries to hold onto the images of summer with a desperate sort of fervour, but she is destined to fail. The door creaks. Tranquility ebbs away.

Eternities later, when her body is painted with new bruises and marks, she swears she'll remember that the night is deceitful.

She forgets by morning.

She always does.)

Her fear induces enthusiasm. They feed off her distress. She tries to obey her own mind and dampen the raw emotions—to discourage further abuse with artificial indifference. The trembling of her body ceases, defiance flowing through her veins and taking root in her chest. She has bled before. Nothing they do to her could scar flesh that already bears traces of damage.

The glint in the stranger's eye does not extinguish. Through hooded eyes, he watches her cling to the composure she has so desperately gathered. She meets his gaze. Dares him to come closer. To strike.

"No, no." A rough hand comes up to pat her head, as if to provide comfort. "Don't frighten her."

She is not frightened. She is half-dead. She's in the fields with her mother; deep underwater with her sister; gone, dissolved into air.

The man tears the necklace off her neck. Brings it to his face. Smiles as if he has won. "Maybe I'll find you after."

Even when he's gone, she cannot move.

The hold does not loosen. The blade remains pressed against her throat. Would it be difficult to cut through, she wonders, or would the blade sink into skin and bone with astounding ease?

"Don't be scared. I wouldn't hurt a face like this. All you need to do is be good. Can you be good for me?"

Has no one seen them barge in? Have the guards left them unprotected? She doesn't know. Her chest heaves, fighting for every breath, and she doesn't know.

(No one's coming to save you.)

"I'm looking for the One-Eyed Prince," he tells her, breaking through her panicked confusion.

Everything stills in the wake of his words. They bring about a darker sort of quietude. She chokes on air and searches her mind for a response. There's nothing but blankness.

"There's someone willing to pay very generously for his head. I intend to earn every bit of that gold." His laughter is cold. Cruel. "You'd like to help me, wouldn't you?"

Her father's face manifests in front of her. Empty eyes stare into hers. He has come to collect the price for her life—a price she ought to pay for eternities and beyond. When he leans in, he whispers promises of violence. His voice seeps with rage. She blinks and the image is gone. Silence persists, disturbed by the heavy breathing of the man behind her and the thudding of her heartbeat.

A moment passes.

Another.

How many nights has she spent conjuring images of Aemond Targaryen's death? Death is carved into her eyelids. She imagined its claws claiming her father first. Then the Prince came, disturbing whatever fleeting moments of peace she had left, and from then on she imagined him dying, too.

Because he is destined to die. Destined to succumb to the very same war he himself has begotten. The dragon prince will fall, crushed by the same violence he wields with masterful precision. She has seen him smothered by fire; dropped from the skies; with a sword driven into his chest. She has dreamed of his blood. Of the old scar reopening. Of the violet eye falling shut.

Sometimes, suspended on the precipice of sleep, she imagines it is her who takes his life.

Sometimes, haunted by solitude, she sees herself cut his throat with his own sword.

But it is never like this.

Never like this.

Does the stranger think himself skilled enough to win against Prince Aemond? Has he seen him wield a weapon? She remembers all the times she watched him train, hair wild and forehead slick with sweat. Does he know, she wonders, the extent of the Prince's ferocity? He is a bloodthirsty beast. Death sits on his fingertips the same way it lingers in her mind.

If she tells him, she's free.

If she tells him, she’s doomed.

(The shackles. The shackles.)

If the Prince dies tonight, she is a property belonging to no one. A girl without a name. A being with no purpose. If he dies, any promises of protection die with him. Whoever comes to claim the throne is free to choose her fate. To pull on the strings attached to her life. Without him, her value drops to nothing, shackles gone and agreements null. If she doesn't belong to him, her life holds no meaning. He is her curse. Her fate.

His life is hers.

Equal.

When something clatters to the ground outside the chamber, she doesn't let herself hesitate. The sound is enough to have the man's grip loosen. She doesn't think about grabbing the blade with her bare hands. Doesn't think about letting it slice her palms as she pulls it away from her neck. She doesn't think when her foot pummels backwards. As the man staggers back, toppled over in pain, she swerves by and does not look back.

Even through blurred vision, the path is clear.

There was a time she would ponder whether one could grow immune to flames—not to wield them, but to exist in their glow. To find peace in their wake. To seek shelter amidst their heat. When the dragon prince came to claim her life as his own, she allowed herself to imagine it only once. Fire engulfing someone starving for warmth. A refuge from danger in the centre of its most menacing parts.

She collapses right outside his door and waits, and the only thought that lingers is the grim admission: she cannot have him die.

It is storming outside. Just this once, she does not fear the carnage it brings.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #asoiaf #aemond one eye #a song of ice and fire #aemond x reader #house of the dragon #ivypos writes

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