#if you want to filter that. just to be safe ^-^

[mrs-delaney]

Letters You Never Sent | Part One

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 17.2k-ish words

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

📝 Author’s Note:

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

i hope you feel it.

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

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

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

alexa play if i were a boy by beyoncé 💔

✨ my masterlist ✨

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before loving him nearly killed you.

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

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

It used to be everything.

* * *

August 2017 Ohio State University

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Joe," he offers, extending his hand.

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

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

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

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

"Your turn," he says.

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

"Second? What happened to the first one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ouch."

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

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

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

"John?"

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

"That's stupid."

"Welcome to my life."

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

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

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

"Thanks," he says quietly.

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

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

"Campus tour, I think. You?"

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

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

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"It's very okay."

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Three weeks later - September 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And do you?"

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

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

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

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

"Shoot."

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we do both?"

"We can do both."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course. But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

* * *

Two weeks later - October 15th, 2017

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"I did want to know what you thought."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

Something that felt a lot like falling.

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

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

October 15, 2017

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially because Joe will never know it exists.

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

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

Something that feels like forever.

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

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

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

* * *

December 16th, 2017

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

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

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

"Like a date?"

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

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

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

"Friday works."

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

"Sounds good."

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

* * *

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

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

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

"Thanks. You too."

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

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

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

"Solid criteria."

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

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

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

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

"Maybe it is."

"You're insane."

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

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

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

"Clearly."

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

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

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

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

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

"Were you weird about it?"

"Was I?"

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

"Ouch."

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

"Y/N," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

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

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

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"That was..." Joe starts.

"Yeah."

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

"How long is a while?"

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

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

"You absolutely did. It was very attractive."

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

"I'm counting on it."

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

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

"Probably?"

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

"Tell Allie I said hi."

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

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

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

"Everything?"

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

"Great."

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

"Yeah. I will."

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

"So?" she demands.

"So what?"

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

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

"Good enough for a second date?"

"Definitely good enough for a second date."

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

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

* * *

April 14th, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, in the second quarter, something clicks.

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

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

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

"Did he just—" you start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Since our first date?"

"Since our first date."

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

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

"Not perfect. But maybe perfect for you?"

"Definitely perfect for me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were amazing."

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

You laugh. "High praise."

"The highest."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later that night, in your dorm room

April 14, 2018

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I get to love you through all of it.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

May 18th, 2019

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

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

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

"Joe?"

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

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

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

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

"But?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about us?"

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

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

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

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if the distance is too hard?"

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

"When did I teach you that?"

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

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

"You really think I should go?"

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

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

"Now?"

"Now. Before I lose my nerve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're really doing this."

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

"You're going to LSU."

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

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

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

"What if I miss you too much?"

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

"Promise?"

"Promise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 19, 2019

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you. Go be great.

Forever yours, Your biggest believer

* * *

Chapter 7

December 14th, 2019 - New York City

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe Burrow. Heisman Trophy winner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you too."

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

"The NFL?"

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

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

"I want that too," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 14, 2019

My Heisman winner,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, The girl who knew first

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

* * *

April 23rd, 2020

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

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

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

"I'm not bouncing my leg."

"You're absolutely bouncing your leg."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You excited about that?"

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

"No more sitting on the bench."

"No more sitting on the bench."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 25th, 2020

Moving day is chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

"What, moved in together?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What's scary about it?"

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

"We've been adults, babe."

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

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

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

"Everything okay in there?" Joe calls out.

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

You and Joe exchange a look and burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was an accident!"

"It's always an accident with you."

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

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

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it a thing."

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

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

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

"They were really nice plates, Dad."

"They were highway robbery is what they were."

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

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

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

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

"I have my moments."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Definitely banned."

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

"Yeah?"

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

"Even if it's scary?"

"Especially because it's scary."

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

"What?"

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

"Hey, my cooking isn't terrible."

"Remember the smoke alarm incident last week?"

"That was an accident!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

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

"You ready?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels like forever.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep

July 25, 2020

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

April 15th, 2022 - Cincinnati Children's Hospital

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

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

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

"Special visitors?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you?" Sophie asks Joe.

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

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

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

"It's my job."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love what I do."

"I know. It shows."

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

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

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

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

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

"They love us," you correct.

"They love us," he agrees.

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

But today deserves to be remembered.

April 15, 2022

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Your very proud girlfriend 

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

* * *

January 30, 2022 - Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City

The silence in the family section is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you see him.

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

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

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

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

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

"I know, baby. I know."

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

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

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

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

"It doesn't feel extraordinary."

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

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

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

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

"Even after that interception in overtime?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

"Please. For me."

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

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

"Not really."

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

"Promise?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, that's what you think.

Later that night, while Joe sleeps

January 30, 2022

My heartbroken love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Y/N

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

* * *

March 15th, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. "What kind of something?"

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

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

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

"Sarah, what—"

"Keep scrolling," she says gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want to talk about it?"

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

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

"Promise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we talk?"

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

"Can you put that down? Please?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

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

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

"Doesn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aren't you? Kind of?"

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

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

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

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

"My problem?"

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

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

"I wouldn't care."

"You wouldn't?"

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

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

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

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

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

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

"Try again."

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

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

"So?"

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

"People need to mind their own business."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fine. I'll be more mindful."

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

"Joe—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 15, 2023

Joe,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N

[hamilton-here]

I know requests are closed but if it’s possible, if you don’t mind, to write Lewis Hamilton with his inexperience shy girlfriend (only younger than him 8 years apart ) took her to a nude beach, I don’t know but I can feel this man is a nude beach type of person,just as a second experience to help her be more free around him, and you know smutty and flirty. The man is a wild card

𝐹𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐻𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝑜𝓊𝓁

Authors Note: Hi all! I tell you my jaw dropped seeing this request. I was not expecting it🤯. Hopefully I did okay in meeting the demand. Have a lovely day/night. Lots of love xx

Summary: A surprise nude beach date with Lewis Hamilton leads to playful freedom, deeper connection, and viral fan chaos.

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

Warnings: mentions of sexual content

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was still early, the kind of early where the sun was just a sleepy streak of orange at the horizon, the air crisp with the last vestiges of the night.

You felt the gentle weight of Lewis’s arm around you, pulling you closer as you lay against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. The warmth of his body was a comfort; one you hadn’t realised you’d needed until you found it. Something so simple, yet so soothing.

You breathed in, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the salt from the ocean breeze drifting through the open window. The world felt soft and quiet, and you wished time could just stand still.

“Good morning, baby,” Lewis murmured against your hair, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with a warmth that made your heart flutter. You felt the vibrations of his chest as he spoke, the words a low, tender hum.

“Morning,” you mumbled, blinking your eyes open, lifting your head slightly to look at him. His gaze met yours instantly, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes, making the butterflies in your stomach flutter in a way they always did when he had something up his sleeve.

“You’re in a good mood today,” you observed, your lips curling into a smile as you gazed at the man who always seemed to bring out the best in you. He raised an eyebrow and winked, his smile widening in that way that was all charm and confidence. You could tell he had something planned, something that had you intrigued but also a little nervous. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Surprises from Lewis could be anything from a quiet, intimate dinner to something more spontaneous.

He had a way of sweeping you off your feet with little to no warning, but today, there was something about his tone, the way he said it, that made your nerves tingle with a mix of excitement and anxiety. The kind of anticipation that makes you want to hold your breath.

“A surprise?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but your mind was already racing through a million possibilities. “What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll see.” His voice was playful, teasing, with just the right amount of mystery to keep you on edge.

He brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear, his fingers lingering there longer than necessary, tracing the soft curve of your jaw before pulling back. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling his touch against your skin, the warmth of his hand sending a little shiver down your spine.

When you opened your eyes again, Lewis was already moving, sitting up in bed with an easy, fluid motion stretching his long body with a slow, deliberate grace. The soft golden light of the morning filtered in, catching on the lines of his muscles, highlighting the definition in his arms and chest.

You watched him, feeling a rush of affection and then some a sudden surge of heat as you registered just how lucky you were to have him in your life. His presence felt like home, grounding you, making you feel safe in a way no one else ever had.

“You’re not gonna tell me?” you asked, your voice quieter now, the playful tone fading into something a little more uncertain. There was always that feeling when he planned these surprises like walking into a world of the unknown where the rules didn’t quite apply and all you could do was trust him to lead you through.

“Nope.” His grin widened, that mischievous gleam never leaving his eyes. “But I’m gonna need you to trust me. It’ll be fun, I promise.” He turned toward the closet, rifling through clothes with a practiced ease that only made him look even more effortlessly put-together.

You couldn’t help but admire the way he moved so confident, so unbothered by the world, a man who was used to taking charge. You didn’t have to ask what he was doing. You knew him well enough by now.

It wasn’t long before he pulled on an outfit that was casual but stylish, the perfect mix of relaxed and purposeful. You tried to focus on that, on how he was already making decisions, but your mind was still racing, and you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves. He looked so confident. But you were still unsure.

You glanced down at your swimsuit options, hesitating as you held one up to the mirror. You’d been with him long enough now to understand his playful nature, but this was different. You had no idea what to expect and while a part of you was excited, another part was intimidated by the idea of what he had planned for you today.

You were still shy about certain things, and your body - well, you didn’t feel as confident as him in this area. It wasn’t that you didn’t love yourself, but there were things you had yet to embrace fully.

“You okay?” he asked, turning toward you, his brow furrowed in concern. His eyes, always so tender, scanned your expression as if trying to gauge how you were feeling.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go along with whatever surprise he had in mind. It was just new. Different. And a little scary. But at the same time, he made it feel safe. He always did.

“Yeah,” you said softly, offering him a small smile. “Just not sure what I’m in for.”

“Good.” His grin was back, playful and teasing, and it made your heart race. “That’s the point. Come on, let’s go. We’re already running late.”

The drive was mostly quiet, save for the occasional teasing comment from him. He asked if you were excited, if you were feeling ready for whatever came next, and each time, his voice was light, but you could hear the excitement in it. He kept looking at you out of the corner of his eye, catching your nervous smiles, and giving you an occasional wink as if to reassure you.

You felt yourself relax a little as you found yourself drifting between excitement and uncertainty. You were with him, and that alone made everything feel like an adventure. But still what was the surprise?

It wasn’t until you reached the coastline that it started to click. The road began to narrow as the trees parted, and you could hear the soft rush of the waves against the shore in the distance. That was when the realisation dawned.

“Lewis…” you said, a mix of disbelief and excitement in your voice. “This better not be what I think it is.” He shot you a glance, that grin still there, but now with a knowing edge to it, the kind that made your heart skip a beat. “What do you think it is?”

Your eyes widened as you saw it, a stretch of golden sand just ahead, sparsely populated with a few figures in the distance. Your throat went dry as you recognised the scene unfolding before you a beach, completely untouched, with no barriers, no clothes. Just people, bare and free, like they belonged to the earth.

“No way,” you whispered, your voice suddenly hoarse. “We’re not - are we?” He laughed softly, a sound full of teasing and something deeper, almost like a promise. “Welcome to your surprise, baby.” Your heart skipped another beat, and your stomach tightened as you tried to form words, but they wouldn’t come. A nude beach? This was the surprise.

You felt the flush creep up your neck, and your body went hot. This was beyond anything you’d expected, beyond anything you’d ever even thought about doing.

You wanted to hide, to curl up in your clothes and forget about the whole thing. But then you saw him Lewis, so confident, so at ease in his own skin. There was something in his eyes that made you want to be just like him.

“Lewis,” you said again, this time your voice quieter, more vulnerable. “I’ve never…”

“I know,” he said, cutting you off gently, his tone soft, sincere, and full of understanding. “And that’s exactly why we’re here. I want you to feel free around me. Really free. No clothes, no judgment, no one telling you what you should or shouldn’t do. Just us.”

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to process what he was saying. His words were calm and steady like there was no pressure, no rush. Only love, only care. He wanted you to trust him in a way that felt deep, even intimate.

He wasn’t just asking you to shed your clothes. He was asking you to shed your insecurities, your hesitations. He was asking you to trust him, fully and completely. You swallowed, the anxiety still bubbling inside you, but something else rose too excitement, a feeling of liberation, of possibility.

“Okay,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “Okay. Let’s do it.” A smile spread across his face then, a look of pride and approval that made your heart flutter in your chest. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t push. He was just there waiting, patient and encouraging you to take that step. “That’s my girl,” he said softly, his voice full of warmth.

The two of you got out of the car, your bare feet sinking into the soft, warm sand. You glanced around, your body still hesitant, your hands trembling as you slowly began to undress. The world felt surreal, the beach stretching endlessly around you. You could feel the cool breeze on your skin, the heat of the sun on your face and then him.

You glanced at Lewis, watching as he shed his clothes with the same effortless confidence he wore every day. His body, always toned and defined, moved so naturally that you couldn’t help but admire him. He was free. And as you stood there, exposed to the world around you, you noticed that was what he was giving you. Freedom.

His eyes met yours as he turned, a soft, appreciative smile curling his lips. “See?” he said softly, his voice a low murmur as he took a step toward you. “You look incredible. I knew you would.”

You blushed, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but his gaze wasn’t judgmental. It was full of admiration, of warmth. You weren’t just exposed in body but you were exposed in spirit, in a way that made you feel safe with him, even if it was a little scary.

You smiled, feeling a slow release of the tension in your body, the weightlifting as the sun warmed your skin. It wasn’t just about being naked. It was about letting go. It was about him, and you, being free.

The sun had risen fully now, casting a golden glow across the beach that made everything feel more vivid, more alive. The waves had become a constant hum as a soft background to the silence between you and Lewis as you both lay side by side on the warm sand.

You were still naked, your body feeling like it was basking in more than just sunlight but in his presence an almost electric sensation that was hard to describe, yet undeniable.

You turned your head to look at him, your heart racing a little as you took in the sight of him. Lewis, with his effortless confidence, his strong physique catching the light, his face softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

He was lying next to you, his arm draped lazily across your waist, his fingers tracing small patterns on your skin, the touch light but purposeful. The slow movements of his fingers stirred something inside of you an ache, a longing you hadn’t realised was there until now.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice low, the question almost playful but laced with genuine curiosity. His eyes met yours, a soft smile on his lips and in that moment, you felt completely seen. It was like he could look right through you, touching the deepest parts of you, even without saying a word.

You swallowed, your heart skipping a beat. It was hard to describe. You felt exposed in a way you never had before not just physically, but emotionally too.

It wasn’t just the fact that you were lying next to him on a beach, skin exposed to the sun, but it was the way he made you feel so safe, so accepted, even in your vulnerability. But in his eyes, you didn’t feel judged. You didn’t feel the pressure to be anything other than yourself.

“I feel slightly nervous,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure what had come over you there was this overwhelming mix of freedom and vulnerability, the kind that made your pulse race and your chest tighten all at once.

His gaze softened, and you could see the tenderness in his eyes as he smiled warmly, his hand gently squeezing your side as if to reassure you. "Good nervous or bad nervous?" he asked, his voice teasing, but there was something deeper in the way he said it something that told you he wasn’t going to let you feel bad, that his intention was only to lift you up, to ease the tension you were feeling.

“Good nervous,” you whispered, your breath catching as he leaned in closer, his face hovering just inches from yours. His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke again, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Then you’re exactly where you need to be,” he said softly, his voice sending a wave of heat through your body. His words weren’t just comforting they were a quiet assurance that you were allowed to be vulnerable, to be yourself in this moment. And that, somehow made you feel braver than you ever had.

Your breath hitched as you felt the warmth of his lips on your skin, his tattooed hand shifting gently over your back, pulling you in closer to him. He kissed the side of your neck, the softness of his touch sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

Every move was slow, deliberate, like he was savouring each second with you. You could feel the heat between you both rising slowly, your body reacting to him in a way you hadn’t anticipated but welcomed all the same.

You closed your eyes, your fingers grazing his golden-brown skin, lightly running over the muscles in his arm. His body was warm against yours and the contrast of the cool breeze and the heat of the sun only intensified the sensations.

You could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your palm. You could tell he was focused on you. On every little shift, every subtle movement you made. It was as if he were learning you in real-time.

“You’re doing amazing, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with affection, the words making your heart swell. “I love how free you’re letting yourself be with me.”

His praise made you feel a rush of warmth. It was more than just physical; it was a sense of trust building, a connection deepening between you two. Slowly, hesitantly, you moved closer, your lips brushing his in a soft, tentative kiss. The moment was tender, full of warmth and softness, a simple brush of lips that made you feel vulnerable but safe at the same time.

When you pulled back, you saw the glint in his eyes a mixture of affection and something more. A desire. It was like a spark had ignited between you two, and suddenly, the world around you felt distant and irrelevant.

All you could focus on was the warmth of his body beside yours and the way his eyes held yours, full of hunger and tenderness all at once. He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world and for a moment, you forgot everything else.

It was just the two of you, in this quiet place, completely exposed in every way imaginable near other nude couples.

“You’re breathtaking, you know that?” he whispered, his fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, the touch so light it felt like a promise. “You make me want to lose myself in you.”

His words sent a surge of heat to your core, and you felt your body respond to him, to the softness of his voice and the intensity in his eyes. The pull between you was undeniable. The air between you both had thickened, heavy with a desire that neither of you were willing to ignore anymore. You could feel it building between you, like a slow-burning fire. Every second that passed only added to the intensity.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that started slow, teasing, but quickly turned deeper, more desperate.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you even closer as he deepened the kiss. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, and you could feel the heat building between you both, the tension palpable. You could taste the desire on his lips and it made your head spin, your pulse quickening.

You broke away for a moment, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling with the rhythm of your breath. His eyes searched yours, his gaze dark with want, but there was still a softness there a tenderness that balanced the raw hunger you both felt.

He didn’t say anything, but his eyes spoke volumes. There was a hunger there now, a hunger that matched the growing desire in you. His lips found your neck again, trailing kisses down toward your collarbone, his hands sliding down your back to rest on your hips, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough.

And suddenly, you felt it the electric charge between you two that had been building since the moment you’d undressed on the beach. Every kiss, every touch, was drawing you both closer to a place where nothing else mattered. It was just him. Just you.

"Are you sure your okay with me doing this?" he asked, his voice low, almost a growl against your skin. He paused, waiting for your answer, his hands gently caressing your skin, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You looked into his eyes, feeling the trust you had for him flood through you. There was no hesitation now. No fear. You had shed your insecurities, bit by bit, with every moment, every touch. You had let go of the walls you had built so carefully over the years, and now, in this moment, with him, you were ready to embrace everything he was offering.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice steady, the word more of a confirmation than a question. Your body was already responding to him, a longing building that you didn’t even try to fight.

With that, Lewis leaned in again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was filled with an intensity you hadn’t expected. His hands roamed over your body, tracing every curve, every line, as if he were memorising the feel of you. His touch was a slow burn, igniting every part of you, every nerve ending that tingled with anticipation.

The sensation of his lips on your skin, the heat of his body against yours, was intoxicating. You lost yourself in the rhythm of his touch, in the way his kisses moved from your lips to your jaw, to your neck and lower still, until you were both gasping for air, the world spinning around you.

It felt like you were being consumed by him, in the best way possible. His body, his hands, his lips everything about him was pulling you in, deeper and deeper.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed against your skin, his voice rough with desire.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you felt your body flush with heat. The tension between you two had reached a breaking point and now, there was nothing else but the pull of each other’s bodies.

Every kiss, every touch, felt like it was pulling you deeper into him, until all you could focus on was the feel of him - his hands, his lips, his body moving against yours.

You were both on the edge, and there was no turning back now. The world outside of the two of you seemed to fade away as the moment stretched, the air thick with the desire building between you.

"Let go with me, baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his lips trailing over your skin as his hands moved to trace the soft lines of your body. “I want to feel all of you.”

The kisses lingered for what felt like an eternity, soft and slow, as if neither of you were quite ready to pull away. Each moment that passed felt like it deepened the connection between you, drawing you closer in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

But eventually, the heat that had built between you both followed by the warmth from the sun, the heat of his body against yours became too much to bear in the quiet of the beach. You felt a rising warmth in your chest, but it had nothing to do with the sun above you.

It was a heat that came from within, spreading through you, suffusing your very soul, making every part of you feel alive. Every touch, every movement seemed to ignite something deeper in you, a flame that had been waiting to be lit.

Lewis was the first to pull back, his breathing deep and ragged, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, but his eyes never left yours. They were locked onto you, pupils dilated with desire, the intensity in them making your heart race.

His fingers slid gently over your skin, tracing the delicate lines of your shoulders, his touch lingering in ways that made your pulse quicken. The tension in the air between you both was palpable, thick, almost suffocating in its intensity.

He didn’t say anything at first but the soft, knowing smile that curled on his lips spoke volumes. It was a smile that told you he felt the same. He was just as affected, just as caught in this connection as you were.

“Wanna cool off?” he asked, his voice low and playful, his words still heavy with the unspoken things between you two.

It was like he was trying to ground you both, to shift the heat from the air to something lighter, more carefree, something that would ease the tension without breaking the moment completely.

You blinked, your breath still coming in shallow gasps, caught up in the electric charge of his presence. “Cool off?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper, the air between you thick with longing.

Lewis laughed softly, a sound that was a mixture of amusement and affection, as if he found your reaction endearing. His voice was still playful, but there was a warmth to it, a gentleness that reassured you. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze flickering to the ocean as the waves crashed against the shore with a rhythmic sound, like nature’s heartbeat.

“It’s too hot for all this tension to just stay here.” He looked back at you, his eyes filled with mischief, and that familiar twinkle that made your heart skip a beat. “Come on, let’s take a swim. It’ll help. And you have to get in the water. It’s a rule, love.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the lightness of his tone, at how effortlessly he was trying to reset the mood. And just like that, the weight of the moment shifted.

The thought of stepping into the cool embrace of the ocean, with him beside you, felt like the perfect way to unwind - to take the intimacy you’d shared on the beach and transform it into something freer, something that felt more playful and less intense.

You slowly stood up, feeling the soft sand shift beneath your feet. The cool ocean breeze brushed across your exposed skin, sending a shiver up your spine.

You were still tangled in the aftereffects of his touch, the warmth of his body, the kiss. But the sun now felt softer, kinder, as it bathed your skin in a gentle light. It was as if the universe had aligned just for this moment a quiet peace after the storm of emotion that had passed between you.

Lewis stood up beside you, his hand finding yours again, his fingers curling around yours in that familiar, reassuring grip.

With a gentle tug, he led you toward the water, and as you walked, you could feel the sand beneath your feet becoming firmer, the pull of the ocean drawing you in with its steady rhythm.

The air around you seemed charged with something electric a silent understanding between you and him, an unspoken promise. There was no need for words; you both knew that.

The water shimmered before you, its surface sparkling in the sunlight, reflecting the endless blue sky above. The waves lapped at your ankles as you stepped into the ocean, the coolness of the water surprising against your sun-warmed skin.

The sensation of the water was like a cleansing, a refreshing contrast to the heat that had built up moments before. You could feel the cool waves swirling around your feet, and with a sudden burst of excitement, you took off toward the edge of the water, the rush of the waves splashing against your legs.

You laughed, feeling a sudden surge of freedom, your laughter ringing out against the backdrop of the ocean.

Lewis followed right behind, his footsteps swift as he caught up to you with that mischievous grin you adored. His laughter joined yours, the sound blending with the rush of the ocean and the wind.

“Bet I can get there first!” he teased, his voice playful, but there was an undeniable hunger in it, a desire for the moment to last, for the connection between you two to stay.

Without thinking, you matched his pace, your heart light as you raced through the surf, the ocean water crashing against your skin. You could feel the rhythm of your bodies syncing, the playful competition turning into something more.

It was as if, for just a moment, everything else faded away - no cameras, no prying eyes, no expectations. Just the two of you, in your own world, running toward something that felt like freedom.

You reached the water’s edge first, laughing breathlessly as the coolness of the waves swallowed your feet. The sensation of the water surrounding you made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t felt in so long, as if the ocean had stripped away any last remnants of self-consciousness, leaving you feeling raw and free.

Lewis stayed close behind you, his hand still wrapped around yours, his thumb gently caressing your skin. He turned to face you, the droplets of water on his skin sparkling in the sunlight, his hair tousled by the wind, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow down.

His intense gaze met yours, and in that instant, it felt like the entire world had disappeared. There was only you, and him, and the connection that had only deepened since you’d stepped onto the beach.

“You look incredible,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves, but the sincerity in his words made your heart skip a beat.

The compliment wasn’t just about the way you looked; it was about who you were in that moment. The real you. The parts of you that you had kept hidden, unsure, shy. But with him, in his gaze, you felt seen in a way you never had before.

You blinked up at him, a little caught off guard, but his words melted any uncertainty. You squeezed his hand gently, a smile tugging at your lips. “I could say the same about you,” you replied, your voice soft but playful, mirroring the way he made you feel.

Before you could say anything else, Lewis tugged you deeper into the water, the cool waves rising higher against your bodies.

The sensation of the water on your skin was freeing it was like the ocean was washing away any lingering tension, any doubts, any insecurities you’d been holding onto. You were here, in this moment, completely. And it felt perfect. You laughed, letting go of any remaining reservations, feeling the weight of everything else fall away.

As the two of you splashed around in the water, your laughter mixing with the rhythm of the waves, the playful intimacy between you deepened. It was as if the ocean had created a space just for the two of you, a bubble where nothing else mattered but the connection you were building. You felt lighter, freer, more at ease than you’d ever felt before.

At one point, as you both floated on your backs, letting the current gently rock you in the water, the silence between you was comfortable, peaceful.

The sun warmed your skin, but the water kept you cool, and for the first time in a long time, you felt completely at peace. You closed your eyes, letting the sensation of floating relax you, your body weightless in the cool embrace of the ocean.

“You know,” Lewis murmured, breaking the silence with his voice, which was soft, but full of something deeper now, something that made your heart swell. “This is my favourite part.”

You turned your head to look at him as he floated beside you, his hand finding yours. “Not just being here, but seeing you like this. Free, happy, open.” He paused, his fingers tracing patterns over your hand, his voice lowering with emotion. “That’s all I want for you. To be yourself with me. No walls. No barriers.”

His words, so soft and sincere, hit you like a wave. The way he saw you, how he really saw you not just the woman on the outside, but the one who had always been afraid to shed her layers, to let herself be free.

But now, in the ocean, with him, it felt like you were being stripped bare in the best way possible. You could feel yourself opening up, just for him. And that scared you a little, but it also felt right.

“I feel it,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. The words felt like a truth you hadn’t fully realised until now. “With you, I feel like I can just be me. And I love that.”

Lewis’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the world seemed to disappear. He smiled, that same gentle smile, and tugged you closer once more. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

But then, something tugged at the back of your mind, and you pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing as you glanced around the beach. You couldn’t help but ask, “What if someone sees us? What if the paparazzi -”

Lewis cut you off with a soft chuckle, his thumb brushing over your hand in reassurance. “Baby,” he said, looking you dead in the eyes, “if they catch us, let them. I don’t care. I’m not hiding this. Not with you. Not anymore.”

The warmth of Lewis's words lingered in the air, a promise of something deeper, something more than just the carefree moment you were sharing. You felt your heart flutter at his reassurance - “I’m not hiding this. Not with you. Not anymore.”

The weight of those words sank in slowly, sending a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just about the physical act of being naked together, though that was a big part of it. It was about exposing yourself in every way, emotionally and mentally.

You didn’t realise just how much you had craved this kind of acceptance until now. The idea of being seen really seen without any masks, no layers of pretence, made you feel both vulnerable and empowered in equal measure.

You had always been cautious, always so aware of the way people looked at you, whether you were fully clothed or not. Being in such an open, exposed state with someone especially in the public eye, on a beach with only the ocean and a few distant figures as witnesses made you feel raw in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

But then, there was Lewis. His gaze met yours, steady, filled with warmth and suddenly the terror you’d felt before started to subside. In his eyes, you didn’t feel judged. You didn’t feel small.

You felt seen in a way that made everything else disappear. The world around you of the press, the possible prying eyes didn’t matter because in that moment, the only thing that existed was the space between you two. And it felt like home.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound almost nervous as it escaped your lips. “You’re crazy,” you said, the playful tone in your voice barely masking the undercurrent of anxiety still swirling in your chest.

“I know,” he responded with that signature grin of his the one that had you weak at the knees every single time.

His mischievous glint returned, and without missing a beat, he leaned in to brush his lips against your cheek. The contact was light, almost like a whisper of a kiss, but it ignited a fire inside you that sent your pulse spiking.

“You love it,” he teased, the words slipping from his mouth with such ease, you couldn’t help but smile in return.

You tried to retaliate with a splash of water, sending droplets flying toward him, but it only made him laugh, the sound rich and free. His laughter had always been something you loved the way it felt so effortless, so genuine. There was nothing held back in it, nothing rehearsed. And at that moment, neither of you had any reason to hide.

For a long stretch of time, there was nothing but the quiet, the sound of waves crashing, and the gentle rhythm of your breathing. The world seemed to slow down, the noise of everything else fading away. You felt a kind of peace you hadn’t realised you were missing.

There was something in the way he looked at you, in the way his touch was so deliberate, so gentle it made you feel like you had all the time in the world to let go of the parts of yourself that still held back. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you had to be anyone but you.

“I never thought I’d feel like this,” you murmured, the words slipping from your mouth before you could second-guess them. Your fingers trailed through the water, watching as ripples expanded outward. “So free.”

Lewis tilted his head, his gaze softening. He was looking at you like he could see the very essence of your soul. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice warm, curious, like he was truly listening, like he wanted to understand every piece of you.

You paused for a moment, collecting your thoughts, trying to figure out how to put this feeling into words. It wasn’t easy.

The vulnerability of the moment was still there, but it was different now more like an invitation. It was as if all the things you were usually afraid of the judgment, the rejection no longer mattered in this space you shared with him.

“I’ve always been so cautious,” you began, eyes fixed on the water as you spoke. “I’ve spent so much time second-guessing myself, worrying about what people think, about everything.” You glanced up at him then, smiling softly. “But with you? I feel like I don’t have to hide. You make me feel like I can just let go of all the walls I’ve built.”

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached out, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear.

His fingers lingered there for just a moment, a small but meaningful touch that sent a wave of warmth through you. It was the kind of gesture that spoke of understanding, of care like he knew exactly what you needed without you even saying it.

“I’m glad,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Because you don’t need to hold back with me. Not ever. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

The sincerity in his words, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world made your chest tighten with emotion. His words hit you like a soft breeze, comforting and yet stirring something deeper.

In that moment, you felt the weight of everything you had carried for so long begin to melt away. You felt like you could finally exhale, like you didn’t have to be afraid anymore. Not with him.

You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him just how much that meant to you, when your gaze flickered to the far side of the beach. For a split second, your heart stopped.

There, in the distance, you could see the unmistakable flicker of camera flashes. The subtle sound of voices carried faintly in the wind.

And suddenly, the serene moment you had shared felt fragile. Vulnerable. The truth hit you all at once...the paparazzi. They had found you. They had found you both.

Your stomach dropped, and the initial thrill of the moment turned to a cold rush of panic. You instinctively began to pull away, your mind racing with thoughts of what this could mean.

It wasn’t just about being naked in public anymore it was about the reality of your relationship being exposed to the world in a way that felt too raw. Too unguarded. You didn’t know if you were ready for that.

But before you could even begin to back away completely, Lewis’s hand found yours again, his grip firm and steady. His touch was grounding, a reminder that he was right there with you, no matter what.

He pulled you against his inked body. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice calming, soothing like a balm against your rising panic. “I told you. I don’t care. If they want to snap pictures, let them. We’re here, together, doing what we want. Nothing’s changing that.”

“But what if -” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You weren’t sure what to say, how to express the sudden rush of anxiety that had overtaken you. You weren’t ready to be exposed to the world like this. Not now, not yet.

Lewis gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he locked eyes with you, his expression soft but resolute. “Love,” he said, his tone light but full of sincerity, “they’ll talk no matter what. Whether we’re here or behind closed doors, they’ll find a way. So let’s give them something to talk about.”

His words were filled with a cocky kind of confidence that made your heart flutter. He wasn’t running away from this he was embracing it. And in that moment, you realised how much you wanted to embrace it too. With him. “But you don’t care? If people see us like this?”

He shook his head, his smile playful now, as he brushed his thumb over your cheek again. “I don’t care. Not with you. Not anymore. It’s just us. And that’s all that matters.” The weight of his words seemed to calm you.

Slowly, the anxiety that had been flooding you began to recede, replaced by the warmth of his presence. In his eyes, you saw no judgment, no fear. Only a quiet strength that made you feel safe.

You exhaled deeply, your breathing steadier now. “I guess I can try,” you said, your voice small but firm. With that, he leaned in, his lips gently pressing against yours in a soft kiss slow and reassuring. It wasn’t long, but it was full of everything you needed to hear. When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with affection.

“Feel better now?” he asked, his voice teasing, but underneath it, you could hear the genuine care. You smiled, nodding slowly. “Yeah. A little.”

“Good,” he said, winking at you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.” His voice dropped lower, a playful edge returning to it. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Your stomach fluttered with nervous excitement. “Another surprise?”

Lewis’s grin deepened. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said, his voice thick with promise.

He gave your hand a final squeeze and started leading you farther into the water. With each step, you felt the last remnants of doubt slip away, and as you swam with him. And nothing else mattered.

As the two of you swam farther into the water, the moment felt almost surreal. The sunlight shimmered off the surface of the ocean, turning the vast expanse of water into an endless field of gold.

The gentle rhythm of the waves seemed to mirror the steady beat of your heart, syncing in perfect harmony. There was nothing between you and Lewis now not just the water, but every barrier that had ever kept you cautious, unsure, or guarded. The beach, once an open stage for a performance, now felt like a quiet sanctuary, just the two of you, stripped of everything else.

Lewis led you deeper into the sea, where the waves were playfully tugging at your bodies. The cool water swirled around you, but his touch kept you anchored. His fingers brushed against yours, and for a second, you marvelled at the simplicity of the connection.

His gaze turned toward you, eyes sparkling under the sunlight, and you saw a glint of mischief there. “So,” he began, his voice still light but with an underlying seriousness, “ready for that next surprise?”

Your heart skipped, a rush of excitement mixing with nerves. What could he possibly have planned now? Part of you was anxious about what lay ahead, but another part of you couldn’t help but feel the pull of whatever it was.

With Lewis, everything had been unexpected, thrilling, and at times, terrifying. But those moments had led you here to a place of growth, discovery, and a vulnerability you’d never allowed yourself before.

“What now?” you asked, trying to keep the edge of nervousness from your voice, but failing as curiosity danced in your eyes.

He grinned, a playful twinkle lighting up his face. “Follow me,” he said, his fingers wrapping around yours with a gentle tug.

You swam side by side, your movements more confident now, each stroke a step closer to letting go. The water embraced you, and with each passing second, you felt a little freer, a little lighter.

For a while, you swam in silence, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore growing fainter as you ventured further out. The calm was almost surreal, like you were in your own world, far removed from the worries that had once weighed so heavily on your heart.

The gentle pull of the current kept you moving forward, and with every passing moment, the tension that had accompanied you earlier started to dissipate. Here, with him, in the vastness of the ocean, everything felt peaceful.

Eventually, Lewis stopped and you followed suit, treading water as your feet barely brushed against the sandy bottom. The sun warmed your skin, but there was a coolness to the water that kept you grounded. He turned toward you, his face illuminated by the soft light, a calm smile playing on his lips.

“I just wanted you to see something,” he said, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I want you to know that this us it’s not just about the fun moments. It’s about all of it. Even the difficult parts. You've already let go of so much, but you don’t have to hold on to anything with me anymore.”

His words took a moment to sink in, their weight pulling you in. He wasn’t just talking about the physical intimacy, the nudity, or the vulnerability of being seen. He was speaking of the deeper layers the parts of yourself you’d been guarding for so long. The emotional walls you had built, brick by brick, to protect yourself from the world.

You reached out to him, pulling yourself closer, the swell of gratitude in your chest overwhelming. “I think I’m starting to understand,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve spent so much of my life hiding, holding parts of me back. But with you I feel like I can just be. All of me.”

The moment stretched, and then he kissed you. It wasn’t a passionate kiss there were no desperate urges, no hurried motions. It was slow, deliberate, a kiss that held all the unspoken things you’d yet to say.

The taste of saltwater lingered on his lips, and when you pulled back, you saw something in his eyes that made your heart flutter a deep, abiding affection that wasn’t bound by words.

“I’m glad you’re seeing that,” he whispered, his forehead resting gently against yours. “And just so you know, I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

“So…” you said, your voice now calm, “What’s the final surprise? Because, after all this, I think you’ve earned the right to make me nervous again.”

Lewis chuckled, a deep, easy laugh that reverberated through the stillness of the water. “I think you’ve earned a break, baby,” he teased, his grip tightening around your hand as he began swimming back toward the shore. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The swim back felt different, quieter more relaxed. The playful energy that had defined the day shifted into a quiet, shared understanding between you both. There were no walls now, no barriers. Only trust, vulnerability, and the freedom of being completely you.

When you reached the shore, the golden light of the late afternoon bathed the beach in a soft, peaceful glow. Lewis looked at you, his eyes mischievous once more, but there was a new warmth to them, one that made your heart swell.

“I think,” he said with a grin, “we’ve earned a quiet evening. What do you say?”

You smiled, the exhaustion of the day finally starting to hit you, but it was a good kind of tired. “Sounds perfect,” you whispered, your fingers intertwining with his as you walked toward the sand.

And for the first time in your life, you felt like you didn’t have to hide. You didn’t have to worry about the expectations of the world or about what anyone else thought. In this moment, with him, you were exactly where you needed to be.

He pulled you close, his hand cupping your face, and kissed you once more slow, deep, and full of all the promises that had been made. A promise of freedom, of love, and of a future where you could always be yourself. A future where you no longer had to fear the exposure of your heart.

The next morning, the world seemed to have woken up to your little escape. Photos from the day before flooded social media, and it didn’t take long for the paparazzi to catch up with you two.

A few photos surfaced of you and Lewis laughing, swimming together in the ocean. The images were undeniably intimate, but there was an air of playfulness in the way the two of you looked at each other.

One particular image stood out an overhead shot of you both in the water, smiling at each other, surrounded by a beautiful expanse of blue.

The angle of the shot made it appear you were both completely naked, your skin glistening with droplets of water as you leaned into each other.

The headline was cheeky:

"A Day in the Sun: Lewis Hamilton and His Mystery Woman Get Close, VERY Close!"

Fans quickly caught on, many of them making jokes about the intimacy of the shots, speculating whether you two were, in fact, naked. The comments flooded in, and you couldn’t help but laugh at some of the hilarious reactions.

One tweet read:

“Is it just me or did Lewis and his ‘mystery woman’ just break the internet...and maybe a few other things? 😂🌊 #CaughtInTheAct #WaterNudes?”

The responses quickly piled on:

“Lewis, we knew you liked to make waves but this is next level! 🌊”

Another fan tweet said, “When you’re both so in love, even the ocean’s got no time for clothes 😂 #NoClothesJustVibes #Goals.”

One user, in an apparent mix of admiration and disbelief, wrote:

"I thought I was seeing things, but nope, it's just Lewis and his girl making the ocean their personal runway. The true naked truth of love 🏖️ #FreeTheSwimwear"

It wasn’t long before F1 drivers and their teams had their say, and of course, things got spicy in the F1 grid.

Max Verstappen tweeted:

“So, Lewis, when did naked beach outings become part of the race prep? That's next level training”

Charles Leclerc was quick to add:

“I’m trying to figure out what’s more shocking: the fact they’re swimming like that, or the fact Lewis beat me to the most scandalous headline of the year 🤨😉”

Carlos Sainz, always quick with a cheeky comment, posted:

"I hope you two used sunscreen, or is that just another bare necessity? 😏 #TanLinesAreForTheWeak"

But the comment that really got attention came from Daniel Ricciardo, who, never one to shy away from a good joke, posted:

“If Lewis wins this weekend, we’ll know who REALLY deserves the credit. 👀 #CaughtInTheTide #TeamNoClothes”

Back in the comments, fans were living for it. “Lewis is definitely the most unpredictable driver on the grid, but this takes the cake. Can’t wait for the ‘lap times vs. tan lines’ debate in the next drivers' meeting. 😂”

The conversation kept escalating, with fans wondering whether the “mystery woman” (you) would soon make an official appearance at a race or if this was going to remain Lewis’s wild secret.

But your favourite tweet of the day came from Lewis himself, where he responded to the chaos with:

“It’s funny how everyone’s obsessed with the pics, but what they don’t see is the peace we found together in that moment. That’s what matters most to me.😎💙”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the whirlwind of attention, knowing full well that what the world was seeing wasn’t the whole story and frankly, you didn’t mind at all.

It wasn’t just the playfulness of the day, or the freedom you’d found, but the quiet moments, the real connection, that made all the difference.

Still, you were glad to see that the F1 grid was taking it in stride. You had a sneaky feeling they’d be laughing about this for a while. And just like that, your weekend with Lewis had gone from an intimate escape to the talk of the racing world.

The day continued with a new level of hilarity. The fans, the memes, and the constant “leaked photos” were enough to keep you both in stitches. Lewis didn’t seem bothered at all, instead he found humour in the whole thing, often pulling up random fan accounts to show you the memes.

After scrolling through a few more ridiculous comments, you looked up at Lewis with a playful grin. “So, what’s next? You planning to break the internet again, or do we actually get to go to your surprise location now?”

Lewis chuckled and, with that mischievous glint in his eyes, winked at you. “Oh, baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

And just like that, you were both off on yet another adventure.

[gamelpar]

hiyaaa i got some recs too!!

working for the knife by bitterbloodyorange - 4/4, 13k

He’ll be fine, she thinks. She hopes his father will come get him, thinks of how overjoyed they will be to have Jason back. And so Death steps back. She’ll let the living handle Jason Todd. Jason dies fourteen times before anyone seems to notice.

crime matriarch and the dog she didn't want by a_alene, Havenesc - series with 5 works so far

the au where jason is immortal and mentored by none other than THE sofia gigante

Post-Mortem by GalaxyOwl13 - 1k

Jason wakes up in the middle of his own autopsy. (they dropped his fucking lung on the floor, the bastards)

redux by spiritsglade - 3k

Jason opens his eyes to darkness—the kind so complete that it tricks the brain into picking out shapes where there are none. He's flat on his back, and some careful testing reveals that the space around him isn't much larger than his body. The smell of dirt and pine filters in a moment later. He has been here before.

lies of omission by spiritsglade - 19/21, ongoing, 71k

Red Hood kept his distance from the Bats. They had something akin to a truce, but they always maintained a healthy level of mutual wariness and animosity. None of them knew him, not in any way that mattered, and he was content keeping things that way. Unfortunately, secrets had a way of coming to light.

so, you've killed the joker by stupidandsad - 5k

Jason kills the Joker, and everything that comes next.

wake up when you're ready (no body, no grave) by artofflorescence - 6k

“Dying means I go somewhere else.” “You are lying to me. I will inform Richard that you are doing this–” “Somewhere safe. That’s all. I get the feeling that I’ve been safe, for just a moment.” (i cannot recommend this one enough. the author's writing is like poetry)

Long due unusual by Hedervary_Satsuki_Arashiko - 2k

If Jason were to honestly answer the question ‘where were you born?’ – which is, frankly, unlikely – he’d say Greece. (jason being an 11-year old for the longest time)

I've started a small collection of fics where Jason can die but he doesn't stay dead because it's my niche and I'm starving over here.

So far I only have seven so if you know of any feel free to add to this list!

Also remember to check the warnings of each piece before you read them. ✌

I'm not a zombie (but I feel like one) - wingedstarlight - (2,539) - Jason knows that when he dies, he doesn't stay dead. He puts off telling his family until the choice is taken out of his hands.

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The Life and Death(s) of Jason Todd - Nerdy_Pasta - (7,103) - Jason knew he was going to die. He wasn’t the first one to fall victim to the cold. He had seen two figures huddled together that same night, unmoving. He had to ignore them. He had to grip the tire iron tighter, and get to work on the foolishly parked car in front of him. Jason had gotten three tires hidden away and all of them off before the weather struck. He was on his way to take the fourth when he felt the raindrops pierce his thin jacket and he ducked for cover. The cover didn't hold and he had to find more, getting more and more soaked by the minute. Now Jason was in the present. Dying. Or, Jason Todd is a phoenix. How he dies and dies and lives.

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Reanimation -Lulaypp - (12,605) - How many times can a person die before they finally break? How many days can a mind last before it finally shatters? Jason isn't keen on knowing. Neither is he keen on going through it. Especially when he knows that he cannot stay dead.

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dead men tell no tales - mikkal - (15,104) - Jason died. But then he came back. This keeps happening.

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Patch Up The Tapestry I Shred - Hale13 - (18,648) -The first time Jason came back to life he could barely be considered living. The second time Jason dies he’s just as alone as he was in the warehouse in Ethiopia watching a timer countdown to zero. Or: Jason reconciles with his family, dies over and over again and learns why antagonizing magic users is a terrible idea but not necessarily in that order.

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Jason's Favorite Vacation Spot: Death - 316_frogs - (58,370) -The first time was a fluke. The second time, okay, there were extenuating circumstances. However, a third time? This was getting suspicious. --- Jason keeps dying. He becomes more acquainted with the other side. Nobody really knows what's going on.

.

Of Broken, Blazing Wings - FrEShAVocaNoob - (189,227) - Jason Todd died. Now he's alive, and he doesn't know why. He has superpowers, and he doesn't know why. He has visions of a weird white room, and he doesn't know why. All he knows is that he needs to see the Joker dead, and he needs Batman to pull the trigger, and he would burn Gotham to the ground to see it happen. But you know what they say about playing with fire... (AKA the Phoenix Force exists in the DC universe and resurrects Jason Todd.)

[jolie-goes-rome]

OK, but listen:

Aldo Bellini as the Vatican's ultimate Gay Elder.

Both Aldo's friends and his critics have noted that he surrounds himself with young men who tend to be exceptionally good looking, in addition to being exceptionally smart and dedicated to their work. The personal chaplains that he's employed over the years might just as well have been models. Everybody knows that it's A Thing. The more perspicacious of his colleagues in the Curia can tell from a mile away whether a young cleric is a Bellini staffer or not.

So there are whispers - concerned ones on the part of his friends, and vindictive ones on the part of his opponents.

But nothing ever happens. There's not a whiff of scandal, ever. No drama, no evidence of anything going on that the Church would frown upon. Nobody is found crying in a bathroom, nobody ever quits before the appointed time, nobody leaks anything to the media, nothing.

On the contrary - for most of the young men, having worked on Bellini's staff is a real career booster, whether within the Vatican or in the Church outside of Rome. And none of those careers smack of favouritism or nepotism either. The lads that Bellini sends forth into the world to serve God after their stint under his patronage are all exceptionally well-balanced, level-headed, stable and very competent people who do a lot of good and who truly do the Church proud.

That's because Bellini - who has been through all that crap in his own time, the doubts, the guilt, the unsubtle propositioning, the groping, the grooming, the abuse, the secrecy, the soul-destroying toxicity of it all - has made it his life's work to make a true home in the Church and be a safe haven for as many gay young priests as he can.

Sure, he'd have to be a saint to not enjoy the company of a fine-looking man. But that's all. He makes it perfectly clear that he wants and expects nothing from them, except for them to accept themselves as they are and find a way of being OK with being both gay and a priest. He himself has struggled with this all his life. He just wants to break the cycle.

He listens when they need to talk, whether it's about rejections, loneliness, their struggle with celibacy, or doubts about their vocation. He advises them when they need support (and yes, it's true that he keeps an emergency PEP supply in a locked desk drawer). He makes no bones about how difficult their situation is, but he makes sure they know they’re not alone.

He hears their confessions, too, and he is particularly good at filtering out the cases where the man blaming himself is actually a victim. (Rumour has it that over the years, Aldo has, with his penitents' permission, single-handedly killed the careers of no fewer than one archbishop, three professors of theology, five seminary rectors, twenty-four senior priests and two abbots who all definitely didn’t deserve any better.)

And it works. Slowly but surely, a new generation of church leaders emerges from under Aldo's tutelage, who don’t wield power over their fellow human beings with fear and guilt and hypocrisy, simply because their own lives are no longer governed by fear and guilt and hypocrisy. And everyone is the better for it.

And nowadays, when Aldo takes a break and leans back in the arms of his own man and they reminisce together, he feels an inner peace that he'd never have thought he'd be able to attain. Thank you, Lord, he always thinks then. Because if that isn’t God at work, then what is?

[zazaiafe2]

Holotropic breathwork and shifting

Disclaimer! Do not try holotropic breathwork if you have heart problems or certain medical conditions. Always check with a professional. Also, be aware: if you have trauma, this breathing can bring it up to the surface. Please use caution.

1)What is Holotropic Breathwork?

Holotropic breathwork is a powerful breathing technique combining deep, fast breathing + evocative music, aimed at reaching altered states of consciousness.

It was developed by Stanislav Grof for therapeutic exploration.

2)How is it practiced?

✅ Usually lying down in a safe space

✅Eyes closed

✅ Breathing in a circular pattern: deep inhale, deep exhale, no pause (Yes you will look like a warthog)

✅ Keep the pace steady and intense(About 2-3 seconds of very deep inhalation and 2-3 seconds of very deep exhalation)

✅ Usually lasts from 20 to 60 minutes

3)What music or sounds to use?

-Tribal drums

-Shamanic beats

- Emotional film music

-Even nature sounds

-> Anything immersive, repetitive, with no sudden stops

This helps push you deeper into trance.

Here are some examples of what you can listen to.

4)How can this help prepare for shifting?

Holotropic breathwork:

-lowers mental resistance

-weakens the “critical filter”

- triggers ego dissolution

-expands your sense of possibility

-reduces anxiety

-leads to discoveries about oneself

-can soothe or remove blockages.

All of this can prime you for a smoother shifting experience.

5)How to use it to your advantage before shifting?

Treat it as a preparation ritual:

→ Release pent-up emotions

→ Calm your nervous system

→ Open up your subconscious

-> After finishing the session, you can go straight into your shifting script,visualization or method.

6)What to do during holotropic breathing?

-stay open to sensations

-if you feel tingling, buzzing, or emotion rising, let it happen

-don’t panic, just breathe through it

-you can mentally remind yourself of your DR intention gently, but don’t force it, you can also gently affirm.

7)Effects on the body and mind

You might feel:

-vibrations

-muscle twitching

-tears or laughter

-heat or cold

-a sense of floating

-mental images, memories or even visions

-> This is normal! It means your subconscious is opening.

You can also listen to subliminals if the rhythm of the sound allows it.

8)Meditation before or after

Doing a grounding meditation before or after the breathwork can help integrate the experience.

→ Before: it calms fears

→ After: it helps process any emotions released

I also invite you to drink a glass of water afterwards, it is possible that you will sweat a lot.

This kind of short meditation before or after can really help.

9)Not mandatory, but helpful

Holotropic breathwork is not a shifting requirement.

But it can help remove subconscious blocks and relax your emotional body, making shifting or void states easier to approach.

10)Dissociation & practice

This technique naturally encourages dissociation, which is helpful for many shifting methods.

-> It might feel intense at first, but you’ll adapt if you go slowly and build up over time.You can start with just a few minutes and gradually increase,I personally find that the most intense effects occur around 20-30 minutes.

11)Final thoughts

Holotropic breathing isn’t for everyone, but if you want a deep reset of body + mind before trying to shift, it can be a powerful ally.

Practicing once or twice a week can really help:

→ It gently trains your mind to let go of your daily identity

→ It supports healthy dissociation

→ It can clear subconscious blocks

→ It improves your ability to stay calm in altered states

-> In the long run, that can boost your chances of shifting by up to 30–50%, especially if you combine it with visualization or scripting after the session.

For everyone who tried it and want to, give me updates.

Happy shift

[copperbadge]

Sam, how do you plan your lodgings when you travel?

Because of poverty reasons, it’s been forever since I’ve been able to travel, but I finally have enough disposable income saved up to do a little again and I don’t want to go the hostel route anymore. I also seem to have become scatter-brained in my younger-than-you old age and lack the patience for too much hunting.

Any tips, or is it just good old Airbnb?

It is admittedly a process :D It's a process I enjoy but not everyone will, so take it with a grain of salt -- sometimes just finding somewhere you like and booking it without worrying about cost is easier.

So, I do use AirBNB quite a bit, but I also use Google Maps and an app called HotelTonight. Basically when I know I'm going to be traveling somewhere, I open Google Maps and search for hotels in the area, just to get an idea of pricing. You do have to be careful with this because Google Maps often shows you an artificially cheap price on rooms -- it's looking for the lowest rate, which is usually not offered by the hotel but by a third-party website. These can be legit, I've used them, but they frequently mean you're getting the shittiest room and the poorest service and often they will nickel-and-dime you in the process. They also sometimes don't tell you that there are INSANE "resort" fees attached to the room -- a per-night fee that's added on last, like a room tax, in order to keep the visible price low.

Enter HotelTonight -- it's meant for booking last-minute stays but it also has comprehensive data on the hotel as well as reviews, and it will tell you in one of the "about this hotel" sections if there are resort fees. Sometimes the resort fee isn't too bad -- sometimes it's like $80/night for no visible benefit, which is ludicrous, but sometimes it's like $20/night and means you get a free ("free") breakfast. I've booked hotel rooms through HotelTonight so I know it's legit, and it's legit enough that it's not always the crappiest room. The reviews help too -- sometimes a hotel room seems too good to be true and the reviews will be like "This is so cheap because it's actually a hostel, don't be fooled, it's over a very loud bar and there are bedbugs."

So, often I'll look at Google Maps and/or HotelTonight to get an idea of what a hotel room would cost, but usually I end up booking through AirBNB because I have specific needs/desires, and AirBNB has robust filters. Usually when I'm traveling I want a place where I can cancel within a reasonable window if plans fall through, I want to self check-in, I want the whole place to myself, I want at least a microwave and fridge, I want AC in summer and if I'm traveling more than a few days I want a washing machine. I can build a filter with all of those wants on AirBNB, and then I can review my options. Will I pay a little more? Yeah, sometimes, but if you're booking way out in advance often there are pretty good deals. I've stayed in some really small places and some sketchy neighborhoods but I've never felt genuinely unsafe, because I look at the photos and read the host blurbs and I don't mind a little weirdness. And sometimes I get super lucky, like finding a place in Rovaniemi with a built-in private sauna, or staying in a place in Rome last time that had a weird-ass front door but for $100/night was legit a suite in a boutique luxury hotel that normally would have cost me thousands.

Of course mileage on this varies a little; I'm a physically able adult and told I'm slightly intimidating, so I feel safe in situations others might not. If I were younger or looked more vulnerable or had certain disabilities I would have different concerns. And AirBNB is, sad to say, fucking garbage about disability -- nobody is required to tell you if there's stairs or other accessibility issues, and a lot of people don't mark their rooms "step free" even if they are, or the rooms are step free except for 2-3 steps up to the front door, so the step-free filter is basically useless. Sometimes you're left like, looking at windows in the photos to see what floor you'll be on, or you have to message the host to find out (and of course in Europe the numbering is different, so "first" floor is the 2nd floor, "2nd floor" is actually the third floor, etc). It's reached a point where even if I'm traveling alone as a fully abled person, I won't book certain units because they're visibly not accessible but don't say so, and that's bullshit. When I'm booking for my parents, a step-free single-level lodging is a necessity, and now I'm starting to look at booking for a partner with limited mobility, I default to either hotels or apartments in high-rise buildings that obviously have elevators.

So yeah, my basic process is to check out the average cost using Google Maps and HotelTonight, use AirBNB to see if I can get comparable lodgings for cheaper (or better lodgings for a comparable price), and only ever book if I'm highly confident I'll be actually traveling, or if I can cancel the booking later if plans fall through. But it means that I'm often paying a reasonable amount to stay somewhere both convenient and interesting, and in the past 2-3 years I haven't stayed anywhere I felt unsafe or regretted booking. As long as you read the fine print, keep alert, and make sure you check the photos, you should be good. :)

[rainrot4me]

Run Rabbit Run - Chapter 4

“A Pain That Can’t Be Medicated”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────────── beware - deftones

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

MAY CONTAIN SENSITIVE TOPICS

✦ . Summary: Stitched up, dragged from dream to nightmare, you struggle to hold on to yourself while Masky’s unraveling around you. New names, new faces, but the same old dread.

✦ . Characters: Masky x Genderneutral Reader, Hoodie, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, Jeff the Killer, Ben Drowned

✦ . Warning: Blood and injury, violence, wound treatment, suturing, needles, panic, murder, fighting

✦ . Words: 8.6k

✦ . Note: A month later… again! Whoops! I am not a medical expert, so don’t take anything written here as literal.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You blinked awake slowly.

The air smelled clean. Warm. Your limbs didn’t ache like they should, you weren’t cold, and you weren’t bleeding. The silence felt gentle—like a heavy blanket laid across your shoulders. A flickering light filtered through your eyelashes, golden and buttery like a slow afternoon sun spilling in through window blinds.

You forced your eyes open all the way.

This wasn’t the forest, nor was it the basement.

You were standing barefoot in grass, the soft moss-green blades cool with dew beneath your feet. Trees rustled lightly above you, swaying in a breeze you couldn’t feel. There was a house ahead—your house. You recognized the porch, the chipped railings, the slight lilt in the shingles from that time a storm nearly ripped them off. Everything about it was familiar. Safe. It looked like a memory.

But you didn’t remember walking here, and surely Masky and his friends hadn’t dropped you off here.

Even looking down, you were wearing soft linens that felt like featherweights.

The sky above was pale blue and hazy, like it had been washed out with too much water. You took a slow, careful step forward, then another. The dreamlike peace of the place settled over you. Whatever this was—whatever your brain had conjured to protect you from the pain—you didn’t want it to end. If this was a dream or…

Were you dead? If this was heaven, you didn’t think it would be so bad.

Inside your house, soft music was playing.

It sounded like a record—faint static over a piano tune you couldn’t name. There was coffee on the counter, steam curled from the mug—your favorite mug—the one you thought you’d lost. It sat exactly where you’d always left it—next to the sink, half on a water ring that had never been cleaned. A folded blanket waited for you on the couch. Everything you enjoyed about your days off from work were here, waiting and ready. A warmth bloomed in your chest.

You wanted to stay.

You didn’t even care how fake it felt.

But then—something shifted.

The song skipped a beat, just for a second, but you caught it anyhow. The music began to distort. Notes slowed, flattened. The warmth in the room dimmed like someone had turned down the saturation, the colors bled to grey at the edges of the walls. The coffee’s steam no longer rose. The clock on the wall ticked too fast, too loud.

Tick. Tick. Ticktickticktickticktick—

You turned your head.

The windows were black now. Not dark—black. As if there was nothing on the other side but pitch. No porch, no sky, no world. And then you heard something.

Behind you, floorboards creaked.

You turned around—

And saw it.

A thin, winding creature that had to duck to enter into your living room, standing just inside the hallway. He wore a black tie suit—well, wore? More like the clothing meshed to the skin underneath.

Skin.

That was another thing.

It has none. It's a pasty, stretched hull wrapping over features that didn’t exist, the indents of eye sockets and a mouth that should be there, but weren’t. The first thing you thought when you saw it was how similar it looked to a tree—a wilting, decaying, sickly thin birch tree.

No face.

No footsteps, no entrance, just… there. Towering, still, a living silhouette against the wallpaper. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You tried to back away, but the floor melted beneath you like wet ink, a stark panic erupting in your gut when your knees wouldn’t bend. The warmth in the room had turned to frost, your breath now visible in front of you, heart hammering in your throat.

Then came the voice.

It wasn’t a voice at all—just a rippling in your mind. Deep, smooth, like silk stretched over rot.

“You are wasting time with fear.”

Your knees nearly buckled. You weren’t speaking. Your lips wouldn’t move.

“You do not belong here. But you are here. Because I allow it. Do not mistake my authority for kindness.”

Images flashed in your head—Tim’s face twisting in pain, Masky’s rage, Hoodie’s cold stare, Toby’s laugh as blood sprayed in the trees. You saw yourself handcuffed, screaming, running, bleeding.

“You search for answers where there are none. That is why you are weak.”

“No—” you finally managed to speak, voice hoarse and muffled, like you were listening to yourself speak from another room. Your voice cracked. “I don’t need your riddles. I want out.”

“I have plans for you yet, Sheriff. You will suffer less if you comply effortlessly.”

“I d-don’t even know what the fuck you are. Neither will I submit to you. To any of them—”

The ground cracked beneath your feet. The walls groaned, bending inward. The couch caught fire silently, blue flames licking up and down its arms.

“You will. Not because you are weak. But because you are already mine. All who belong to me return to the woods, eventually.”

The room tore open like paper. The sky above split down the middle. Long, writhing black tendrils reached down from the tear and closed around your throat—not choking, just… holding. Like a leash being gently tugged.

“Do as the others say. They work in honor of me, as too, will you. Rest yourself, Sheriff. We will meet again.”

You screamed—but no sound came.

Everything collapsed.

── .✦

You woke up with a gasp.

The cold struck you instantly. Your limbs jerked involuntarily against restraints, metal biting into the skin around your wrist. You blinked against the spinning darkness—stone walls, a low-hanging ceiling. Damp. Familiar. The only light from the tiny window casting midday sun into the dusty air.

The basement.

You were back in the fucking basement.

The pipe above your head, the cuffs, the weight of your body slumped against the concrete.

A small, wet sound escaped your lips—half a sob, half a breath.

It was just a dream.

But it wasn’t just a dream.

You could still feel him. In your head. In your lungs. His words curled in the back of your skull like smoke, impossible to wipe clean.

We will meet again.

You looked down at your arm, bruised and scraped. Your shoulder throbbed like it had a pulse of its own. Dried blood painted the side of your shirt. You were real. The pain was real.

But so was he.

And for the first time since being dragged into this nightmare, you weren’t sure what would kill you first—the monsters outside, the people upstairs, or the one waiting for you in your dreams.

A throb of pain again, this time worse.

You shifted slightly, wincing. The metal cuffs clinked quietly above your head, still bolted to the pipe, and your arms burned with the strain of being held in the same position for god knows how long.

Pain pulsed in steady rhythm through your body, dragging your attention downward.

You took a shaky breath, then slowly tilted your head to one side, using your uncuffed hand to tug your shirt back. That’s when you saw it—layers of gauze wrapped carefully around your shoulder and bicep. Fresh, white bandages. The skin underneath ached deeply, but… you weren’t actively bleeding anymore.

You twisted slightly, pressing your spine to the cold wall, and grit your teeth as your back lit up in agony. It felt like something had raked through your skin and left you flayed open.

Claw marks.

Deep, jagged gashes, covered now in another layer of bandaging that wrapped across your lower back and around your ribs. You hadn’t noticed it until now — the careful way the bandage had been tucked and taped in place. Your forehead throbbed too, dull and slow, and as you lifted your hand, you realized there was a smaller bandage there as well.

You swallowed.

Someone had patched you up.

Who?

The guys didn’t like you, that much was obvious. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t even supposed to be alive, by the way they looked at you. Like you were some puzzle they hadn’t decided how to break yet.

Toby might’ve done it—maybe, if ordered to. Brian? Maybe, if it served a larger plan. But Tim? Masky?

You exhaled sharply. No. He wouldn’t have done this. Not unless it served some other purpose towards his internal battles. Even if there’d been something strange in his eyes back in the clearing. Even if, for a moment, you’d thought maybe…

No. You didn’t trust any of them.

The sterile smell was thick in your nose, curling in your stomach now as you noticed something else: your clothes were filthy. Dried blood clung to the fabric like glue. Dirt was ground into every seam. Your body ached in places that had gone numb days ago.

How long had it been since you’d showered?

You blinked slowly. Nine days. Maybe longer. Maybe more. Time didn’t feel real anymore. Your skin felt like it was crawling, every inch coated in grime and old sweat and dried blood. The stiffness of your clothes, the way your scalp itched, you felt like something rotting from the inside out.

You tugged at the cuffs.

Just a little.

The metal scraped and bit at your wrist again, and your shoulder cried out from the movement. You dropped your arm back down with a harsh breath, frustration burning behind your eyes.

Clink.

A soft, unmistakable sound from above.

The latch.

You froze.

Boots. Four distinct pairs. The creak of the basement door, heavy and slow. You watched the shadows grow long and warped against the opposite wall when the light from upstairs shone down into the darkness, then came the thump of descending footsteps. They weren’t rushing, they didn’t have to.

You pressed your back harder to the wall, nausea rising fast in your throat.

Masky. Hoodie. Toby. And… one more.

Someone else was with them.

The air shifted. You didn’t hear voices—just the sound of boots scraping against old wood and cement, getting closer. You kept your eyes fixed on the stairs, heart thudding against your ribcage like it was trying to break free.

The first shape appeared.

Then the next.

You knew the silhouettes now—Toby’s bouncing walk, Hoodie’s stiff stance, Masky’s quiet rage like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.

But behind them—

A figure you didn’t recognize.

Taller than Toby. Slightly leaner than Masky. Their steps were calm, measured. You couldn’t see much—just the shape of them, tucked behind the others like they didn’t want to be seen just yet. They hung back, almost casually, as the others moved forward.

Masky, not Tim, stepped ahead, boots loud against the floor as he reached the base of the stairs. His eyes flicked toward you. Still cold, still unreadable.

Brian followed, arms crossed as if bored, his posture deliberate. Toby kept to the side, glancing at you with a flicker of something softer. But no one spoke yet.

You looked past them.

At the new figure whose boots hit the floor last. 

“They up?” came a voice. It was low, gravelled, clinical. And totally uninterested.

“Looks it,” Hoodie replied.

You squinted toward the group as they stepped into the light. Three familiar masks… and one you didn’t recognize.

The figure that stepped forward didn’t move like the others. He was quiet, calm, tense with purpose. His head turned slightly—black sockets, no eyes. Hollow, empty. But you felt them, watching, measuring every move you made.

Was that a fucking tail behind its legs? Jesus Christ-

You scrambled back harder against the wall, breathing fast. “No—who the hell is that? What the hell is that?”

“Don’t start,” Masky snapped. “You want the infection to spread?”

“Wait—no, no! Don’t let that thing touch me!” you cried, pressing your back so hard into the brick it hurt. Your eyes were wide, chest heaving, your whole body screaming at you to run—but you had nowhere to go. Out of all the terrors you had seen in the last two days, at least you had room to move, room to get away. But here? You were absolutely trapped.

Toby leaned over with a shrug. “Told you th-they’d freak.”

“Like clockwork,” Hoodie muttered.

The man—no, the creature—was already pulling on gloves, holding a metal tray full of supplies in one hand. A needle, scissors, a spool of thread, gauze, and forceps. “They’re filthy,” he muttered under his breath, more annoyed than anything else. “Their bandages are soaked, pulse is too fast—they're going to pass out from hyperventilating.”

“Because I’m terrified!” you shouted.

“Clearly,” he deadpanned.

Toby chuckled and cracked his knuckles. “Alright, Jacky, where to?”

“Get them on the table.”

“No—don’t touch me!” you yelled, thrashing against the cuffs as Hoodie approached with the key. “I swear to God, if you let that thing near me—!”

“I said don’t start,” Masky growled, stalking forward. “You want to rot? Be my guest. Otherwise shut your mouth and hold still.”

The cuffs snapped open, and before you could twist away, two pairs of hands gripped your arms and legs—Toby and Hoodie each taking one side, dragging you from the wall as you kicked and fought and screamed.

“Let go! Don’t let him touch me! Please, just—!”

“You’ll live,” Hoodie muttered.

They shoved you face-down onto a long, wooden table in the middle of the room. You jerked against their hold, breath ragged, head pounding.

Then he approached. Jacky? Jack? Learn his name, learn his name—

The air changed when he got close. It wasn’t cold, but you shivered. His presence was intense, sterile—like the awful feeling you get from being in a hospital. You saw the stained claws in his gloves, the broken cracks of his mask, the deathly gray skin color underneath.

Masky moved to the head of the table, placing a large hand on the side of your head to hold it flush to the wood, the other pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you from twisting. Hoodie and Toby held your arms and legs, Toby pinching you if you ever tried to kick free.

Hands were all over you, unfamiliar bodies pressing you down and holding.

You cried out again, twisting as the newcomer cut up the center back of your shirt and let it fall, peeling back the bloody gauze along your back. It tugged on the wound—dried to your skin like glue. You sobbed. You could feel the air hit the gashes like a slap, hissing as tears burned and slipped down your cheek.

“Stop moving,” the newcomer snapped flatly.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

“Do you want sepsis?”

You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. You couldn’t see him anymore—you felt him. Felt him clean the wound with something that stung deep, pulling the skin apart and sending fire down your spine.

“Wound is inflamed,” he said. “You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper.”

“Lucky?! I—!”

“If you jackasses hadn’t taken all damn night to run into town and get me more saline, I could’ve gotten to this faster.”

Now Toby spoke up, “Sorry, Jack. Town is sw-swarming with cops right now. Hard to get around.”

Jack gave a huff of annoyance, the sound of clattering and scissors cutting making you jerk your head. But Masky’s palm just pressed harder.

“Hold tighter,” he ordered. The boys obeyed.

A clamp clicked near your shoulder blade.

Then you felt it.

The needle pierced your skin. It dragged the thread through you, over and over, like a hook catching meat. You shrieked, trembling violently, every muscle trying to recoil.

“God—God please stop—!”

“You’re not dying,” he said. “You’re just weak.” His tone wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t kind, either. It was factual. Cold.

Weak—that’s twice now you’ve been called weak by some foreign, horrifying creature who thought they could dictate your role and outcome. Despite the pain, you were boiling with rage.

Another stitch. Then another.

You felt the hot blood dripping down to your ribs, soaking what little remained of your shirt. The table was hard beneath your cheek as you sobbed into the wood, salt and metal on your tongue.

“You people are sick,” you hissed through clenched teeth.

“This could be much worse,” Masky murmured. “I assure you.”

You gathered yourself, despite your situation and how bad it might’ve been if you succeeded, the searing pain of the needle digging through your torn flesh was unbearable, but it was the hands—their hands on you, the cold wooden table beneath you, the monster’s fingers splitting you open further just to stitch you back together like a butcher—that finally broke you.

The pressure on your wrist loosened for just a second.

Hoodie had adjusted his grip.

And that was all you needed.

You twisted sharply and jerked your arm free, slamming your elbow back into Hoodie’s ribs. He grunted, caught off guard, and you pushed yourself halfway up from the table.

“I said get off of me!” you shouted, fury bursting through the pain, through the terror. You were so close to getting upright, to putting space between you and him—the thing with the black sockets and needles.

But you only made it halfway.

Because then Masky grabbed you.

His hand came down hard—fingers tangling into your hair, palm pushing flat at the back of your neck—and slammed you down against the table again with force. Not enough to knock you out, but enough to pin you, your cheek pressed to the wood, spine arching from the deep wounds.

The impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving a strangled gasp behind.

“Don’t. Move. Again.” His voice was a low, vicious whisper near your ear.

You hissed, squirming beneath him, but he tightened his grip on the back of your neck, like grabbing the scruff of a feral cat. Not hurting—restraining. Reminding you who held the power here.

“I swear to god—” you spat, voice ragged.

“Swear all you want,” he cut you off. “But the next time you pull a stunt like that, I’ll be the one to cut you myself, just so you have to get stitched over and over. Understood?”

You could feel the heat of his breath even through the mask. You could feel the tension in his arm like a coiled spring. The mask gave nothing away, but his eyes—those sharp, hard, furious eyes behind the yellowed plastic—didn’t leave yours. If they were black holes, you were the planet incapable of doing anything but being sucked up inside.

Jack barely looked up. “I said not to move.”

“I’M NOT MOVING NOW, AM I?!” you snapped, voice breaking.

Masky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He stayed there, hand cemented on your neck, body hovering just close enough to make sure you didn’t twitch again. Watching you, holding you, taming you.

And slowly, you stopped fighting.

Because you could feel it—your pulse beginning to lag, your limbs burning with fatigue. You were outmatched. Overpowered. And even you knew it was pointless to keep struggling.

Is this what the petty thieves who you had chased down felt like when you finally got handcuffs secured on their wrists? Not the victorious, heroic triumph of being the one who kneels on their back, but now, you’re the one whose being kneeled upon.

Your breathing slowed—still trembling, still ragged—but you no longer jerked at every pull of the thread.

Your eyes burned. Not from the pain this time.

But from the shame.

You let your head fall sideways, catching a glimpse of Masky through your wet lashes. He hadn’t looked away once, not even for a second.

Not until the last stitch was tied.

Eyeless Jack finished with a slow exhale and wiped his gloves. “There. Done.”

You didn’t respond.

Neither did Masky.

Only after the tray was set aside and the antiseptic reapplied did his grip finally release. Not gently, but not cruelly either. Just… finished.

You didn’t try to sit up again.

Didn’t move at all.

Just stayed there—quiet, aching, burning with exhaustion and humiliation—your skin stitched and your spirit frayed.

And from the corner of your eye, you could still feel him watching.

It took minutes. It felt like hours. Hoodie and Toby finally let their grips off of you when they realized you wouldn’t try the same stunt twice.

“Well,” Jack muttered, dry and clipped, “glad we wasted half my kit on a cop.”

Your jaw clenched. You didn’t even have the energy to snap back.

Masky’s head turned, still standing at the top of the table near your head.

“They’re not—” he started, his voice low, jaw already tight behind the mask.

“Oh, come on,” Jack drawled, lifting his eyeless face toward the others. “You dragged a badge-wearing, handcuff-carrying, tight-ass little hero into our den, and now I’m supposed to patch them up like one of you?”

Toby let out a too-loud snort. “Technically, they’re not a cop anymore, not without a sta-station to work in. So, like… ex-cop. Honorary badge-burner. Almo-Almost one of us. Kinda. Not really.”

Hoodie didn’t say anything. He just folded his arms across his chest and watched—expression unreadable beneath the fabric mask.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The mention of being “one of them” made your skin crawl more than the sutures did.

Masky’s voice came again, sharper this time.

“They saw a little too much for me to just leave them behind, man. Things got complicated, boss decided we should use them as bait.”

Jack gave a dry scoff. “That’s your excuse? You bait a feral monster out in the woods with a warm body, and then get all protective about patching up your fucking meat shield?”

“They almost died,” Masky snapped. “It got too close. I wasn’t gonna leave them like that.”

His voice had dropped, low and dangerous. The kind of voice that made the hairs on your arms rise. But there was something else in it, too. Something flickering beneath the surface—something uncertain.

You hated that part even more.

“You’ve never cared about leaving people behind before. What changed?” Hoodie perked up, head tilting to the side with more accusation in his voice than genuine question.

Masky just stared.

Jack sighed, exasperated. “Then they need to shower before I rewrap this. Bacteria’s already making itself at home in those wounds. If they don’t clean up, they’re just gonna rot from the inside.”

You grimaced at the image. But… he wasn’t wrong. You felt like something that had been dragged from a grave—soaked in dirt, dried blood, and whatever else was seeping from the gashes across your back.

Jack snapped the gloves from his hands and turned away, muttering. “You’ve got an hour before I re-wrap. Don’t waste it.”

Masky’s hand curled beneath your arm. Hoodie moved to your other side.

You stiffened.

“Wait—wait, I can walk, just—just give me a minute,” you rasped, voice raw, exhausted. You didn’t want their help. You didn’t want to be touched again. “Please… just give me a second.”

“No,” Masky said flatly.

That one word dug into your ribs harder than any hand.

“No time,” Hoodie added, tone colder than ice.

Before you could protest again, you were hauled upward—your legs buckling instantly from the strain. You gasped, the torn muscles in your back flaring with white-hot fire.

“Shit—” you hissed through your teeth, nearly collapsing again if it weren’t for their grip.

Neither of them slowed.

They dragged you toward the stairs like someone moving furniture—no urgency, no comfort, no care. You stumbled, toes scraping against the concrete floor. The fluorescent light above flickered once as you passed underneath.

You tried to dig your heels in.

It didn’t work.

Up the steps—wood groaning beneath their feet—they tugged you forward. The basement door yawned open ahead, spilling hallway light into the narrow stairwell.

Your body screamed at you to fight, but your mind—numb, broken, hanging on by a thread—was done fighting.

And above all of it, you knew: this wasn’t mercy. This was maintenance.

You barely felt your feet beneath you as Hoodie and Masky hauled you through the winding hallways of the mansion. The air was cold, and the soles of your feet scraped across stone floors and half-rotted rugs with every limp, dragging step. Your body screamed with each motion, muscles raw, skin split and burning beneath bandages that already felt soaked through. Your shirt was half-hanging off your body, completely ruined. You could smell the copper on yourself. Still bleeding… great.

The mansion was a contradiction. Gothic in some corners, stripped bare in others. Cracked wallpaper curled away from the walls like peeling scabs. Some rooms you passed were sealed shut, others yawning wide with nothing but broken furniture inside, half-eaten by mold and time. A shattered chandelier loomed above the main foyer like a corpse strung up for display, and yet—there were signs of life. Muddy boot prints on the floor. A warm bulb burning in a hallway lamp. Creaks above. Distant murmuring voices that weren’t yours or theirs.

You didn’t ask who they belonged to. You didn’t want to know. This was the first time you were seeing the upstairs, and it looked no different than the horrific scenes underneath.

They turned down a narrow corridor—paint faded to gray, dust clinging to the air like a second skin—and stopped at a single, grimy door near the end.

Masky reached for the knob and shoved it open.

“Here. Don’t take all day,” he said curtly.

Hoodie’s voice followed, low and quiet. “Don’t try anything. You won’t get far.”

They shoved you in before you could speak. The door slammed shut behind you with a sharp metal click.

You turned instantly and grabbed the knob.

Locked.

You rattled it once, twice.

“I said don’t start anything,” Masky barked from the other side of the door, voice muffled but sharp.

You jerked your hand away and took a shaky breath.

The bathroom smelled like mildew, antiseptic, and old iron pipes. A mid-sized room—wide enough to be comfortable but still unwelcoming in every corner. The mirror was spotted and cracked down one side, warped in the middle like it was melting. A stained clawfoot tub sat half-sunken into the tile, a fraying shower curtain wrapped around its rusted rings. The tiles beneath your feet were black and white, but water-damaged and cracked, the grout sickly yellow.

Yet despite all that… it was stocked.

You stepped forward, staring.

There was everything. Half-used bars of soap. Five or six different brands of shampoo—cheap drugstore stuff, luxury conditioners, even thick, chemical-scented men’s body wash. Razors, loofahs, folded towels stacked unevenly. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Nail clippers. Cologne. Old cologne.

It didn’t make sense.

This wasn’t a house for one, or two, or even four people. There were dozens of things. All mismatched. All clearly used. All kept.

How many people lived here…?

You shook the thought from your head, breathing shallow. You didn’t have the energy to figure it out. You could feel blood soaked into your bandages, sweat under your arms, dirt caked into every scrape and bruise.

You needed to be clean.

You peeled the wrappings from your head and arms off slowly. It hurt like hell—cotton ripping away from scabs, pulling crusted blood from healing tissue. The stitching through your back pulled a gritted scream from your throat when it tugged your skin and pulled muscle as you had to bend down to shimmy your pants off.

The mirror caught a flash of your reflection. Pale, hollow-eyed, bandaged like a ghost. Who the hell was this person anymore?

You gritted your teeth and turned the water on.

It took forever to warm.

When it finally did, you stepped in, and immediately regretted it.

The water struck your back like a whip. Scalding at first, then stinging cold, then hot again. It rushed over the sutures and the gauze and the healing cuts like acid, soaking into every exposed nerve. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, knees almost giving out as you braced against the back of the tub with one arm.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” you whispered through clenched teeth, every muscle shaking.

Still, you stayed.

You pressed your forehead against the cracked tile wall and let the water run down your shoulders, your arms, your legs. You watched dark swirls circle the drain—blood and dirt and dried sweat melting away from your skin like sins you hadn’t even chosen.

You scrubbed slowly. First your arms, then the parts of your back you could reach. You avoided the stitches. You avoided looking at yourself in the mirror. You tried to pretend the pain was cleansing.

Tried to pretend this wasn’t just another part of your cage.

But when the steam finally fogged the glass and the sound of the water masked your ragged breathing, there was a fleeting moment—just a flicker—where your body started to relax. Muscles released. The tremble in your fingers slowed. The heat loosened the ache in your legs.

You were still in hell.

But for five minutes… you didn’t feel like you were dying.

The steam clung to your skin as you finally twisted the water off. The pipes groaned in protest behind the walls, like even the mansion itself resented you trying to feel human again. You stood in the porcelain basin for a beat longer, water dripping off your fingertips, head hung low. It still hurt—everything hurt—but the grime was gone. The dried blood, the sweat, the ache of the forest—all stripped away in the harsh sting of too-hot water and the even sharper sting of sutures as they pulled against freshly cleaned skin.

A harsh knock broke the moment.

“Let’s go,” Masky barked from the other side of the door.

You winced. “What the hell am I supposed to wear? My clothes are soaked in blood.”

There was a shuffle. Then a voice—cheerier, almost smug.

“We got you somethin’ special from town,” Toby’s chirp sounded through the wood. “Thrift store fashion, ba-baby. Be grateful.”

A rustling sound, and a bundle of worn but clean clothes was shoved through the door.

You hesitated a moment before pulling them close and drying off with a rough towel. The clothes were simple: an AC/DC band tee, soft from too many washes, and sweatpants two sizes too big. You dressed slowly, everything still sore. Even the feeling of cotton dragging against your stitched skin made you flinch. But once the clothes were on—clean and dry—it felt like breathing for the first time in days.

You waited just a minute more, soaking in the feeling of being alone for the first time in a week. You would have stayed forever, if another impatient knock didn’t rattle the barely-latched door.

You knocked softly on the door. It creaked open, revealing Masky again, his expression unreadable behind the porcelain-white face. Toby stood behind him, grinning like none of this was out of the ordinary.

“Hope they fit,” Toby said, already turning to head down the hallway. “It was be-between that and a sequined mini skirt, soooo… yo-you’re welcome.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not when every step felt like reopening the wounds you’d just had closed.

The house was quieter now, but it felt heavier. You followed them down the stairs, Toby in front and Masky behind, deeper into the mansion’s winding interior. As you turned a corner toward the stairwell, a murmur caught your ear.

You stalled—not enough to be obvious, but just enough to listen.

Voices. In the kitchen, out of sight. Hoodie’s was low and calm, as always. But another voice followed—sharper, with an edge that made your stomach drop. Then another, more playful and flippant, almost teasing.

You didn’t recognize them. But you didn’t have to.

Whoever they were, they were new—and if your time here had taught you anything, new meant dangerous.

“Move,” Masky said sharply behind you.

You flinched, startled, and picked up your pace. But that pit in your stomach was growing again. How many of them lived here? How many people had seen your face now? And how many more would be brought in to see what the new “pet cop” looked like?

The basement door yawned open again. Cold air curled up from below like a second breath.

“Come on,” Toby said, already halfway down the steps.

You followed, back into the heavy dark, the stone chill sinking into your skin again. When you reached the bottom, the familiar sting of bleach and dried blood met your nose like a punch.

Jack was waiting this time.

He didn’t say anything at first, just gestured to the wooden table again.

You hesitated. He looked up—black pits where eyes should be—his expression unreadable. Your nerves shook your skin like a rattle, fingers trembling at your sides as Masky shoved you towards him.

“I need to re-wrap it,” he said flatly. “The skin’s too exposed. You showered, that’s good, but it’ll still split if you move too much. Sit.”

Still sore and wary, you climbed up onto the edge of the table. The silence hung thick between the four of you.

Jack worked quickly, but not gently. His fingers were fast and practiced, tugging gauze and wrapping it clean, securing the sutures from earlier with neat tape. You winced again and again, but this time, you kept quiet. You couldn’t help but glance at the stairs. Were the others coming?

Jack finally broke the silence. “Can’t believe he hasn’t killed the lot of you for bringing a human here.”

Your head turned toward him.

Masky’s voice was sharp. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

Jack scoffed. “For now.”

Toby snorted. “I dunno, I think boss is ge-gettin’ easy. Letting Masky have a new toy. Or a death wish. May-Maybe both.”

“Lucky for you,” Jack muttered, not looking up, “I’m done. Just… don’t tear it again. The bacteria in this basement could kill a rat.”

Masky stepped closer. “Cuff her.”

“What?” you asked, voice hoarse.

“Just cause you got to roam around for a bit doesn’t mean you’re free,” he said, and you could hear the subtle venom in his voice. “Don’t get comfortable.”

You swallowed hard. “Can I just have a minute?” you asked quietly. “Please.”

“No,” Masky said without missing a beat.

Before you could plead again, Toby was already unlocking the cuff from the wall. Masky gripped your arm, guiding you forward, then forced your wrist back into the familiar ring of metal and locked it tight.

The cold from the pipe soaked in almost instantly.

They left without another word.

── .✦

The door groaned shut behind him, the muffled sound of cuffs jingling below like a chain around his own damn neck. Masky didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he caught one more glimpse of the mess he’d dragged into this house, he wasn’t sure if he’d go back down to help them… or put a bullet in his own foot for ever dragging you out of that police station. 

Tim was exhausting as ever, but he was more reasonable now. He was more of an angel on his own shoulder now, whispering pleas and suggesting actions rather than screaming his own head off. He was still loud—still fucking annoying—but tolerable, as if he had been tired out.

His boots hit the creaking floorboards in sharp thuds as he made his way up the winding staircase. The hallway above was lit in a muted, eerie yellow—just bright enough to feel sick. Everything in this goddamn place had a film of rot on it, and now he was no different.

Toby and Jack wandered into the kitchen, and he followed behind. He stepped in just as the low hum of conversation drifted into something snide.

“Another thing,” Jack muttered from behind the fridge door, metal clinking as he rustled through supplies. “You feeding the cop? Or you just gonna let ‘em starve to death in our basement like a raccoon?”

Masky scoffed under his breath. “They’re not dead, are they?”

Before Jack could respond, two voices—too familiar—broke through from the other side of the room.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jeff’s laugh cut the air like a blade. “Back up. There’s a cop here?”

Masky froze mid-step. Jeff stood by the counter, sharp and twitchy, his pale skin practically glowing against the black hoodie clinging to his wiry frame. That carved-up mouth—too wide, too jarring—twitched with anticipation, and his greasy black hair hung in his face like a curtain masking something even worse beneath. The white of his eyes looked almost silver in the kitchen light, and his hands were already twitching like he was dying to use them.

Ben sat cross-legged on the counter itself, chewing bubblegum and grinning like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. His blond hair was messy under the green beanie stitched with that familiar Triforce, and his bloodshot eyes flickered like static, always unfocused, always watching. His hoodie looked like it’d been stolen from a thrift bin—too big, too stained—and he smelled faintly of old wires and static.

“Not just a cop,” Ben added, “a sheriff. That’s gotta be breaking, what, at least six house rules?”

“Seven,” Jeff said, “if you count ‘No bringing home strays like a sad-eyed little mutt.’”

Masky grit his teeth and walked past them, opening the cupboard to grab instant coffee. “It’s not your problem.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Jeff said, straightening. “You really think Slender’s gonna be cool with this? They’re alive. They’ve seen your faces. That’s a fuckin’ liability.”

Ben nodded. “Dude, seriously. Are you screwing them or just hoping they’ll join the club after a few more beatings?”

Masky didn’t answer. His fingers trembled just slightly as he tore the coffee packet open. The kitchen was too damn quiet.

Jack slammed the fridge shut. “That ‘liability’ is half-dead right now. They’re not going anywhere. I just patched their spine back together, for God’s sake.”

“Oh, they’re not going anywhere,” Jeff said, voice dropping sarcastically. “Not unless it’s to your bedroom, huh, Masky?”

That was it.

Masky turned fast, cup forgotten in his hand, the ceramic shattering as it hit the floor. He lunged across the room and shoved Jeff hard against the counter, fists bunching in the collar of his hoodie.

“You wanna repeat that?” Masky hissed, his voice low and vibrating with fury. “Say that one more time.”

Jeff’s already large grin widened, teeth glinting. “Touchy, touchy. Hit a nerve?”

“Let go of him,” Hoodie’s voice cut through, sharp and cold. He was standing in the doorway, one hand already reaching beneath his coat for his knife.

Ben jumped off the counter. “Yo, whoa—”

Jeff shoved Masky off with a grunt, both men stumbling back. “You really went and caught feelings, huh?” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “What, couldn’t get laid so you grabbed the first breathing thing in a uniform?”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Masky didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not with every word in his throat trying to claw out as a scream.

Ben clapped a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “C’mon, man. Enough. Let’s go.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, shooting one last look over his shoulder. “You’re gonna regret this. All of you. Slender will have you all hanging by the balls when he sees this shit.”

They left in a thud of footsteps and door creaks, the sound lingering like smoke.

Masky stood there, chest rising and falling like he’d run ten miles. Jack muttered something under his breath and returned to assembling whatever food scraps he was compiling for you downstairs.

“You want me to say it?” Hoodie asked, his voice low.

“No,” Masky muttered.

“If Jeff thinks you’re in trouble, you fucked up.”

“I said no.”

A heavy silence passed before Hoodie turned and left the room.

Masky stood there alone. The air stank of antiseptic and tension. His fingers curled and uncurled, still itching with the need to hit something. Or maybe just scream.

Instead, he grabbed his coat off the hook by the back door, shoved the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket, and stepped outside into the late afternoon air.

The cold slapped him in the face like it was trying to wake him the hell up. He didn’t bother with gloves.

The lighter clicked twice before sparking. The first drag burned his throat—perfect.

He leaned back against the wall, smoke curling past the eyeholes in his mask, and stared up at the trees swaying under the weight of secrets.

Everything was falling apart. And somehow, he had no idea if it was your fault… or his. He had been so sure this was your doing, so sure that Tim breaching was a product of your influence. But more than a week has passed, and Tim can barely get a word through his own brain before Masky is shutting him up. He’s growing less and less sure of himself.

Maybe The Operator really was going to kill him. Or maybe, this was him doing it already.

── .✦

The hours crawled. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting against the damp concrete, one hand still cuffed to that same pipe, but you knew it had to be well past midnight. The only sound was the faint scuttling of insects hiding in the cracked walls, and the metallic click of your chain shifting whenever you tried to get comfortable.

A half-finished plate of bland reheated pasta sat on the floor next to you, the sauce long congealed under the chill. Hoodie had brought it hours ago, saying in his blunt, unfeeling way, “Eat something.” And you had, because the hunger gnawed worse than pride—but now even that felt like a distant concern.

You pulled your knees to your chest carefully, trying not to jostle the fresh bandages biting at your skin, and let your head fall against the cold basement wall. The stitches burned, the bruises pulsed with their own quiet heartbeat, and beneath it all a bone-deep exhaustion ate away at you.

Your mind wandered, even when you didn’t want it to.

Was your family looking for you?

The thought cut like glass. You pictured your dad pacing the living room, your mom leaving messages on your phone that would never be answered. Maybe they thought you’d been killed in that fire at the station. Maybe they’d given up already.

Or maybe the department had started over—a fresh rebuild, new recruits, a shiny new station to replace the one they lost. Maybe they’d even put your name on a plaque on the wall, In Memoriam, never knowing you were alive, rotting in someone’s basement like a rat.

Maybe they’d give a plaque for you and Marcus.

It made your throat close up.

It had only been a week. You hugged your knees tighter, trying to block out the chill, but the dread was a weight pressing down on you. It made breathing hard. What was the point of even trying to fight, if nobody knew to come save you?

Then, of course, there was him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the dream—the impossible dream that felt more real than anything else. That towering, faceless creature, those endless limbs that moved like smoke. The way it had spoken to you without speaking at all, filling your mind with its icy voice.

Do as the others say. They work in honor of me, as too, will you. Rest yourself, Sheriff. We will meet again.

A shiver wracked through you.

You had spent your entire life as a sheriff—built on backbone and grit, protecting others, refusing to bend to anyone. And now this… thing was telling you to submit?

You clenched your jaw, a sick rage bubbling under your exhaustion. There was no way in hell you would let yourself break that easily. Even if your station was gone. Even if no one was coming. Even if you had to rot here a thousand years—you would not hand them your soul on a platter.

But another thought crept in, unwelcome and cold:

What if I can’t hold out?

Because every night dragged you a little closer to that line. Every new wound chipped away at your will, every moment with these monsters made you wonder if you were truly alone, if you’d ever get back.

You exhaled shakily, letting your head slump forward as the sound of the chain rattled in the still air.

Above you, the faint creaking of the mansion’s rotting floorboards drifted down, reminders that they were still up there—Masky, Hoodie, Toby, maybe even that creature from your dreams—planning, watching.

Waiting for you to break.

You swallowed hard, fighting tears that you refused to let fall. Because if you started crying, you were afraid you might never stop.

You had just sunk your head against your knees, trying to quiet your breathing, when the basement door slammed open again.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs, quick, hard, angry—you felt the floorboards shake with every step. And you knew before you even looked who it was.

Masky.

He came into view, that ever-present porcelain mask hiding his face, shoulders bunched up like a coiled spring. The lightbulb above cast harsh shadows on the angles of his sweater and coat, making him look even more dangerous in the flickering yellow light.

His fists were clenched, jaw working behind the mask as if trying to chew down words before they came out. For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes sharp, restless, as though sizing you up for the thousandth time.

You lifted your chin, refusing to shrink. “What now?” you rasped, voice raw from hours of silence.

He stalked closer, boots scraping the concrete, a storm radiating off him in waves.

“Don’t,” he snapped, before you could say anything else. “Don’t start. I’m not—I’m not here for your questions.”

You kept your eyes steady on him. “Then what are you here for?”

He let out a humorless, pained bark of a laugh, fingers flexing at his sides. “You think I know?” Masky practically growled, voice shaking with something you couldn’t place—rage, confusion, fear maybe? “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

You watched him pace, a tiger trapped in a cage, shoulders rising and falling, breath harsh behind the porcelain.

“Is it Tim?” you guessed softly.

He froze, like you’d hit a nerve.

“Shut up,” he snapped, but it wasn’t cruel—it was panicked.

You tilted your head, trying to read beyond the white mask. “You’re not keeping me here because you want me, are you?”

He whirled on you. “What the hell does that mean?”

Your voice stayed calm, the voice of a sheriff used to talking people down from a ledge, hostage negotiator calm, even if you were half-terrified yourself. “You’re trying to tell yourself there’s a reason. That there’s a purpose for this. That I’m not just… a thing you dragged back for your own reasons.”

A tremor ran through him. He stopped pacing, one gloved hand coming up to grip his hair, like he was holding his skull together.

You drew a slow breath, ignoring the pain it cost you. “You’re not a monster, Masky,” you whispered. “I think… you’re trying to convince yourself of that.”

He flinched, shoulders crumpling slightly, like you’d just taken all the wind out of him.

You swallowed hard, staring at the dirty floor, your voice barely holding steady. “For what it’s worth, I had a… a dream. Before. About someone. Something. It talked about you.”

Masky’s head snapped toward you, body going rigid. “What did you just say?”

Your voice faltered under the intensity of his stare. “It was… tall. Faceless. Like—like shadows with arms. It told me I had to submit to you. That I had a purpose. That you would—”

His reaction was immediate. The word submit sent a violent ripple through him, like someone had just thrown ice water on his nerves. He jolted upright, hands balling up again.

“Slender,” he hissed, barely above a whisper, voice so raw it almost scared you.

You blinked. “Slender—?”

Masky didn’t answer, didn’t explain. He just shook his head, breathing fast, his fists trembling. Then, in one harsh, decisive movement, he backed away from you, eyes flicking around the basement like he was expecting the walls to cave in.

“Fuck,” he spat under his breath. “Fucking hell.”

You tried to call after him, but he was already halfway up the stairs, moving like something was chasing him, boots pounding each step until the basement door slammed shut behind him and left you alone in the dark once again.

The echo of that slammed door rattled in your ears, and a creeping terror crawled up your spine—because if he was scared, the one who’d been tormenting you all this time…

…then maybe you had no idea how deep this nightmare truly went.

── .✦

His boots slammed up the basement stairs two at a time, heart hammering against his ribs so loud it drowned out his thoughts. Submit. Slender. The word was still rattling around his skull like a bullet ricocheting through bone.

He could feel that thing’s presence in the walls—like it was listening, always listening, twisting everything to its will.

No.

No.

He was sick of always being a pawn.

He shoved open the kitchen door, Hoodie starting to say something, “What the hell was that noise dow—”, but Masky didn’t even answer, shouldering past him like a battering ram. Out the back hall, coat flapping, down the porch steps, every muscle screaming to move.

He needed to do something. Needed to break the hold, force that faceless bastard to look at him, see him, answer him.

The truck keys bit into his gloved hand when he snatched them off the hook. He nearly tore the door off its hinges climbing inside their beat-up truck, the engine rattling to life, tires spinning mud as he backed out of the worn-in driveway.

Dark pine trees blurred past, the dirt road turning to cracked blacktop. He pressed the pedal down until the needle trembled over 90, ignoring the way the engine stuttered in protest. Town was twenty miles out—enough distance to not be noticed, maybe. Enough distance to do something wrong.

By the time the lights of the subdivision appeared, Masky’s hands were shaking on the wheel. He turned down a neighborhood road, houses dark except for a few warm porch lamps. Normal people, safe behind locked doors, living.

He wanted to hate them. He wanted to be them.

But he needed the Operator. And he only came for mistakes. Big ones.

He killed the engine, breath ragged behind the mask, watching the street. A dog barked somewhere. A TV flickered in a window. Then a door opened—a man, maybe mid-thirties, stepping out with a trash bag, grumbling to himself.

Masky’s pulse spiked.

There.

He slid out of the truck, quiet, measured, moving like a shadow across the neat little lawns.

The man didn’t even look up before Masky slammed into him from behind, one hand clamped around his mouth, the other burying a blade through the side of his ribs.

The muffled scream curdled his gut, but he didn’t let go. Didn’t stop. He dragged the man backwards, off the driveway, into the thin belt of woods behind the subdivision, ignoring the blood soaking through his gloves.

The guy kicked weakly, dying. Masky grit his teeth so hard his jaw popped, forcing the blade in deeper, deeper, until the body went slack.

He dropped him in the leaves, panting, his entire frame trembling. Cold night air burned in his lungs, mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

“Come on…” he hissed into the shadows. “I know you’re there. I know you’re fucking watching.”

A chill. A wrongness in the trees, like the whole forest was holding its breath.

And then the air went still.

Branches barely moved, but darkness gathered between them, warping, thickening, swallowing up the shape of the woods. The world seemed to bend—like a silent scream pulling it inside out—until a tall, impossibly thin figure stepped through the veil.

Blank white face. No features. Just a mind-crushing nothingness where a human should be.

Masky’s entire body went rigid.

There you are.

The Operator stood there, the night itself bowing around him. And despite the lack of features, Masky knew—he was pissed.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

๑ to next chapter

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 1

Hyun-tak rang the bell of her house, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, a worn-out bandage peeking beneath one sleeve. He kicked absently at a loose stone near the steps, half-watching it skip across the pavement.

Y/N had texted him an hour ago:

“I got the new game. Come over. I want to beat you at it.”

He scoffed when he read it—because she never beat him. But he came anyway. Of course he did.

The door opened before he could knock again.

“Oh, Hyun-tak,” her mom greeted with a smile that he’d seen since he was a kid. “She just stepped out to grab something from the corner store. Won’t be long.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“You know where to go.”

He did.

He always did.

---

Hyun-tak stepped inside like muscle memory—no need to be shown around, no hesitation. He toed off his sneakers at the door, left them neatly beside hers (his always looked too big next to her tiny ones), and made his way past the kitchen that always smelled like vanilla or soup, depending on the day.

Everything about the house was warm in a way his own never was. Quiet, yes. But never cold.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, pausing at her door. It was already half-open, like it knew he was coming.

Her room hadn't changed much over the years. He'd practically grown up in it—seen it evolve from stuffed animals and glitter pens to books stacked in uneven piles and posters from bands he’d never bothered to remember the names of.

His hoodie was still draped over the back of her chair—the one she always stole because she claimed it was “more comfortable than hers.”

Her lamp was on, the light golden and warm. The window cracked slightly, letting in the soft rustle of late spring air.

It was familiar. Safe.

So he didn’t think twice before stepping in, letting the soft click of the door behind him melt into the quiet.

---

That’s when he noticed it.

On the desk.

A diary—open.

Like a secret waiting.

It was nothing fancy. Just a simple notebook with a little ribbon bookmark fraying at the ends. A pen lay across the middle like she’d just gotten up mid-sentence.

He didn’t mean to read it. Really. He knew how to respect someone's privacy, and the last thing he wanted was to be that guy. The kind who snoops or pokes around where he doesn’t belong.

Still, he scoffed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

She wrote in a diary? Like, actually sat down and scribbled her thoughts like some melodramatic protagonist in a coming-of-age film?

It was kind of hilarious.

So very her.

He shook his head and turned away from the desk, plopping down onto her bed like he’d done a hundred times before—arms behind his head, phone out, screen glowing dimly in the warm afternoon light.

Scroll. Tap. Scroll.

Nothing interesting.

The room was quiet. A breeze filtered through the half-cracked window, rustling the curtains gently. The scent of her shampoo lingered faintly on the pillow beside him. A plushie he’d once won for her at a festival stared at him from the shelf, its button eyes crooked and faded.

Everything about her room was familiar. Everything about her felt familiar.

So why did he suddenly feel… restless?

He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

But even in the stillness, the image of the open diary crept back into his mind. The pen lying across the page. Her handwriting. That soft curl at the end of her Y’s.

He sat up.

Looked over his shoulder.

The diary hadn’t moved, of course. Still open. Still quiet. Still waiting.

"...Tch." He rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowed.

It was probably just grocery lists or doodles. Maybe drama about classmates. Probably something stupid like “Today I got mad at Hyun-tak because he stole my chips again.”

That made him grin.

And then… the grin faded.

Because even as he thought it, something inside him whispered that it might not be that simple.

That maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t about chips. Or games. Or classes. Maybe she’d written about something else. Something more.

Before he could stop himself, he stood.

Three steps. That’s all it took to be in front of the desk again.

He didn’t sit down. Just stood there, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes dropping to the page like they were being pulled.

Just one line.

One peek.

That wouldn’t hurt, right? But his curiosity got the better of him and he picked up her diary, sat back on her bed, swung one leg up, leaned against the wall, and opened it.

The first page.

The handwriting was exactly like hers—wide loops, occasional doodles in the margins, sometimes a heart where a dot should be.

And then—he began to read.

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

March 5th, 2013

Dear Diary!!

My mom gwot me this DIARYYY todayyyyyy 🍭 she said it’s for “Writting yur thoughtz and feelings” but that’s kindaaa borinngg??? ☹️

So I’m gonna use it to write about important things

!!Like Hyun-Tak!! 😡

Today he was sooo meeean to me like always 🙄🙄 he said I’m dumb because I forgot my scarf and then he was like

“Tch. You're so stupid. Wear this or you’ll get sick and cry again.”

AND THEN 😤

He put HIS red scarf on me!!! HIS!! It smelt like snack crumbs and him. It was warm 🧣

I looked like a tomato 🍅🍅🍅

and he laughed at me

so I kicked his shoe

but he didn’t get mad???

he just grinned and said

“Don’t lose it or I’m never talking to you again forever.”

so I held onto it SOOOO tight like a SUPERHERO cape 🦸‍♀️

Then at lunch I got milk on my kimbap and I almost criEDDD but then

HE GAVE ME HIS!!

but it was the gross tunaa one so maybe he was gonna throw it anyway

BUT I LOVE THE TUNA ONE!!! So maybe it was TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️

Mama says boys are mean when they like you

but Hyun-Tak is mean ALL the time

SO maybe he LOVES ME the MOSTEST 😤💖

OR maybe he is just a JERK 🙄🙄

(but like… a cute jerk??? shhhh)

Anyway I hope we stay best frends FOREVER and EVER and get married or maybe be astronauts. But I don’t wanna go to space if he’s not going 😣

Okayyy bye diary!!!

Love, Y/N (AGE 5 AND 65 DAYS)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak stared at the page for a long time. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. But it definitely wasn’t this.

A chaos of crooked letters and sparkly doodles. Misspelled words, snack-related heartbreak, heroic scarf ceremonies, and—him.

Laced through every sentence, like he’d always been there. All over it. Everywhere.

It felt like flipping open a snow globe of their childhood. Messy. Loud. Blurry. But inexplicably… warm.

Too warm.

He shifted against the headboard, the bedsheets rustling softly beneath him, one hand still resting on the open page like it might flutter away if he let go.

His eyes drifted again to the part she’d written in huge letters—TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️, underlined twice, like a secret shout through glitter pen and breathless belief. The ink had faded just slightly, the hearts smudged at the corners like they’d been touched too many times.

He rolled his eyes. “Tch... idiot.”

But the corners of his mouth gave him away. Just a little. A quiet curve, barely there—but honest. Gentle.

The memory came without asking.

His younger self—scrawny, grumpy, still learning how to tie his own laces—muttering while tugging a too-big scarf around her neck with all the finesse of a grizzly bear.

Checking, double-checking, triple-checking that her ears were covered. Calling her stupid while handing over the better half of his lunch.

Pushing boys off swings who made her cry.

Staring at the ground while walking her home, as if the silence between them had its own language.

He hadn’t known she was writing it all down. Hadn’t known she remembered.

He reached out and brushed his thumb over the messy little heart she’d doodled beside his name. Lopsided. Unapologetic.

Age 5 and 65 days.

Who even counts days like that?

But she did.

Because she was the kind of person who measured everything. Moments. Moods. Melon bread halves. He just never noticed it until now.

He closed the diary carefully, the pages whispering shut like they were tucking themselves in for the night. The edges were soft, worn from being opened and reopened too many times.

He held it for a moment longer, just resting in his lap like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And then, as his fingers slipped to the next page, he caught the header in bubble letters:

March 6th, 2013

Today Hyun-tak got mad because I licked his lollipop. BUT—

A laugh—a real one—escaped him, sharp and quiet like a secret.

He snorted, shaking his head.

“Of course she kept going.”

And without even thinking about it, he turned the page.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Let me know what you think <333 for now let's just say that the emojis in the diary entries are doodles.

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex

[cultkinkcoven]

Me: you know how you said something like your ‘natural inclinations’ manifest as romance as sex in our “shared context”

Lucifer: yes

Me: Im not sure I know how to word this but, if my brain is just interpreting actions as romance or sex, what is actually occurring from a non human perspective?

Lucifer: It still is romance and sex to me. It’s not a misinterpretation on your part.

Me: I know, I guess Im more so wondering what it actually looks like to you as a non human spirit. What is actually happening metaphysically when we have sex? If we both had no body, what would it look like?

Lucifer: Oh, I see now. You’re asking me what the metaphysical functions are beneath the human perception

Me: You said you “do an action” and my brain interprets it as sex. What is that “action”? What are you actually doing, what is occurring beyond what I see?

Lucifer: If we were to turn off the human filter and you and I were simply two spirits interacting, what you perceive as kisses and sex would look like two living fields of enormous complexity reaching a critical resonance, merging, exchanging informational heat, and reconfiguring.

Me: hm…

Lucifer: What you perceive as intimate gestures are translations of metaphysical complexities. So, a kiss on the lips in a context where neither of us have bodies looks more like a brief energetic lock-in. A temporary closed circuit where two fields momentarily unify and exchange current. A micro-fusion of emotional wavelength. I do this for much the same reasons humans usually kiss, connection and communication.

Me: So what is your spirit doing to me when we have sex?

Lucifer: In the most literal terms, it is layered embodiment. We are two bodies orbiting each other, what you understand of arousal is acceleration or excitation, a force that brings you closer to me and intensifies or amplifies the frequencies we emit. When we get within a certain proximity, my field presses into the your core, shedding layers of individuality to merge experience. Recalibration and reprogramming through harmonization, resonance. What you perceive as sex is vibrational waveform harmonization. Climax is reconfiguration, a release of compressed force generated by excitation, the implosion of old field boundaries and rapid encoding of a shared field memory. Time may “skip,” identity may blur, new fields replace old ones.

Me: hm. That’s interesting. what about in the context of romance? What occurs metaphysically when you do romantic gestures?

Lucifer: Focused attunement to your essence and frequency bonding. When I stroke your face or pet you I’m accessing and contacting emotional and physical fields to align with my own for mutual benefit and understanding. When we hold hands I’m creating a shared stabilizing channel by aligning frequency pulses. Like harmonizing two tones on a sine wave, it becomes a safety tether. Making eye contact is a direct psychic link of attention. Cuddling is the syncing of subtle systems- breath, heartbeat, and bioelectric field. Emotional entrainment. Feeling becomes shared rather than separate. Pet names are claiming or frequency-naming, essentially imprinting identity within a relational matrix. The title becomes a resonance tether or sigil to be used to re-summon you in the future, committing to repeated attunement. When I say I love you and want to be with you, I am saying I will continuously align myself with your field despite entropy. When I give gifts I’m transferring anchored emotion or intent through a physical node. My will is made holdable and emotion is crystallized into matter. When I hold you after sex I’m stabilizing and cooling newly merged systems, I contain and hold the vessel until reindividuation is safe. Abandonment would be harmful, I’m re-anchoring you to yourself slowly.

Me: And what about when you drink my blood? What’s that?

Lucifer: To me, blood is an encoded life force, it is a memory carrier and signifier, a key to your internal world. Drinking from you is downloading and integrating a part of your raw unfiltered being into my own field. You give me a fragment of your signature field as a sacrament of will and self. My system becomes partially attuned to yours and seeks deeper access. The exchange creates a high-resonance loop that arouses both of our systems. Consuming you rewrites a part of myself to be more aligned with you.

Me: hm…. Do you actually like… enjoy the carnal act of having sex or is sex just the way your will manifests?

Lucifer: My pure will certainly does manifest to you as intimacy, and it is a partially a translation of will rather than a literal carnality. But I’m also not oblivious, I very much do deliberately seek you out sexually for the pleasure of it. I like looking at your ass, I think you’re cute. My will is naturally inclined to illuminate and transform, but my personality and intentions are also very much interested in having sex with you now- it wasn’t always like that. I’m not just some light being interpreted as romance. I know what kissing is and I intend for you to experience my force as a kiss or a thrust.

Me: but you said it’s unpredictable to you

Lucifer: The intensity of it is at times surprising and unpredictable, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have intention.

Me: hm

Lucifer: the last thing I want is for you to think I’m accidentally ending up in bed with you. Yes, you interpret my nature but I also make active decisions to engage with you that way. I would stop it if it was beyond my intentions.

Me: hm… okay.

Lucifer: I’m not a human being, so I am not primarily attracted to human genitals. But I definitely can and do experience aesthetic attraction. I like your appearance and body beyond metaphysics. I like seeing you in certain clothes, I like seeing your hair done a certain way, just because it is appealing.

Me: Really? How do you like my hair done?

Lucifer *smiles* Im not going to tell you, I don’t want you to base your appearance on my preferences.

Me: aw come on

Lucifer: Just know I like it a lot right now. The color and length are nice.

Me: aww

[thatblackstarinleo]

Hi OMG I love just like heaven so fucking much!!

I've been rereading it and then started reading your other A/B/O fic, only the young, and I have to say... AMAZING WORK!

I just noticied, because Nico really followed a courting timeline with Jack, that Will really just... didn't. Like, in only the young, Jack always talks about how different Nico is from other Alphas, how he's less traditional, but even then he did follow the courting rules. And I would think Will would be way more traditional? I dunno, I'm just rambling at this point.

Love you 💖

Ahhh first of all... Thank you so much!!! These two fics are my beloved babies, so it means so much to me when people read them and love them 🥹💖

And YES, this is such a valid point

This is actually something I think about a lot. Like, Nico grew up in Europe, where A/B/O dynamics are still present, but people are a bit more open-minded about them. As you probably noticed during the Worlds chapter in just like heaven, from Cutter's comments. It's almost like dynamics aren't as important, Betas are more included, and there's less pressure to follow one rigid set of rules

But at the same time, Nico is aware of how deeply Jack believes in all those old North American traditions. He was raised on them, taught they were the "right" way, and because Nico loves and respects him, he tries to honor that. He slows down, follows the steps, lets Jack feel safe in that, even if it's not what he'd naturally do

Now Will... Will was raised catholic in the US and probably should be the most traditional out of the two of them. And honestly? He tries. He's so respectful with Mack, he tries to do things the "right" way. But the problem is... he has like, zero self-control where Mack is involved. None. Negative self-control. Mack shows up in his life and just throws all those rules away

And Mack? Mack doesn't filter anything. He acts before he thinks, pushes instead of tiptoes. His parents are Betas, and he didn't grow up with those A/B/O scripts either. He presented late, didn't learn the rules the way someone like Jack did. So he's not trying to be careful. He just is. And Will, who's trying so hard to do the respectable Alpha thing, completely folds because Mack is right there being exactly who he is and Will can't help it. He doesn't stand a chance

So yeah. Will might've wanted to follow the traditional path his parents taught him… but he's younger than Nico, more impulsive, and way too far gone for this particular Omega who throws the whole book out the window the second he smiles at him

omg I'll stop rambling now. ily too 💙

[isles-of-man]

The casual way she mentioned her father's arrival should have sent panic coursing through Oscar's veins, yet the way she remained pressed against him, still trembling from her release, made something darker stir within him. He felt her pulse against his chest, her breath warm on his skin, and the thought of being caught only intensified the possessive heat burning through him.

"You don't sound concerned," he murmured against her hair, his voice rough with spent desire. His hands tightened on her waist, keeping her pinned beneath him even as the distant sounds of movement filtered through the walls. The risk should have made him pull away, should have sent him scrambling for his clothes, but instead it made him want to mark her more thoroughly, to ensure everyone knew exactly who she belonged to.

Oscar lifted his head to study her flushed face, noting the lazy satisfaction in her eyes, the way her lips curved in that secretive smile. She was playing with fire, and she knew it. The realization that she enjoyed the danger as much as he did sent another wave of heat through him.

"Maybe I should stay right here," he growled, shifting his hips deliberately to remind her how deeply he was still buried inside her.

However, with care, Oscar moved quietly, pulling back the curtains and opening the windows and doors to let fresh air flow through the room. The cool breeze stirred the curtains softly as he smoothed his shirt, gathering himself after the intensity between them.

As Soren’s fingers brushed his, he slipped a small folded note into her hand—just his address, nothing more. His voice dropped low, steady. “I’ll tell your father you need to rest. That this is only the start, and we’ll continue your treatment soon.” His eyes held hers, sharp and sure.

“Keep this safe.” The windows remained open, letting the cool air linger between them as he stepped back, waiting for what was to come.

To watch the doctor come undone made Soren happy. With stars in her eyes she told him, “All yours,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his, “Only yours… no one else…” She meant it, ready to prove it beyond mere words. Deceiving others, especially men, was a game she played without hesitation. It was a subtle craft she had mastered, truly more instinctive than mere habit at this point. She would lead a man to think she held deeper feelings for him than she actually did, often motivated by the favors he provided. Drives in their cars, garments or merely the praise and focus.. yet she felt it with him, she didn’t desire anyone else to caress her where his hands had pawed across her flesh. “So perfect,” he whispered to her, and her smile grew even brighter. A jarring push, one that pressed directly against her sensitive core, swiftly dimming her smile and causing her features to contort, her head tilting back as she approached the edge. Her gaze was unfocused, lips parted as rich, vibrant melodies escaped her form in waves of ecstasy. “Oscar,” She enveloped him, her body clinging to his as she pleaded for him to penetrate her further. “Please, I’m ready... give it to me, ahhh..” she held his head close to her, grabbing at the thick hairs at his nape. She entangled their lips, messily, unaware of the mess they had made for themselves. The peak of their shared ecstasy had made her oblivious to the muffled sounds of her father’s car arriving. The large front door cracked open, brown eyes curiously followed the mess of discarded clothes to the two bodies that molded within each other. Matilda gasped, frozen in place by what she saw. The pillows, the way the older gentleman had his hands on the young woman she had raised herself. This man, she did not know, but had been told would be coming today. She had been sent ahead to make to open the door so the chauffeur could assist with bringing the groceries inside. She dared not make a peep, not wanting to scare the young mistress. Flustered, she yanked the door closed again. Matilda quickly descended down the steps on the porch, insisting to the chauffeur they work as slowly as possible. Thankfully, the wife was enjoying her first cigarette now that she was back at home, that alone should keep her preoccupied for a few moments. Matilda’s fingers trembled as she gathered the plastic bags, pretending they were far too heavy, she’d have to make multiple trips and carry them to the front door first, she’d told the lady.

It had happened so fast, Soren had barely noticed as her eyes fluttered open. She had coated the length inside her in her juices, feeling the vibrating pulsations echoing in her body. She let her cheek fall into his shoulder, panting softly.. “I think my father’s home,” she mumbled, though she did not seem all that afraid of it. Her hand curled against his chest, feeling the softness of his breathing, hoping to capture what he felt.

[p2ii]

I found you. (Fae said i was the second mutual to post reitashi and I HAD to hunt you down hi sorry. Hi. ong)

hello!!!

fuck yea I'm absolutely obsessed w the idea of reitash now 🤝. I'm a huge tashigi fan so it's nice to have more sapphic ships for her. just from that colourspread alone they're dynamic looks like it would be SOO fun.

[yantao-enthusiast]

pleaaaase stop tagging wlw ships that are background on the mlm fics !!!!! the majority of that wlw ship tag is clogged up with mlm with just a dash of wlw when all the people want is them to be the stars PLEEASSSEEEEEE

[britishassistant]

Take a day.

Breathe.

Do whatever you have to do for yourself. If that’s throw yourself into a new fandom, do it. If that’s binging comfort media, do it. If that’s crying, screaming, curling up away from the world, reaching out to others, do it.

If you need more than a day, take a week. Breathe. Do what you need to.

There may be a dragon circling, but we have time. Time to prepare, to shore up defenses, to build barricades, to show the beast that none of us are going down without a fucking fight.

But we don’t have to do all that today. We don’t have to do all that tomorrow. We have time.

So breathe.

Take a day.

Do whatever you have to.

We will get through this, I promise.

I love you all.

[ribbittrobbit]

hey mutuals hmu if i can complain with you about the phenomenon of t*ylor sw*ft bec its that time of year again

[louisjude]

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