#people keep theorizing about what she is and how she works and they keep noting her answers to questions and it's all just

[thegreatyin]

miss christine's operator file is actually incredible. this really is the best arknights character of all time

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Waiting for the Good | Ten. One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, intense emotional intimacy, longing, slow burn tension, that sense of breathless anticipation when everything you’ve been hoping for is finally about to happen, and two people moving closer without even realizing they’re already there.

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open

Author’s Note:

Some moments are loud.

This one isn’t.

This chapter is all about the quiet before everything changes—the slow, almost imperceptible shift from waiting to knowing. It’s about how the air in a room can feel different when you’re expecting someone who matters. About how time contracts, stretching and collapsing around you until it’s just you, and the breath you hold without meaning to, and the sense that something is already moving toward you, even if you can’t see it yet.

For Riley, it’s about the soft, aching hope of making space—for someone else, for something bigger than herself. It’s the instinctive way she starts preparing without realizing it: the fresh towels, the extra charger, the jasmine blooming a little brighter on the porch.

For Joe, it’s about the steadiness of movement—the way he doesn’t need to say much because he’s already coming closer with every mile, every quiet certainty that Riley is a place he wants to land.

This isn’t about fireworks or declarations.

This is about the space between heartbeats—the part where you stop bracing for the fall because you already know you’ve jumped.

It’s a quieter chapter. A breath before the rush. But sometimes those quiet moments are the ones that change everything.

Also, just a quick note that my posting schedule may vary a little over the next few weeks as the school quarter winds down and final assignments pick up. I’ve had a lot of this story prewritten (and have been writing pretty steadily behind the scenes), but with the way the end of the quarter is shaping up, I may run out of prewritten chapters temporarily. I’ll keep updating as consistently as I can, but just wanted to give you a heads-up that life might throw a few delays into the mix. Thank you for being patient and amazing. 💜

I’m also planning to spend some time this weekend responding to asks! Sorry I haven’t gotten to them sooner — things have been a little hectic. Feel free to drop some in if you want to chat, scream, theorize, or just say hi. I love hearing from you. 💬✨

Thank you, as always. 💛🏈

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9@starsyoongi@amiets2@palmettogal508@throwaway12356123@lilfreakjez

---

Joe’s kitchen was dark except for the low glow from the under-cabinet lights. He sat at the counter with a protein shake, still in his training gear, his phone propped up in front of him. Riley’s face filled the screen, blurry at first as she adjusted her angle.

“Better?” she asked, voice a little hoarse. She looked tired in a way that wasn’t unattractive—makeup smudged, hair pulled into a high knot, wearing one of his old hoodies he hadn’t even realized was missing yet.

He smiled. “Yeah. Better.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Riley stretched, her bare legs disappearing under a blanket. “I’m gonna crash after this,” she said. “Tomorrow’s a long one.”

“What’s on deck?” Joe asked, leaning back against the counter.

“Mastering. Then a mix note review with Nick. Then we’re trying to wrap two shoots for the video content,” she said, closing her eyes for a second. “You?”

“Lift early. Might throw a little with the guys after, but keeping it light. Mark wants to sit down about scheduling too.”

She cracked one eye open. “Scheduling nightmares. Now featuring me.”

Joe smiled, small and easy. “Something like that.”

She breathed out a laugh, barely there. “He’s not gonna love that.”

Joe didn’t look away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Riley blinked at him, something soft catching in her chest.

He didn’t look away.

"You’re the quiet in all of it,” he said.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then she sighed, soft and amused. “Don’t say shit like that before bed, Burrow. You’ll mess me up.”

“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it.

Her eyes traced his face. “You miss me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I miss you.”

She smiled, small and tired. “Good. I miss you too.”

“When do you fly out?”

“Wednesday. Scout booked the late flight.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped a little. “I’m tired of wanting.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just watched her, soaking in the way she looked at him like she already had his coordinates mapped in her bones.

She shifted under the blanket. “Hey,” she said, a flicker of that teasing smile pulling at her lips. “Want me to leave you with something to think about?”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “Yeah.”

Riley tilted the camera just enough to show the edge of the gray T-shirt lifting at her thigh. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make his jaw clench.

Then she was back in frame, laughing softly. “Okay. That’s all you get.”

Joe blinked, leaning forward like he could pull her closer through the screen. “Wait,” he said, voice low. “You sure I can’t see a little more?”

Riley’s smile sharpened—slow, wicked, knowing. She didn’t say a word. Just tilted the camera down again.

More this time. Way more.

Long, bare lines of her. The shirt barely hanging on. No artifice. Just her, confident and unbothered and very aware of what she was doing to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, already leaning forward.

But she was laughing now, shameless and sweet. “BUYYYEEEE,” she said, sing-song, and hung up.

Joe sat in the dark, jaw slack, one hand still on the screen.

Totally wrecked.

He sat there for another minute, like if he stayed still enough, the call might rewind itself. Play again. Let him see her one more time, hear her laugh.

But the screen had gone black, and she was already slipping into sleep two time zones away.

Joe finally stood, stretched out his back, and padded over to the fridge. The kitchen was quiet but not empty—not with her voice still echoing in the corners. Not with the faint trace of her teasing still on his skin.

He opened the fridge out of habit, then closed it without grabbing anything.

His eyes caught on the magnet.

“Love from Louisiana,” bold and unapologetic in red and blue. A crawfish with its claws up, an alligator stiff and mid-stride, the whole thing shaped like the state. It looked like something picked up at a roadside gas station—cheap, plastic, too proud of itself.

It hadn’t meant anything when he took it. The magnet had been stuck to her cluttered fridge—half-buried under flyers, old photos, a faded festival pass. He’d taken it without thinking. A dumb little thing to hold onto. He figured she wouldn’t notice.

Now it was stuck to his fridge in Cincinnati.

He reached out and tapped it once, like it might tap back. Like it might make her closer.

* * *

Joe was lying flat on the training table, a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder, scrolling mindlessly through film cut-ups when his phone buzzed.

Riley: [Photo attachment]

He tapped it open—and froze.

She was standing in front of her mirror, golden-hour light cutting across her body like it was in on the game. No clothes. Just skin and shadow, her waist turned so he could see the slope of her back, curve of her hip, a hint of breast. Her face was in the shot too—chin slightly tilted, eyes locked on the reflection like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Because she did.

The message underneath read:

“Three things you’d be doing if you were here right now. Go.”

He blinked, throat tightening.

The ice bag suddenly felt like a joke.

Joe glanced around the empty training room, thankful no one was there to see the flush creeping up his neck. 

Three things.

It was never just the words with her. She wanted the real things—the ones he usually kept locked up, the ones that made him feel like he was handing her something breakable.

Finally, he typed:

"1. Hands on your waist."

Simple. Direct. True.

2. You looking at me like that.

He swallowed hard. That one cost him a little.

"3. No talking for a while."

He hit send, then placed the phone screen-down on the table. Joe didn't overthink things on the field, and he wasn't about to start now. But with Riley, his usual calculated control felt increasingly difficult to maintain.

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Buzz.

Riley: Wish I could get my hands on you right now, lovey.

Joe’s jaw flexed.

Buzz.

Riley: But you’ve got ice on your shoulder and people walking around, so… I’ll be good.

For now.

He couldn’t even lift his head. Face half-pressed into the table, body still pinned under the ice wrap, arms hanging down like deadweight. The worst possible position to be in when someone like her was on the other end of his phone, casually detonating his nervous system.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe through it.

Did not succeed.

* * *

Joe answered on the second ring.

He was in bed, one arm folded behind his head, the room dim except for the soft blue glow of the TV—muted, forgotten. Riley’s face filled the screen, her curls damp and pulled back, her skin clean, collarbone bare, one strap slipping slightly off her shoulder. No makeup. No posing. Just her.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, the kind of low that only came out after a long day.

Joe’s mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “Hey.”

They looked at each other for a second, not saying much.

“You survive the ice?” she asked, tugging the blanket up over her knees.

“Barely,” he said. “You ruined any shot I had at recovering.”

She grinned, pleased with herself. “Good.”

He let his eyes drift across her face, slow. “You look tired.”

“I am.” She moved on the bed, the screen slipping sideways for a second, flashing the suitcase behind her. “Everything’s too much this week. I just… need out.”

“You still leave tomorrow?”

“Yup. Should be back in the city by dinner.”

She didn’t say it, but he could feel it, the need to be home, to get closer to stillness. To something that felt more like them.

He nodded. “Good. You’ll feel better there.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I always do.”

Another beat of quiet. Not heavy—just familiar.

She looked at him again. “I don’t like sleeping without you.”

Joe exhaled. “I don’t like anything without you.”

Her mouth curved, eyes flickering down like she didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You always say the exact right thing,” she murmured.

“I’m only like this with you. You make it easy.”

She shifted onto her side, tucking the phone into the pillow next to her. The screen tilted slightly, gave him a closer view of her—just her cheek, the edge of her mouth, the soft line of her neck.

She didn’t look right at him when she said it.

“What would you do if you were here?”

He let out a breath through his nose. Thought about playing it off. Thought about saying something easy, like kiss you or make you forget your name.

But she was quiet. Not teasing.

“I’d just want to lay with you,” he said. “Stay close. Be quiet for a while.”

That made her glance at the screen.

She didn’t say anything, but she tucked her face into the pillow like she couldn’t quite look at him straight-on.

Joe looked down, a quiet smile pulling at him. “Not a big plan. Just… you.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

His chest tightened a little. He didn’t reply.

Riley’s voice dropped as she settled deeper into the pillow. “I’m gonna fall asleep if I stay like this.”

“Then stay,” he said. “I’ll hang on ‘til you do.”

She didn’t look away this time. Just stayed there, eyes soft, like she was trying to memorize him.

“I like you like this, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Soft,” she murmured. “Even when it’s not natural for you.”

He stayed still, like moving might break whatever was happening between them

“I just… I love that you let me see it.”

Joe stared at her for a second, throat tight. Thought about deflecting. Didn’t.

Instead, he shifted just slightly on the pillow, voice low and rough:

“I am trying, Birdie.”

A pause.

“I’m trying really hard.”

That made her smile, soft and certain. Like she knew—but still needed to hear it.

She closed her eyes, her voice barely a breath now. “It’s enough.”

He watched her breathing slow, body relaxing into sleep.

And he stayed.

Just watching her breathing slow, screen dimming as the light around her shifted. Her face soft, mouth relaxed, fingers curled loosely under her chin like she’d been holding the day and finally let go.

Joe lay there, phone in hand, heart pulled tight in his chest.

I’m trying really hard.

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But it was true.

Maybe the truest thing he’d said in a while.

She made it feel possible. Not easy. Just…worth it.

He stayed on the call long after her breathing evened out, long after her screen stilled.

* * *

Riley woke to a slant of light cutting through the curtain and the faint buzz of a plane overhead.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Her body felt heavy, the way it always did after too many days in the studio—stretched thin, nerves still humming underneath. But her chest wasn’t tight anymore. Something inside her had eased, like a quiet she hadn’t been able to find all week.

She blinked at her phone still propped against the pillow.

The call had ended sometime in the night. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him, but she knew he’d stayed. Knew it the way she knew other things about him now—without needing proof.

She reached for the phone, screen lighting up in her hand. No new messages, just the soft glow of it against her fingers, and the quiet he’d left behind.

Riley stared at it for a moment anyway, then locked the screen and got up.

The house was soft around her, sun warming the rugs, the lingering smell of incense from the night before still curling through the air. Laurel Canyon always felt like it was breathing—like her house shifted with her.

She moved through the morning slowly—making coffee, feeding the plants, throwing her last few things into the suitcase. She didn’t rush. There was no reason to.

She was going home.

Riley's flight home wasn't until the afternoon, giving her time to move through her morning rituals without the usual rush. She dug into her bag until her fingers brushed the talisman she’d been carrying since Mardi Gras. The weight of it against her palm felt like a promise.

She abandoned her half-packed suitcase and wandered onto the deck, coffee mug warming her palms. The canyon stretched below, morning haze still clinging to the hills. Los Angeles had never quite felt like home, not the way New Orleans did. She'd bought this place because she needed somewhere to land between tours, somewhere to write that wasn't a hotel room. But it remained a way station—beautiful but temporary.

New Orleans pulled at her, especially now. The crawfish boil with her family was this weekend, and she'd promised to help with prep. Joe would fly in Friday night. The thought sent a flutter through her chest that wasn't entirely comfortable. Bringing him home felt big in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

Her phone buzzed again. Joe this time.

Joe: Good morning. How'd you sleep?

She could picture him, probably already finished with his morning workout, protein shake in hand, methodically moving through his day.

Riley: Like the dead after you talked me to sleep. Ready to be headed home today.

His response came quickly: Text me when you land or if you get board?

Riley: Yes sir.

Riley set her phone down and leaned against the railing. Home. The word carried more weight now, like it was expanding to include more than just a place. She wasn't sure when that had happened or what to do with it. But as she looked out over the canyon, she felt something settle inside her—a certainty that whatever came next, she was ready for it.

* * *

She slid into an open seat by the window, backpack thumping against her feet, iced coffee sweating against her knee. The terminal buzzed — babies crying, boarding calls echoing, someone’s voice sharp on speakerphone — but inside, she just felt… still. Like she was waiting for something to break.

One AirPod in. Dylan LeBlanc in her ear, low and scratchy. Her phone was face-up in her lap. She didn't think. Just picked up her phone and texted Joe.

Riley: Made it to the airport. Text me if you can—keep me occupied while I wait on this damn plane.

She hit send, then leaned her head back against the wall behind her and closed her eyes.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Riley felt a small smile tug at her lips.

Joe: Perfect timing. I was just thinking about you.

Riley: Yeah? Good thoughts, I hope.

Joe: The best kind. How long until your flight?

Riley glanced up at the departure board, fingers absently tracing the edge of the LSU bracelet on her wrist.

Riley: About an hour.

Joe: Who’s picking you up?

Riley: Egan. She offered before I even asked. Said she misses my face.

There was a pause.

Joe: Lucky her.

She didn't answer right away. Just sat there, feeling it settle in her chest.

Riley: You’ll see me soon.

Joe: Not soon enough.

Joe: Send me a picture?

Riley smiled, wider this time. He didn’t usually ask for things but she loved when he did.

Riley: Of what? This glamorous airport scene?

Joe: Of you.

She glanced around, suddenly self-conscious in the crowded terminal. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, no makeup, just oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She was wearing an LSU sweatshirt she'd grabbed from his place in Cincinnati when she was there. She hadn't told him.

Riley: I look like a disaster right now.

Joe: I doubt that.

She hesitated, then switched to her front camera. She didn't pose, didn't try to find her angles or fix her hair. Just held the phone up, half-smile, tired eyes, vintage LSU gold visible in the frame. She looked at herself for a second, she looked exhausted, but she sent it anyway.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Joe: Is that my sweatshirt?!

She could practically hear the surprise in his text. Busted.

Riley: Maybe.

Joe: When did you even take that?

Riley: Busted

Riley: I may have borrowed it when I was packing up at your place. It smelled like you.

She watched the three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Joe was choosing his words carefully.

Joe: Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, letting herself feel enveloped by the soft, worn fabric that somehow still carried traces of his cologne beneath the scent of her own perfume.

Riley: You sure? It's kinda a classic.

Joe: I'm sure.

She smiled, small and real. Pulled the sleeves down a little tighter, like it might bring him closer.

Around her, the terminal carried on—boarding groups called, luggage rolled past, some kid screaming in the distance—but it all felt a little farther away now.

Her phone buzzed again.

Joe: I like knowing you’ve got something of mine.

She stared at that one for a second, throat tightening.

Riley: I just saw it and… took it. Didn’t want to leave without something that felt like you.

Three dots. Pause. Disappear.

She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, head tilting slightly against the terminal wall.

Joe: Been trying to come up with something clever, but seeing you in my sweatshirt might be the best thing I've seen all week. There’s just something about knowing you’ve got a piece of me with you.

Riley stared at the screen.

The buzz of the terminal faded—boarding announcements, rolling luggage, someone asking for directions on speakerphone. All of it moved around her.

She didn’t overthink it.

Riley: I didn’t realize I needed it until I had it.

Her thumb hovered. Then she sent it. No extra punctuation. No backspace. Just truth.

Joe: I know exactly what you mean.

Simple. Direct. But it stopped her just the same.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, cutting through her thoughts: "We'd like to begin boarding Flight 1873 to New Orleans, starting with our first class and priority passengers..."

Riley glanced up at the boarding screen, then back at her phone.

Riley: They're calling my group. Gotta go.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. There was more she wanted to say, but the line was already forming at her gate.

Joe: Text me when you land.

It wasn't a question this time. She smiled at that—his quiet certainty, the way he'd slipped from vulnerability back to his usual steady self.

Riley: I will.

She stood, slinging her backpack over one shoulder, phone still in hand. The message notification lit up as she joined the boarding line.

Joe: And Riley?

Riley: Yeah?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then:

Joe: I'm glad you took it.

Riley tucked her phone into her pocket without responding, but the smile stayed on her face as she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent. Some things didn't need a reply.

As she walked down the jet bridge, she pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over her hands again, feeling the weight of something shifting between them—something neither of them had put into words yet, but both felt just the same.

* * *

Riley squinted against the bright New Orleans sunshine as she stepped out of Louis Armstrong Airport. The air hit her like a wall – thick, heavy, and familiar. Home. She inhaled deeply, feeling the humidity wrap around her like an old friend.

"There she is!"

She turned to see Egan leaning against her battered blue Jeep, sunglasses pushed up into her wild curls, grinning widely.

“Get your ass over here,” Egan called, pushing off the car.

Riley laughed, dragging her suitcase across the pickup lane. “Your chariot looks as reliable as ever.”

“Hey, don’t insult Stella. She’s been through enough.” Egan reached for Riley’s bag, tossing it into the back. Her eyes flicked to Riley’s sweatshirt as she did, brow raised.

“That new?”

She glanced down at the sweatshirt, sleeves swallowed around her hands. It still smelled a little like him.

“Sort of.”

Egan’s grin sharpened. “Sort of as in not yours?”

Riley didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“That’s what I thought,” Egan said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “How's the quarterback anyway?”

As they pulled away from the curb, Riley felt her phone in her pocket. She'd promised Joe she'd text when she landed. She'd meant to do it the moment the plane touched down, but the chaos of deplaning and baggage claim had distracted her.

She pulled it out now, typing quickly while Egan navigated through airport traffic.

Riley: Landed safe. Egan's already giving me shit about wearing your sweatshirt.

Joe's response came almost immediately.

Joe: Tell her it was a gift.

Riley smiled, looking out at the familiar landscape passing by. New Orleans stretched before her, wild and chaotic and completely different from Cincinnati's tidy neighborhoods or LA's sprawling highways.

Riley: Was it?

Joe: It is now.

She tucked the phone away, still smiling, as Egan launched into stories about what Riley had missed while she was gone. But part of her attention remained on the weight of her phone in her pocket, and the man on the other end who was somehow becoming a constant in her unpredictable life.

They turned onto her block just as the sun dipped low enough to spill amber across the rooftops. Riley sat up a little straighter as the familiar silhouette of her house came into view—painted lilac with coral shutters and cream trim, still somehow managing to look both proud and soft beneath the arms of the big oak tree that shaded the porch.

The garden had flourished in her absence. Green everywhere—ferns brushing the iron fence, climbing jasmine curling around the gatepost, red blooms nodding in the breeze like they knew her name. Everything looked exactly how she’d left it, only more alive.

Egan pulled up in front and cut the engine. “Damn,” she said, looking at the house. “She’s showing off today.”

Riley smiled, already reaching for her bag. “She knows I’m back.”

She stepped out into the thick, sweet air—jasmine and earth and the faint metallic hum of the city settling for the night. Her boots clicked on the slate path. She ran her fingers along the gate latch, brushing a spot of rust, then pushed it open and stepped through like she was crossing a threshold in her own skin.

The porch creaked beneath her as she climbed the steps, the old swing shifting slightly in the breeze like it remembered her. She didn’t rush to unlock the door. Just stood for a second, one hand on the railing, eyes on the plants that framed the stairs—neat rows of herbs in ceramic pots, glossy elephant ears fanning wide near the steps, the fountain gurgling low near the corner.

Egan came up behind her. “Place feels calmer with you here."

Riley turned the key and pushed the door open. The air inside was cool and still, laced with the scent of lavender and cedar from the incense she’d burned before leaving. Light filtered through the lace curtain in the parlor, catching on old records, picture frames, and the curl of a half-finished setlist taped to the fridge.

“I’ll hang for a bit,” Egan said, brushing past her and collapsing onto the couch like she owned the place. “But I want drinks and a breakdown of every spicy FaceTime you’ve had with the quarterback since we last spoke.”

Riley let out a low laugh, rolling her eyes as she dropped her bag by the door and followed her friend into the kitchen. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm-hmm. And you’re in his sweatshirt.”

Riley glanced down, pulling the hem reflexively. “Maybe.”

Egan leaned over the counter, smirking. “Girl.”

Riley just shook her head, busying her hands and making cocktails.

* * *

Riley mixed two gin fizzes with practiced hands, adding a splash of elderflower liqueur that wasn't in the traditional recipe but that she knew Egan loved. The familiar motions grounded her, even as Egan's knowing gaze followed her around the kitchen.

"So," Egan said, accepting the drink Riley slid across the counter. "Scale of one to ten. How bad do you have it for Cincinnati's golden boy?"

Riley took a long sip from her own glass, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly against her tongue. "I don't rate these things."

"That means at least an eight." Egan stretched her legs onto the coffee table. "You've never been this tight-lipped about someone before."

Riley dropped into the armchair across from her, folding into herself without meaning to. The sweatshirt—Joe’s—was warm against her skin. Her hand found the sleeve and stayed there.

"It's different," she finally said. "With him, it's just... different."

Egan's eyebrows shot up as she leaned forward, suddenly interested. "Different how? And don't give me that 'you wouldn't understand' crap. I've known you since you were stealing my eyeliner in high school."

Riley swirled the ice in her glass, searching for the right words. How did you explain someone who didn’t fit into any category you’d known before? The steady way he looked at her. The careful consideration behind everything he did. The feeling that he saw past her stage persona to something real underneath.

"He listens," Riley said finally. "Not just waiting for his turn to talk, but actually hearing me. And he remembers everything—not in that creepy way Ethan did to use against me later, but because he's genuinely paying attention."

She took another sip, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"He's structured and disciplined in ways I never could be. His entire life runs on this color-coded calendar, and at first I thought we'd drive each other crazy. But it's like..." Riley paused, staring into her drink. "It's like he brings this calm to my chaos. And maybe I bring a little chaos to his calm. But in a good way."

Egan studied her face. "I've never seen you like this before."

"That's what I'm saying. It's different." Riley pulled her knees up to her chest. "When I'm with him, I don't feel like I need to be 'on' all the time. I can just exist. And he doesn't want me to be anything other than what I am."

"Even with the distance? The schedules? The whole 'he plays football and you're a rock star' thing?"

Riley nodded slowly. "We're figuring it out. He's worth figuring it out for."

Egan watched Riley with a mixture of surprise and concern. In all the years she'd known her, Riley had never described anyone as "worth figuring it out for." There had been passionate flings, creative partnerships, and of course the disaster with Ethan—but this quiet certainty was new.

“Shit,” Egan said, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You’re really gone for him, huh?”

Riley rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Maybe I am,” she admitted. It's just... I don't know. He challenges me."

"Challenges you how?"

Riley set her glass down on the coffee table, searching for the right words. "He makes me think about what I actually want, not just what feels good in the moment." She tugged at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him."

"Of course not. The man's got his own spotlight," Egan pointed out.

"That's part of it. But it's more than that." Riley ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "He sees the real stuff. The stuff I don't show everyone."

Egan leaned forward, her expression softening. "Like what?"

"Like how sometimes I need quiet. How I get scared about losing myself in all this." Riley gestured vaguely around her. "He notices when I'm tired before I even say anything. He'll just... create space for me."

"And the sex?" Egan wiggled her eyebrows dramatically.

Riley threw a decorative pillow at her, laughing. "None of your business."

"That good, huh?"

Riley felt heat rise to her cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting in the living room. "That's definitely not a complaint I have," she admitted, taking another sip of her drink.

"I knew it." Egan's triumphant smile stretched across her face. "I could tell there was something about him, even during Mardi Gras when you two were trying to be all casual."

We weren’t trying to be casual,” Riley protested.

Egan gave her a look, the kind that said sure, babe, without needing to say anything at all.

Riley sighed, setting her glass down. “Okay. Maybe I was. For like, five minutes.”

“And then?”

“And then he looked at me like he already knew where I’d end up,” she said quietly. “Like he wasn’t in a rush, but he wasn’t going anywhere either.”

Egan’s grin faded into something softer. “That sounds serious.”

Riley traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip, surprised by how easy it was to admit this to Egan when she'd barely admitted it to herself.

“I didn’t think I had it in me to do this again after Ethan,” she said, voice low. “I was just… supposed to focus. Keep my walls up.”

"And then Joe Burrow happened," Egan supplied.

Riley nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "And then Joe happened. One minute we're awkwardly flirting on a talk show, and the next..."

"The next you're wearing his clothes and getting that dopey look on your face when your phone buzzes."

"I don't get a dopey look," Riley protested, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

Egan just raised an eyebrow.

"Fine. Maybe a little dopey." Riley pulled the sleeves of Joe's sweatshirt over her hands. "But it wasn't supposed to go this way. We were just going to have dinner. One dinner."

"And?"

"And then he cooked for me. He was nervous about it—Joe Burrow, nervous about cooking dinner." Riley shook her head at the memory. "Not about facing three-hundred-pound linemen trying to crush him, but about whether I'd like his pasta."

Egan smiled. "That's actually kind of sweet."

"It was. And then we talked for hours, and it was just... easy. Like we'd known each other forever." Riley took another sip of her drink. "I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to say something awful or be controlling or just—I don't know—turn out to be another disappointment."

"But he didn't."

"No." Riley's voice softened. "He didn't. Instead, he showed up. He keeps showing up, even when it's complicated. Even when it would be easier not to."

Egan studied her friend's face. "You're falling in love with him."

It wasn't a question.

Riley felt the words hit her like a physical force. The glass in her hand suddenly seemed too heavy, and she set it down with a shaky hand, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Oh my god." Her eyes widened as the realization crystallized. "Oh no. Egan, I think I am."

She pressed her palms against her face, the soft material of Joe's sweatshirt brushing her cheeks.

"What do I do?" she groaned through her fingers. "How am I even supposed to talk to him later knowing this? We have a call scheduled in like three hours."

Egan leaned back, clearly enjoying Riley's sudden panic. "You could just tell him."

"Tell him?" Riley's voice pitched higher. "Are you insane? We've barely been together for—" She counted mentally. "We haven't even been together that long!"

"Since when do you care about timelines?"

"Since now! Since this!" Riley gestured wildly at herself. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with anyone."

She stood up and began pacing the living room, her bare feet silent against the wooden floors. "Do you think he'll be able to tell? I'm terrible at hiding things. He's going to look at me through the screen and just know."

"Would that be so bad?" Egan asked, watching Riley's frantic movement.

Riley stopped pacing, hands still braced against her face like they might hold her together.

Riley let her fingers slide down, eyes meeting hers across the room. “It would be terrifying.”

Egan nodded. “Yeah. But maybe also… kind of beautiful?”

Riley didn’t answer. She just stood there, heart rattling in her chest, that ridiculous sweatshirt swallowing her whole. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or call him right then and there.

Instead, she sat back down.

The couch cushions exhaled under her weight. She pulled her knees up again, arms wrapping tight around them. Her voice came out quieter this time.

“I feel everything with him,” she said. “All at once. And it scares the fuck outta me.”

“I know,” Egan said, like she felt it too.

Riley stared down at the curve of her glass on the table. Her chest felt too full. Like if she moved too fast, it might all spill out.

“I think I need to calm down before the call,” she said eventually.

Egan smirked, but gently. “You gonna write a song about it first?”

“I might write five.”

They both laughed, but it was softer now. Muted.

The moment hung there, not fully resolved—but more settled. Like the truth had landed and they were just learning how to hold it.

Egan stood and stretched again. “Alright. I’m leaving before I say something too heartfelt and ruin my street cred. Call me after the call.”

“You know I will.”

She walked her friend to the door, gave her a long, quiet hug on the porch. And then it was just her again—the garden humming outside, the house breathing steady around her, and the screen on her phone showing 2 hours, 47 minutes until their call.

* * *

Riley closed the door behind Egan and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. The house settled around her, familiar creaks and sighs that had always been a comfort. Now they only emphasized how alone she was with this new, terrifying knowledge.

She was falling in love with Joe Burrow.

The thought sent another wave of panic through her chest. She pushed off from the door and moved to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank it in long gulps. The clock on the microwave blinked at her: 2 hours, 42 minutes until their call.

Riley wandered into her living room, fingers trailing along the spines of vinyl records that lined the shelves. She pulled one out—an old Etta James album—and set it on the turntable. The needle scratched, then the warm, rich voice filled the room.

She needed to get her head straight before talking to Joe. Her gaze fell on her notebook sitting on the coffee table. Writing had always been her way of processing feelings, of making sense of the chaos in her head.

Riley grabbed the notebook and a pen, curling up in the window seat that overlooked her small garden. Outside, the evening light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the ground. She opened to a blank page and let her pen hover above it.

The words didn't come immediately. Instead, she found herself sketching little stars in the margin, thinking about Joe's smile, about the way he'd looked at her in the studio, about how his voice sounded when he was half-asleep.

She didn’t mean to write anything. Just needed to move her hand, keep from unraveling.

But somewhere between the sketches and the half-formed thoughts, it slipped out—quick, instinctive, truer than she meant it to be.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Riley stared at the words.

She didn’t read them back. Just felt them. They sat there on the page like a held breath, like something that had been waiting for her to name it.

She closed the notebook before she could second-guess it, tucking it beneath the stack of books on the coffee table like burying it made it less real.

Then she stood, moving through the house like someone walking off a dream. The record had long since stopped spinning. Outside, the sky had gone that dusky watercolor blue-gray, the kind that made everything feel a little softer.

Riley glanced at the microwave clock.

1 hour, 18 minutes.

She pressed her palm flat against the center of her chest. Just to feel her heart still working.

Riley stared at the notebook for a long moment after she closed it, fingers resting lightly on the cover. The words still echoed in her head, quiet but insistent.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Her phone was on the table beside her, screen dark. She picked it up, hesitated, then tapped into her favorites. Her thumb hovered over Joe’s name for a second before sliding to the one several below it.

Laura.

She pressed call.

It rang once.

“Hey, Riles,” came the soft voice on the other end—warm, familiar, a little sleepy. “You okay?”

Riley exhaled through her nose. Of course Laura would know.

“I think I’m in love with him,” she said, no lead-in, no buildup. Just the truth.

She was quiet for a moment. “You sound scared.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” Laura said gently. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Riley shifted in the window seat, pulling her knees close again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. After Ethan, I promised myself—”

“—that it would never feel this big again,” Laura finished quietly.

Riley closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

There was silence on the line, but not the kind that made her anxious. The kind that said I’m here, take your time.

“It’s not about what he says,” she said. “It’s just… how he is. The way he notices things. The way he looks at me like I’m enough already.”

Laura hummed. “That sounds like peace.”

“It is,” Riley said. “And it terrifies me.”

She paused, the words catching in her throat before they slipped out.

“Because what if I can never give him peace, Laura?”

Her voice was smaller now, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Laura was quiet for a moment, and then: “That’s not something you owe him, Riley.”

Riley stared at the far wall, blinking back the pressure behind her eyes.

“I know. But he makes things quiet for me. Like I can actually breathe. What if all I do is make things louder for him?”

“Then he’ll tell you,” Laura said gently. “But I don’t think that’s what this is.”

A pause.

“You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much. You’re you. And I think he sees that for what it is—something good.”

Riley didn’t say anything right away. She just sat there, letting the words wash over her like warm water—soft, steady, unflinching.

She blinked hard once, then again, swallowing the knot in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I didn’t know I needed to hear that.”

Laura’s voice was calm, no rush in it. “You don’t always have to hold it all by yourself.”

“I know,” Riley said. “I just forget sometimes.”

“Well,” Laura said, a hint of a smile threading through, “you’ve got people to remind you.”

They stayed on the line for a few more breaths—no pressure to fill the silence. Just the sound of the evening settling in on both ends of the call.

“I should go,” Riley said eventually, glancing toward the clock. “I need to pull it together before he calls.”

“Don’t pull it too far,” Laura said gently. “Let him see you.”

Riley exhaled, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

They said their quiet goodbyes, and the call ended with a soft click that left the house feeling still again—but not as heavy.

Riley set the phone down on the arm of the chair and stretched her arms overhead, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. She could still hear Laura’s voice echoing in the quiet.

You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much.

She stood and moved through the house without hurrying—brushed her teeth, splashed cool water on her face, lit the candle on the windowsill. The air smelled like lavender and lemon peel.

When she checked the clock again, there were twenty-three minutes left.

She didn’t pick up the notebook. Didn’t touch her guitar. Just curled up on the couch in Joe’s sweatshirt, feet tucked under her, phone facedown beside her knee.

And waited.

* * *

Time dragged. Riley's fingers fidgeted with the cuff of Joe's sweatshirt, rolling and unrolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. The silence pressed in, filling all the spaces she usually knew how to live inside.

She reached for her phone, checked the screen—nineteen minutes left—and set it back down.

The confession sat in her chest like a stone. I think I'm in love with him. Not something she could take back once spoken aloud. Not something she could pretend wasn't there, either.

Riley pulled her knees closer, burying her nose in the collar of the sweatshirt. It still smelled like him—that clean, sharp scent that wasn't quite cologne but something distinctly Joe. Her eyes drifted closed.

What would his face look like if she told him? Would his expression shift in that subtle way it did when something surprised him—the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, the slight pause before he spoke?

The thought made her stomach flip.

She'd spent years building walls around herself, crafting songs about heartbreak while keeping the deepest parts locked away. Then Joe had walked in, no dramatic entrance, just steady and present, and suddenly those walls felt paper-thin.

The phone buzzed against her knee.

Riley's eyes snapped open. She stared at it for a long moment before turning it over.

Her phone buzzed. Joe's name lit up the screen, fifteen minutes early, no warning.

That was so like him. Plan for eight, arrive at seven forty-five. Just in case.

Riley stared at the screen, heart suddenly drumming against her ribs. There was no way he could know what she was thinking—what she'd realized today. The screen kept buzzing, insistent.

She swiped to answer, not bothering to fix her hair or find better light.

His face appeared, shadowed—dark bathroom tile behind him, hair slightly damp from a shower. His eyes found hers immediately, that quiet laser focus that never wavered.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

Riley pulled her knees in tighter. "You're early."

"Meeting ended faster than I thought," Joe said. No apology, no unnecessary explanation. Just fact. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," she said. Then, "You're all showered. I'm a disaster."

Joe didn't immediately counter with reassurance like most people would. His eyes just moved across her face, taking her in.

"You look tired," he said finally.

"I am," she admitted. "Talked to Egan today. Then Laura."

"How are they?"

"Good. Egan's already giving me shit about us, and Laura's being all wise and supportive as usual."

Joe smiled, lazy and low, like it was just for her.

Riley didn’t rush to fill the silence. With Joe, she didn’t have to. He waited, steady as ever, until she was ready.

"I've been in my head," she said finally, her voice quieter. "A lot."

"About what?"

She started to speak, then stopped. Started again.

"About us. About Vegas."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes, a flicker of recognition. He didn't move, didn't stiffen. But she could see his focus sharpen.

"It wasn't—" She paused, searching for words. "It's not that I need you to do some big public declaration. I just didn't like feeling like..."

Joe waited.

"Like a liability," she finished.

"You're not a liability." There was a firmness in his voice that wasn't there before. No hesitation, no qualification.

"In Vegas, it just felt like... I don't know." Riley ran a hand through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck before letting it fall again. "Like I was complicating things just by being there."

Joe was quiet for a minute — the kind of quiet that meant he was working for the right words. Riley had learned to tell the difference.

“I keep things separate,” he said finally. “Football. Family. Relationships. It’s easier that way. Cleaner.”

She nodded, unsurprised. This wasn't news.

"But you don't fit in a box, Riley."

That made her look at him more directly.

"I didn't know what to do with that in Vegas." Joe's jaw tensed slightly. "I'm better when I've had time to... to think through all the angles."

It was as close to I panicked as Joe Burrow would ever get.

"You don't have to have it all figured out," Riley said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "That's kind of my whole approach to life."

"I know," Joe said, and there was almost something fond in it. "but one of us has to have some structure."

Riley laughed, soft and surprised by the gentle teasing. It eased something in her chest.

"I didn't need you to introduce me to everyone," she continued. "I just needed to know where I stood with you."

Joe nodded, once. "You stand with me." Simple, direct. Not poetry, but somehow better for its clarity.

Riley felt warmth spread through her chest at the certainty in his voice. This was why she kept coming back to him—to them. The steadiness that she'd never found anywhere else.

"I don't always know how to trust that," she admitted, her voice softer. "Especially after Vegas."

The words hung between them, honest in a way that cost her. After Ethan, she'd built walls so high she wasn't sure how anyone would climb them. Then Joe had come along, steady and certain—until Vegas had shown her that even he had moments where she became something to manage rather than someone to stand beside.

"Vegas wasn't my best," Joe said after a moment. His jaw tightened slightly—the closest he came to showing regret. "It won't happen again."

Three words, no elaborate explanation. That was Joe—economical even with his promises. But there was something in his eyes that made her want to believe him, despite the voice in her head that remembered how Ethan's pretty words had evaporated when tested.

Riley looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers. "It's hard for me to know that for sure."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady even through the screen. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, more certain.

"Then I'll prove it to you."

He didn't elaborate with flowery promises or detailed plans. That wasn't Joe's way. But there was a quiet determination in those five words that felt different from Ethan's practiced declarations—solid where Ethan had been all flash.

Riley looked up, meeting his eyes. "Okay."

One word that carried the weight of everything they weren't saying. A cautious opening, not a guarantee.

It surprised her, that simplicity. Most men would rush to differentiate themselves, to prove something. Joe just... waited. Like he understood time would matter more than words.

Riley let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The miles between them still stretched, but something about his steady gaze made them feel less insurmountable.

"Tell me something good," Riley said, softer now. "Something from today."

Joe's mouth quirked. "You're wearing my sweatshirt. That's pretty good."

Riley glanced down, suddenly aware of the faded LSU across her chest. She'd put it on after her shower without thinking. "Oh. Yeah."

“Yeah,” Joe said, voice low. “And I’ll be there Friday.”

Riley pulled her knees closer, settling deeper into the window seat. "What's your schedule tomorrow?"

“Meetings most of the morning. Lift after. Might run a couple routes if my shoulder’s good. I’ll be free by afternoon.”

They talked for a while longer—easy, winding conversation about nothing significant. How the jasmine had taken over her garden. A perfect pass Joe had thrown at practice. The étouffée disaster story her grandfather was planning to tell.

The house darkened around her as they talked, but Riley didn't move to turn on lights. There was something intimate about the soft blue glow from her screen, about being half-hidden in shadow while still letting him see her.

"You nervous?" Joe asked after a lull. "About me meeting them?"

Riley considered deflecting with humor, but something in his eyes made her answer honestly.

"Not nervous," she said. "Maybe a little... heightened."

Joe's brow lifted slightly. "Heightened?"

"It's crawfish on the bayou with my family. It's loud, and messy, and a little overwhelming if you're not used to it."

"Riley," Joe said, with the barest hint of a smile, "I played for LSU for two years. I know what a Louisiana family gathering looks like."

She laughed, soft and surprised. "Okay, fair."

"I know what I'm walking into," he said. "And anyway—" he paused, eyes steady on hers. "I work best under pressure. You forget what I do for a living?"

Riley let out a quiet laugh. "You say that now..."

"I got this," he said, voice low. "And I got you."

The words weren't loud or poetic. Just quiet, certain.

Riley looked down, trying to steady her breathing. The inside of her chest felt too full, like something might spill over if she moved too quickly.

"I know," she said after a moment. "I just needed to hear it."

Joe didn't respond with more reassurance. He just nodded, once, like he understood exactly what she meant.

Riley shifted, pulling a blanket higher around her shoulders, fatigue suddenly washing over her. The screen stayed propped against her knees.

"Don't hang up yet," she murmured, eyes already growing heavy.

"I wasn't planning to," Joe replied.

She closed her eyes. "Just... talk a little. Doesn't matter what."

Joe settled back against his headboard. "Alright," he said. "Today Sam dropped a weight on his foot during training. Didn't tell anyone for an hour because he didn't want to admit he was limping..."

His voice continued, low and steady like a current underneath her breathing. No flourishes, no dramatic storytelling. Just that even, measured cadence that somehow made everything feel more manageable.

Riley didn't answer. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

Still, Joe kept talking.

Just in case.

* * *

Morning came soft and warm, the way it always did in New Orleans this time of year. Riley woke to sunlight filtering through lace curtains, casting intricate patterns across her bedroom floor. For a moment, she just lay there, letting the familiar sounds of home settle around her—distant church bells, birds in the oak tree outside her window, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan circling above.

Her phone lay beside her pillow, dead. She must have fallen asleep during the call with Joe, the phone's battery draining quietly in the night. The realization brought a small smile to her lips, remembering his voice as she'd drifted off.

Riley stretched, then padded barefoot through the house, plugging in her phone before heading to the kitchen. The routine was automatic—coffee first, always. She moved through the familiar motions with her eyes half-closed, the rich scent of chicory gradually pulling her fully awake.

When the coffee was ready, she poured it into her favorite mug—chipped at the handle but too sentimental to replace—and carried it through the front room to the porch. The screen door creaked in protest as she pushed it open with her hip, the sound as familiar as her own heartbeat.

The morning air hit her skin like a warm breath—thick, sweet, already heavy with humidity. Her porch swing beckoned, its faded cushions still bearing the slight indentation from where she'd last sat. Riley settled into it, tucking one bare foot beneath her, the swing groaning softly as it accepted her weight.

From here, she could see most of her block—the neighbor's wind chimes swaying lazily in the breeze, Mrs. Guidry already sweeping her sidewalk across the street, the community garden on the corner bursting with life. Everything exactly where it should be, down to the tabby cat watching her suspiciously from beneath the hydrangea bush.

"Morning to you too, Max," she murmured, taking a slow sip of coffee.

Her street was waking up — the slam of a screen door, the low rumble of a truck a few blocks over, a burst of laughter carried on the thick morning air. Somewhere, faint music drifted from an open window — brass and drums, bright and lazy.

Riley closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the back of the swing. The confession from last night still sat in her chest, no less true in the morning light. I think I'm in love with him. The words didn't feel as frightening now, here in the soft morning air of the place that had always held her truest self.

Her phone buzzed inside the house, the sound barely audible through the screen door. Probably Joe, awake and already finished with his morning workout. The thought made her smile again—their different rhythms somehow finding ways to align.

She would go in soon. She would call him back, tell him about the neighbor's cat and the church bells and how the morning light turned her garden gold. But for now, she let herself sit a moment longer, feet pushing gently against the porch floor, setting the swing in motion.

The movement was hypnotic—forward and back, the subtle creak of chains, the world rocking gently. Riley took another sip of coffee, eyes drifting to the edge of her porch where she'd planted jasmine last spring. It had nearly taken over the railing now, white flowers nodding in the breeze, filling the air with sweetness.

Her grandfather had always said plants bloomed best for people who talked to them. She'd never been sure if she believed him, but found herself doing it anyway.

“He’s coming on Friday,” she told the jasmine quietly. “Make sure you show off for him, yeah?”

The jasmine didn't respond, but a breeze ruffled through it, sending a trace of fragrance her way. Riley smiled into her coffee.

Her phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. With a soft sigh—not of irritation, just of transition—she rose from the swing and padded back toward the screen door. The wood was warm beneath her bare feet, still holding yesterday's sunshine.

As she reached for the handle, she paused, turning back to look at her little corner of New Orleans one more time. The morning light caught on the wrought iron of her fence, the dew on the elephant ears, the wind chimes swaying lazily in the corner.

"We're doing this," she whispered to no one in particular. "We're really doing this."

Then she pulled open the door and stepped inside, ready to start her day in earnest—ready to call him back, ready to face whatever came next.

The house seemed to sigh around her in agreement.

* * *

Riley padded back inside, the screen door clicking shut behind her. The house welcomed her with familiar creaks and whispers—old wood settling, ceiling fans stirring the air. She moved through the front room, fingers trailing along the edge of her record collection, the vintage guitar propped in the corner, the stack of books that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how many she read.

Her phone buzzed again from where she'd left it charging on the kitchen island. She picked it up, the screen lighting to reveal three missed calls and a string of texts—all from Joe. The last one had just come through:

Joe: Phone dead?

She smiled, thumbing through the earlier messages.

Joe: You conked out during the call. I stayed on until your breathing evened out.

Joe: Finished workout. Thought you might want to see the damage.

And then, surprisingly, a photo.

Riley's eyebrows rose slightly. Joe rarely sent selfies—a stark contrast to how often he asked for them from her. It wasn't that he had anything against them; he just didn't think to document himself the way she did naturally. But when he did send one, it always felt like a small gift, an unspoken acknowledgment that he was thinking of her enough to break his usual patterns.

But there he was on her screen. Hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion, gray workout shirt clinging to his shoulders. He wasn't smiling exactly—Joe never gave a full smile in photos—but there was something soft around his eyes, something private in the slight curve of his mouth. Behind him, the early morning light of the training facility cast everything in a clean, bright glow.

He looked... happy. And a little tired. And very much like someone who'd been thinking about her while he went through his routine.

Riley leaned against the counter, something warm unfurling in her chest. She tapped the image, studying the details—the slight shadow of stubble he hadn't yet shaved, the barely visible scar above his eyebrow from a college game, the way his hair stuck up slightly at the crown where he'd probably run his hand through it.

He looked good. Of course he looked good—that was never in question. But this wasn't the polished, media-ready Joe Burrow that most people saw. This was just... Joe. Her Joe. Sweaty and rumpled and real.

She tapped reply, suddenly eager to connect.

Riley: Sorry for the radio silence. Woke up and took my coffee to the porch. Phone was dead from our call.

She hesitated, then added:

Riley: You look good all sweaty. Send these more often.

Riley set the phone down and moved to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and the remains of a bell pepper. She'd need more than coffee if she was going to face the day—especially a day that included a visit to Papa.

The phone buzzed again as she was cracking eggs into a bowl.

Joe: Don't get used to it. Just happened to look decent today.

She laughed out loud, nearly dropping the whisk.

Riley: Decent is an understatement. Any chance of seeing more next time?

Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Appeared again.

Joe: Maybe. If you ask nice.

Riley grinned, setting the phone down to continue making her breakfast. The morning light streamed through the kitchen window, catching on the copper pans hanging above the island, the collection of vintage concert posters on the far wall, the plants crowding every available surface.

She moved through the familiar space with practiced ease, whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, the rhythms of home coming back to her body without conscious thought. The house felt different this morning—lighter somehow, like her confession to Egan and Laura had shifted something inside her that the walls could sense.

I think I'm in love with him.

The words still sent a flutter of panic through her chest, but it was softer now. Less sharp. More like anticipation than fear.

Her phone buzzed one more time as she was plating her eggs.

Joe: Plans today?

She picked it up, typing one-handed while she carried her plate to the small table by the window.

Riley: Breakfast. Then Papa at the retirement home. Need to prepare him for your arrival.

Joe: He need preparing?

Riley smiled, thinking of her grandfather's endless stories and embarrassing photo albums.

Riley: Let's just say he's got 25 years of Riley stories and zero filter. Damage control is needed.

Three dots. A pause.

Joe: Looking forward to it.

Riley took a bite of her eggs, considering her response. She could warn Joe more specifically about Papa's tendency to overshare, tell him how the sweet old man had no concept of boundaries when it came to his "songbird." But that wasn't how they operated. Not anymore.

Riley: He'll talk your ear off, but he's the best person I know. Just need to remind him which stories are off-limits.

Joe: The more embarrassing, the better.

She set the phone down, focusing on her breakfast for a few minutes. The eggs were perfect—just the right amount of pepper, the way her mother had taught her. Through the window, she could see the garden coming alive with morning activity—a hummingbird darting between flowers, the neighbor's cat stalking through the bushes, sunlight catching on dew that hadn't yet burned away.

One more day until Joe arrived. Two until the crawfish boil. Her world was about to collide with his in a way they hadn't yet experienced—not the careful boundaries of their separate cities, not the controlled environment of a weekend visit. This was her home, her family, her deepest roots.

She should be terrified. Part of her was.

But mostly, she just wanted him here—wanted to see him in her space, sitting on her porch swing, talking with her grandfather, his hand steady on the small of her back while chaos swirled around them.

Riley finished her breakfast and carried the plate to the sink, glancing at the clock on the microwave. If she left now, she'd have plenty of time to stop for beignets before reaching Magnolia Gardens.

* * *

The Magnolia Gardens Retirement Community sat on three lush acres just outside the city limits, close enough to New Orleans to feel connected but far enough to escape the constant noise. Unlike many of the sterile facilities Riley had toured, this one had character—garden plots for residents who still wanted to grow their own tomatoes, a music room with instruments available day and night, and a bar that served actual drinks during happy hour. It was the only place Willis Carter had agreed to even consider.

Riley pulled into a visitor spot, grabbing the bag of fresh beignets she'd picked up on the way. She didn't bother checking her reflection—her grandfather had seen her in every possible state and never once commented on her appearance, except to say she looked like her grandmother when she smiled.

The receptionist brightened when she walked in. "Miss Carter! Your grandfather's been up since dawn waiting for you. He's checked his watch about twenty times in the last hour alone."

Riley laughed. "That sounds like him. I'm not even late."

"Try telling him that," Darlene said with a fond shake of her head. "He's out in the garden pavilion. Said something about the light being better out there for showing you some new photos his brother sent."

Riley stepped through the sliding glass doors into the garden pavilion, where sunlight filtered through the latticed roof, casting dappled patterns across the wooden tables. She spotted her grandfather immediately, his silver hair catching the light as he bent over a photo album.

"Papa," she called, and Willis Carter looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile that transformed him from stern patriarch to delighted grandparent in an instant.

“Well, there she is,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I was just about to go hunt you down.”

“I’m on time,” Riley said, grinning as she walked over.

“Didn’t say you weren’t. Just said I was about to come get you.” He leaned in, kissed her temple, then zeroed in on the bag in her hand. “Tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“Still warm,” she said, holding out the beignets like a peace offering.

Willis made a satisfied sound deep in his throat. “That’s my girl.”

She sat down beside him, setting the bag between them as he pulled one out and bit into it like it was the first real food he’d had in weeks.

“They don’t make ’em like this in the cafeteria,” he said around a mouthful. “Tastes like the Quarter. Before they ruined it.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.” He dusted sugar from his hands and nudged a photo album toward her. “Now come look. Your uncle finally mailed those pictures from their trip to Orange Beach. Took him long enough. I already had to call and pretend I was dying just to get him to send ‘em.”

Riley snorted. “You really did that?”

“Course not,” he said, flipping the album open. “I just sighed real heavy on the phone. He got the message.”

She leaned in to look. There were sun-faded snapshots of Uncle Teddy grinning in front of a shrimp boat, a picture of the two brothers standing in matching fishing shirts and holding up a stringer of redfish.

“This one,” Willis said, pointing at a blurry shot of the horizon. “That’s where we used to go crabbing with your mama when she was little. You’d have loved it out there.”

“I remember the stories,” Riley said softly, brushing her finger over the edge of the photo.

“You look good, Papa.”

“I feel good,” he said, like it wasn’t a given. “They let me tend the tomatoes out back. I talk to ‘em like Gram used to. Helps ‘em grow.”

“I talked to my jasmine this morning,” she said, voice soft. “Told it to show off.”

Papa chuckled, a low, familiar sound.

“I bet they will,” he said.

He nudged her gently with his elbow. “And how’s my baby?”

She didn’t answer right away. The sunlight had shifted, warming the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on a picture of two boys fishing—one clearly Willis, maybe ten years old, holding a catfish longer than his arm.

Riley looked up from the photo, meeting her grandfather's expectant gaze.

"I'm good," she said, then after a pause, "Really good, actually."

Willis studied her face, his eyes sharp despite his age. "That have anything to do with the quarterback coming to my crawfish boil this weekend?"

Riley felt warmth rise to her cheeks. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?" Willis raised a bushy eyebrow, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "Girl, you're practically glowing. I haven't seen you look like this since you got your first record deal."

She laughed softly. "It's different, Papa."

"Course it's different. That was business. This is—" he gestured vaguely with one sugar-dusted hand, "—something else entirely."

Riley nodded, not bothering to deny it. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Lay it on me," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling. "You need my blessing? Want me to have a man-to-man with this Burrow boy?"

"God, no," Riley said quickly. "The exact opposite, actually. I need you to promise not to..." she searched for the right word, "...overwhelm him."

"Me? Overwhelming? I'm offended, darlin'." But his smile grew wider, showing he was anything but.

"Papa, I'm serious. Joe is..." She paused, trying to articulate what made Joe different. "He's more reserved. He thinks before he speaks. Plans everything."

"Sounds boring," Willis said, but his eyes were kind.

"He's not boring," Riley insisted. "He's steady. Solid. But he's also private, and I just don't want him to feel ambushed by the full Willis Carter Experience within five minutes of meeting you."

Her grandfather raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. No baby pictures. No stories about how you used to make me take you to jazz clubs when you were ten because you wanted to see the horn players up close."

"Exactly," Riley said. "And no interrogations about his family or his plans or—"

"What's the fun in that?" Willis interrupted, but he was smiling. "Alright, I'll behave. For the first hour, at least."

"Two hours."

"Hour and a half, and I reserve the right to tell the story about your first attempt at crawfish étouffée. That one's non-negotiable."

Riley groaned. "Papa, I was fourteen and nearly burned down the kitchen."

"And future generations deserve to know this information," he said solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. "It's historical record at this point."

She shook her head, but couldn't keep from smiling. "You're impossible."

"That's what your grandmother used to say." Willis's face softened with memory. "She'd have liked this one, I think."

"You haven't even met him yet."

"Don't need to," Willis said with the certainty of a man who trusted his instincts implicitly. "I can see it in your face. The way you light up when you talk about him. That tells me everything I need to know."

Riley felt something catch in her chest—that particular ache that always came when her grandfather showed just how deeply he saw her.

"He makes me happy, Papa," she said simply.

Willis nodded. "Good. That's what matters." He reached over and patted her hand. "The rest is just details."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sunlight warming the table between them, the sounds of the garden a gentle backdrop to their conversation.

"So," Willis said finally. "Tell me something about him that I won't read in those sports magazines. Something real."

Riley thought for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the photo album. "He listens," she said. "Not the way most people do, where they're just waiting for their turn to talk. He actually hears what I'm saying."

Willis nodded approvingly. "That's rare."

"And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him. He sees me, not Riley Carter the singer."

"Smart man."

"He stayed on the phone with me last night," she continued, her voice softening. "I fell asleep, and he just... stayed. Kept talking so I wouldn't feel alone."

Willis's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now that," he said, "is something worth holding onto."

Riley looked down at her hands, suddenly self-conscious about how much she was revealing. But this was Papa—the man who'd taught her to fish and make roux and stand up for herself. If she couldn't be honest with him, who could she be honest with?

"I think I'm falling in love with him," she said quietly.

The words hung in the air between them, more real now that she'd said them to Papa than when she'd confessed them to Egan or Laura.

Willis didn't look surprised. He just nodded slowly, his weathered face creasing into a gentle smile. "About time," he said.

"That's it? 'About time'?"

"What'd you expect me to say?" he asked, spreading his hands. "That it's too soon? That you should slow down? Baby, you've never slowed down a day in your life. Always jumping first, asking questions later."

"Not always," Riley protested weakly.

"Always," he countered with absolute certainty. "You get that from me. Your grandma used to say we were both born without brakes. The number of times I had to fish you out of trouble because you decided to follow your heart without a second thought..." He shook his head, though his eyes were fond.

Riley laughed despite herself. "You saying Joe's my brake system?"

"I'm saying everybody needs someone who balances them out," he said, suddenly serious. "Sounds like maybe you found yours. Someone steady to match your wildfire."

The words settled over her like a blessing. Riley reached across the table and squeezed her grandfather's hand. "Thanks, Papa."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, mischief returning to his expression. "I still reserve the right to tell that étouffée story if he asks where you learned to cook."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me, darlin'."

Riley shook her head, smiling despite herself. "One condition. You have to show him the photo of you with James Booker first. The one where you're wearing that ridiculous hat."

"That hat was the height of fashion in 1972!"

"It looks like something died on your head, Papa."

Willis laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the garden pavilion. "Deal. My embarrassment for yours. That's fair."

He closed the photo album and set it aside, then reached for another beignet. "Now, tell me about this album you're working on. I hear things. People say it's your best yet."

Riley settled in, her heart lighter than it had been in days. This was home—her grandfather's laughter, the sweet scent of beignets, sunlight filtering through the lattice above them. And soon, Joe would be here too.

For the first time, the thought didn't scare her at all.

* * *

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

“There she is,” Egan said, lifting her glass like a toast as Riley slid into the open seat. “Miss You’ve-Got-A-Glow.”

“I swear to God,” Riley said, reaching for a menu, “if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I’m going to light something on fire just to stay consistent.”

“Oh, she’s feisty,” Tomas said. “Definitely saw Papa this morning.”

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

Riley smirked. “I fed him beignets and he gave me emotional clarity. It’s a powerful combo.”

“And how is our dear Willis?” Jen asked. “Still charming? Still plotting your social downfall via embarrassing childhood stories?”

“Absolutely,” Riley said. “He’s pacing himself for Saturday. Said he’s saving the étouffée disaster story for just the right moment.”

“That man is a menace,” Jeremy said fondly. “I love him.”

There was a lull as a server stopped by to take Riley’s drink order. Once they were alone again, Tomas leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Alright then, big weekend. You ready?”

“I think so,” Riley said, then added, “He’s coming to the boil.”

Jen blinked. “The boil?”

Egan leaned back, a big smile on her face. “I told her last night that's not a casual introduction.”

“You sure he knows what he’s walking into?” Jeremy asked. “Because I remember our first boil with your family, and I’m still recovering.”

“He doesn’t know,” Riley said. “Not really. But he wants to.”

“And this’ll be the first time he’s meeting any of them?” Tomas asked, sounding it out like he needed to hear it twice.

Riley nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know,” she said more quietly. “I didn’t plan for it to happen like this, but… it feels right.”

“You want us hovering nearby?” Egan teased. “Incognito support group? Code names? Backup plan if Cousin Laney tries to convert him to her homemade moonshine religion?”

Riley laughed. “No, I think I want it to just be family. As in, y’all stay far away.”

“Rude,” Jen said, lifting her glass.

“But fair,” Jeremy added.

“You’ll tell us everything after,” Tomas said.

“Of course,” Riley said, smiling. “If he survives.”

Tomas sat back in his chair, arms folded. “You know he’s gonna be fine, right?”

Riley arched an eyebrow. “Fine how?”

“Fine as in your family already thinks he walks on water. He could show up late, mispronounce étouffée, and still get a standing ovation just for being the boy from LSU.”

“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “The man’s basically a folk hero. Your aunties are gonna be feral.”

“They are not,” Riley said, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Oh no, they will be,” Egan said. “You know how many women in your family sat in that living room in purple and gold, screaming at the TV like it was church?”

“I hate this,” Riley muttered, hiding behind her tea.

“You love it,” Jen said. “You just hate that we’re right.”

“Okay, sure. The football thing helps,” Riley admitted. “But he’s quiet. Not shy, just… intentional. And y’all know my family. It’s a lot.”

“You’re a lot,” Jeremy said with a wink.

“Exactly. So imagine that but forty more of me, and half of them are drunk.”

“Oh, he’s toast,” Tomas said.

“I’m serious,” Riley said. “I just want him to feel like he can be himself. Not some version of what they expect.”

Egan tilted her head. “So let him.”

Riley looked at her.

“Let him be himself,” Egan said again. “Not football-Joe, not your-boyfriend-Joe. Just… Joe. If he’s who you say he is, he’ll handle it.”

“He will,” Riley said quietly, almost to herself.

Jen reached over and squeezed her wrist. “And if not, we’ll stage a rescue and blame it on a football emergency.”

“No rescues,” Riley said, grinning now. “He wants to be there.”

“Then he’ll be fine,” Tomas said. “Honestly, I’m more worried about you. You’ve never let someone this far in before.”

Riley’s smile dimmed, just slightly.

“Not like this,” she said. “But it feels… different. Like it’s not about proving anything. I just want him there.”

“Then that’s the whole thing,” Jeremy said. “That’s the sign.”They sat with that for a moment, sunlight sliding across the table as a server dropped off the check.

“You telling Papa how serious this is?” Jen asked as they stood.

Riley nodded. “He already knows. He said Gram would’ve liked him.”

Egan smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Then I guess that’s that.”

* * *

Joe checked his watch. He had about forty minutes before he needed to be at the facility for a meeting with Coach Taylor. Just enough time to pick up his grandfather's watch from Ashford's downtown.

The repair had taken longer than expected—something about a custom part that needed to be ordered—but the timing worked out perfectly. He'd have it back before heading to New Orleans on Friday.

The afternoon was bright but not too warm, Cincinnati showing off its best spring weather. Joe kept his head down anyway, ball cap pulled low, sunglasses on. Not that he minded being recognized, but sometimes a ten-minute errand could turn into an hour of selfies and small talk. Today, he just didn't have the time.

The bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door to Ashford Jewelers. The shop was small but elegant—dark wood cabinets, discreet lighting, the subtle smell of leather and polish. It had been in the same family for generations, the kind of place that still kept handwritten records in leather-bound books.

"Mr. Burrow," the older man behind the counter greeted him with a subtle nod. No fuss, no fanfare. Just the quiet acknowledgment that came from mutual respect. It was one of the reasons Joe kept coming back here. That, and the fact that they'd never once leaked a word about his purchases.

"Mr. Ashford. Just here to pick up my grandfather's piece."

"Of course. I have it ready for you." He disappeared into the back room.

Joe waited, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the display cases out of habit more than interest. Watches, cufflinks, tie clips—all carefully arranged under glass. Then his gaze shifted to the women's section.

A bracelet caught his eye.

Not the flashy diamonds or statement pieces that dominated most of the case. This was tucked in a corner, distinct from the others—a slender gold band, textured to resemble snakeskin, with a delicate clasp that reminded him of a serpent's head.

It wasn't something he would have normally noticed. But it reminded him immediately of Riley—elegant but with an edge, the golden scales catching light in a way that seemed alive. He could picture it on her wrist as she played guitar, the gold warm against her skin.

"That's a unique piece," Mr. Ashford said, returning with a small leather box. He'd caught Joe staring. "Python design. Eighteen karat gold. We just received it last week."

Joe nodded. "Can I see it?"

If Mr. Ashford was surprised, he didn't show it. He set the watch box on the counter and unlocked the display case, carefully removing the bracelet.

Joe found himself studying it longer than he intended. The craftsmanship was exceptional—each scale meticulously detailed, the whole piece flowing like water when it moved.

"It's from a French designer," Mr. Ashford explained. "Very limited edition. The texture is quite remarkable."

Joe held it in his palm, feeling its weight. It wasn't heavy, but it had substance. The scales caught the light from every angle, creating a subtle shimmer that reminded him of the way stage lights played across Riley's skin when she performed.

He hadn't planned on buying Riley anything. They hadn't discussed gifts, and he was careful not to push the relationship faster than either of them was ready for. But something about this piece felt right—like it had been waiting here for him to find.

It wasn't showy or presumptuous. It wouldn't overwhelm her or make her feel obligated. It was just... her.

"How much?" he asked.

Mr. Ashford quoted a price that would have made most people flinch. Joe just nodded.

"I'll get this too," he said, handing the bracelet back.

He didn’t know if she’d wear it every day. But he knew, without question, she’d understand exactly what it meant.

Mr. Ashford nodded, carefully returning the piece to its velvet cushion while he processed the purchase. He boxed both items with practiced precision—the watch in its leather case, the bracelet in a slim black velvet box.

“You picked well,” Mr. Ashford said, setting the watch and the bracelet in front of him.

Joe nodded, tucking both boxes into his jacket pocket.

As he pushed back through the door into the Cincinnati sunshine, Joe felt a lightness in his chest. The impulsive purchase wasn't like him—he approached most decisions methodically, weighing options, considering consequences. But with Riley, sometimes instinct just took over.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A calendar reminder for his meeting. Joe quickened his pace slightly, but his thoughts remained with the bracelet—with the way the gold scales would catch the light as she moved.

As he slipped the boxes into his jacket pocket, his phone buzzed with a text from Riley:

Riley: You at your meeting yet?

Joe glanced at the time, thumb already moving.

Joe: Almost. Walking over now.

Riley: Just checking. Not trying to interrupt your grind or whatever.

Joe: You’re not. Can I call you after?

Riley: Yeah. I’ll be home.

He tucked the phone back in his pocket. The velvet box was warm now from being close to him, nestled beside the watch he came to pick up.

He’d call her after.

* * *

Riley moved through her house with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, pulling fresh sheets onto the bed with quick, practiced movements.

"Tell me again what time you land?" she asked, tucking a corner under the mattress.

"Noon," Joe replied. She could hear the soft rustle of clothing on his end. "You sure you don't mind picking me up?"

"Of course not," she said, smoothing the sheets with her palm. "Though I won't be holding any embarrassing sign with your name on it."

Joe chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Appreciate the restraint."

"The house is excited you're coming back," Riley said, glancing around. "The jasmine's practically taken over the entire front porch for spring. I can't wait for you to see it."

"Last time I was there, I remember how everything smelled," Joe said. "Different from anywhere else I've been. Like something alive."

"It's a full-on ambush," she replied, smiling at the memory of showing him her home for the first time. "Though I'm pretty sure you can handle a little overgrown garden."

"Besides comfy clothes," he said. She heard a zipper close on his end. "Anything else I should pack?"

"Nah, just stuff to be comfortable in."

Riley paused, surveying the room. "I'm trying to decide if I should clean more or if that'll just make you uncomfortable. Like you'll know I cleaned for you."

"I already know you're cleaning for me," he said. "I can hear you moving around."

Riley stopped mid-motion, a second pillow suspended in her hands. "That obvious, huh?"

"It's not a bad thing," Joe said. "I like that you care enough to do it."

She set the pillow down and moved to the window, drawing back the curtains to let in the evening light. "My approach is very strategic. Clean enough that you're impressed, but messy enough that you know I'm still me."

"Sounds perfect." A brief pause. "Should I bring anything for your family?"

Riley leaned against the windowsill, watching the shadows lengthen across her garden. "Just you," she said, softer now. "Just show up. The rest will figure itself out."

"That's it?" There was something careful in his voice.

"That's it," she confirmed. "Papa's not big on gifts. He just wants to size you up in person."

She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and drawing her knees up. "You nervous?"

The question hung between them—simple, direct.

"About meeting your family? A little," he admitted after a moment. "Not in a bad way."

"Papa's already planning his best stories," she warned. "I've negotiated him down to only moderate embarrassment."

"Looking forward to it," Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I like learning pieces of you I don't know yet."

Riley's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice light, "just remember that when he starts showing childhood photos."

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

"You know," Joe said, his voice dropping lower, "I was thinking about that first night in New Orleans. At the hotel."

Riley settled back against her headboard. "What about it?"

"I didn't want it to end," he said simply. "Had this moment where I was sitting there, watching you talk about the city, thinking about asking you to stay. But I got stuck in my head about it."

"You never said anything."

"Didn't have to," he said. "You very awkwardly asked me to come home with you instead."

Riley laughed, surprised. "I wasn't awkward!"

"You were," Joe said, amusement threading through his voice. "Started talking fast, wouldn't look at me. Then just blurted it out."

"God," she groaned, covering her face even though he couldn't see her. "It was that bad?"

"It was perfect," he said quietly. "Made it real."

The confession lingered between them, somehow both casual and significant in the way only Joe could manage.

"Sixteen hours," she said after a moment.

"Yeah, not long now," he replied.

Neither of them spoke for a few beats. Just the low hum of the line, the subtle nearness of the other’s breath.

“Alright,” Riley said quietly, shifting onto her side. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“I���m trying.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, then, “See you soon.”

She smiled, small and real. “Yeah. Night, Joe.”

“Night.”

She waited until the line went quiet before setting her phone down beside her. The screen went dark, but the stillness didn’t feel empty. Just full of everything that was coming.

* * *

Riley woke early, even before the sunlight had finished climbing the shutters. The house was quiet in that specific, charged way it got before something changed—still, but waiting.

She moved slowly. Poured coffee, barefoot on the cool tile. Let the jasmine-sweet air drift through the kitchen windows. Her phone sat on the counter, untouched, but she felt it the way you feel another person in a room.

Sixteen hours had become eight. Then six.

By the time she’d showered and thrown her hair up, the house felt different—like it already knew who was coming.

She set fresh towels in the bathroom. Tucked an extra charger into the outlet beside her bed. These were not dramatic gestures. Just small, quiet ways of saying this space is yours too.

Her phone buzzed as she was buttoning up a shirt.

Joe: Boarding now.

Riley smiled. Tapped out a quick reply.

Riley: I’ll be there when you land.

She tucked the phone into her back pocket, the smile lingering longer than she meant it to.

Then she went to find her shoes — and something to do, anything to fill the hours until it was time to pick him up.

[luthienne]

also wanted to tell you that your post about chronic illness resonated deeply with me, as someone who tried (and gave up) navigating the performing arts as a chronically ill teenager and 20-something. i want to tell you that i see your struggle and admire your tenacity to find a way to keep singing despite the breakneck pace and little room for illness of the performing arts. it’s so hard. it’s so hard and it feels like hardly nobody in the arts wants to own up to that. thank you for talking about it.

i also want to echo the other people who sent you asks in saying that disabled and chronically ill care and innovation has world-changing and world-making potential, especially in the arts. and when it is given the recognition it deserves, it’s beautiful. disabled performing arts collectives like sins invalid are both home to incredible art, but also behind so many radical ways of theorizing disability and illness. leah lakshmi piepzna-samarasinha writes about this and i’ve found her writing to be a balm when i need it. on an even more personal note, i wanted to tell you about my mother, a disabled & chronically ill stage manager who has been working in the industry for 40+ years. she’s my proof that sick and disabled folks like us do belong and thrive in the industry. and that careers don’t always end when we ask for what we want and need.

lots of love to you.

thank you for sharing this with me <333 i really do think we survive this world by witness of each other, and it means so so much to hear stories of resilience and advocacy like these. i've talked a lot about this with my best friend recently but i find it continually disappointing how much classical music as an industry intentionally sets itself as “above” activism and politics. for so many of us, our bodies (and existence) are inherently political. beyond that, we all exist in the same world. our struggles are intertwined. there is no art without humanity. it can feel so defeating to try to carve out space in a system that is structured to exclude us—your mother sounds like an incredible person and i know that this industry is so much the better for having her in it. you also sound like such a beautiful person and i’m so glad that our paths crossed here <3 so much love back to you <3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

TW fandom loves to speculate and theorize about mer and beastmen anatomy like how much they borrow from their animal ancestors. How about Miss Raven? What raven traits does she still have?

[Might be referencing this post?]

wiulwoyefapa THIS IS A TOPIC I THINK ABOUT A LOT, ACTUALLY. I think it's really fun to theorize what animalistic traits our non-human characters might have :DD

Here's just some of the raven stuff that stuck around with our Miss Raven:

(Please note: I do talk about bird and human anatomy in this post! Nothing explicit, but figured I'd warn in case this is an uncomfortable area.)

I think Miss Raven's general personality matches that of a raven; they're intelligent yet playful. She's less communicative and sociable than a raven, but I think she makes up for that in her writing.

Birds cannot taste capsaicin, which is the irritant that often registers as "spiciness" to humans. (It's an evolutionary adaptation that helps birds spread the seeds of chili peppers they eat.) Miss Raven has a high spice tolerance because of this, unlike her uncle (who is sensitive to spice).

Likes shiny things; her eye is easily caught by them regardless of value, size, color, etc. (That's her bird brain talking www) She can't wear much jewelry because she might get distracted by it. Instead she keeps jewelry in a little box and stares at it for fun, amusing herself with the sparkle.

This has been mentioned a few times, but Raven sleeps in a manner that's strange for a human. Instead of lying down, she'll form a "nest" of blankets and pillows and sleeps curled up in it.

Miss Raven is a little clumsy on her feet because the weight in her human body is distributed slightly differently than in her bird body.

She equates clothes to a bird's feathers, and being naked like having all your feathers plucked. (Man, have you SEEN a bird without its feathers? Most pathetic looking dry ass babies ever, I tell you.) Miss Raven tends to cover up her skin because, in her mind, she doesn't want to be seen as a crusty ol' naked bird.

Tends to wear skirts instead of pants because pants feel restrictive to her. She's used to having her legs out and feeling the breeze down there.

Miss Raven mostly wears black because she feels like she's kind of obligated to, as that is the original color of her feathers. More recently though, she has come to terms with the freedom her human form grants her and has been more experimental with her fashion.

Likes cuddling and when people play with her hair. This is because actual ravens cuddle with their entire bodies and preen their partners.

Ravens can eat almost anything, even garbage and carrion. Miss Raven has a strong stomach and an adventurous palate because of this.

She's smaller than the average raven, but she has the same protective instincts of one. If she's upset or trying to come off as intimidating, she'll puff up (her feathers stand up) and get verbally snippy (an actual raven would try to nip you).

Doesn't like people touching her things or being in her space. This is because ravens can be territorial!

Bird mouths are actually dry because their salivary glands are in the back of their mouths. This wouldn't work for a human and the kinds of food they eat, so when Raven first gained a humanoid form, it was weird for her to have a wet mouth and teeth 😂 Words felt so strange to speak too.

Initially nervous around predator animal beastmen and actual predator animals, particularly cats. This includes Lucius, Grim, Chenya, the Octatrio, the Savanaclaw trio, Fellow, Gidel, etc. It's Miss Raven's natural instincts letting her know she has to prioritize her own safety! She usually gets over it once she gets to know the other person a little better.

Distrustful of scarecrows since they're the things put out in fields to keep crows and ravens from eating their crops. Also has weird distrust of farmers because of this.

In terms of mating, ravens are monogamous and devoted to their partners, never straying too far from each other. They often go for romantic flights together and even give each other special treats. Miss Raven has that idea of an idealized romance in her head.

When content, ravens make a soft warbling noise (similar to how a cat might purr). Miss Raven does too, but she does her best to actively repress this sound, since she feels it is embarrassing.

Mid-February to late May is an odd time of year for her, as that's mating season for ravens. That's when she's at her most sentimental/emotionally squishy... She doesn't like being in public because it's so easy to make her cry (and those terrible NRC students would definitely do that) 😔

In early summer/late fall, ravens tend to molt and replace their feathers. Now that she has a humanoid form, Raven doesn't have to worry too much about that but sometimes still scratches excessively at phantom itches that come with molting.

Really impressed by skilled flying! This is because male ravens fly to impress females and to find mates. Raven always stares in wonder during Flight class. (Unfortunately, she's not that good at flying in her new form...)

While Raven's bite isn't as strong as Sebek's, she does bite. Birds typically have three kinds of biting: biting to open nuts and berries, biting to defend themselves (which can draw blood), and love bites (which mostly occur in domesticated birds). asbiliafeafia I like to think she gives little affectionate noms...

Insecure about the size of her "breast muscle" (not realizing that humans mostly have fat there). This is because the size of a bird's breast muscle is directly related to their flying ability... and flying's pretty important for her kind. Genuinely believes that the most skilled fliers at NRC must have a certain kind of physique to be as skilled as they are. (Envious of those buff boys/j)

Being a raven, she experiences culture shock when put against the habits and behaviors of others with animal ancestry. For example, aggressive behaviors that are affectionate to a dog or a cat are seen as intimidating threats to her.

Has cute domestic fantasies! That’s because a lot of birds will build nests together and share the responsibilities of parenting. She thinks it would be nice to build a life together with someone like that.

It's not weird for her to eat eggs! Wild ravens do it :>

Doesn’t like being touched being touched on the back or the arms. Touching anything besides the feet and the face + neck is an intimate area for birds.

Due to the symbolic nature of wolves and ravens in the wild, Raven feels drawn to Jack but is still too intimidated by his looks to speak to him as an equal. (Jack wonders why she’s so odd.)

THERE'S A REALLY SPECIFIC BIRD BRAND OF FLIRTING THAT SOUNDS WEIRD TO HUMANS. Birds in nature are protective of their eggs and typically only entrust their partner to look after them while they do something else, like hunt for food. Because of this, Raven is really flustered by someone asking for eggs in any context. For example, maybe they're eating eggs in the cafeteria and a peer asks her to "pass the eggs".

[atricksterproblem]

Relationship Headcanons for Mizu

[x]

A note on gender and sexuality: I use she/her pronouns for Mizu but I think her actual gender is "it's complicated". The show's creators have intentionally left her gender open to interpretation, which I think was wise. Any headcanons you want to have about this are valid. For myself, I think that it would in any case be difficult to impose any categories that we normally would given that she's living in a very different place and time, and from what I've read Edo period Japan had a unique approach to gender. That said, we have much less information about what AFAB people were getting up to than AMAB, so there's room for theorizing.

It's also worth noting that their approach to sexuality seems to have been, as in many other places in pre-modern times, to consider things in terms of acts people may or may not choose to engage in rather than in terms of overall personal identity. So all gender questions aside, I think as of the end of Season 1 we have incomplete information about what Mizu may or may not be partial to, so again pretty much anything you want to imagine for her is valid. Which is the long way of saying that the reader here can be any gender.

A relationship with Mizu is not going to happen quickly or easily, and if it happens at all, it's unlikely to be casual. She's had her trust broken again and again, she has secrets to keep, and she's laser-focused on her goals. You'd have to be a well-proven friend before she'd even consider anything more.

2. If you did manage to get that close to her, she'd defend you with her life. She knows exactly how dangerous the path she's on can be, and she values the few people she cares about above all else.

3. Getting her to open up would be a project. As a rule she talks very little. Once you're together she remains taciturn in public but would be freer with you during alone time.

4. Be prepared to make sure she's getting enough sleep and taking care of whatever injuries she's healing from. She tends to just power through pain, which works beautifully right up until it doesn't. She's also a light sleeper, something she's had to train herself to be for safety while traveling alone. Having you there to reassure her that all is well will help her get back to sleep more easily.

5. She'll have trouble believing you really find her attractive until you're an established couple, and even then she'll have many moments of doubt. She's used to being considered monstrous by everyone and it will not be easy for her to see herself through your eyes.

6. Patience is one of the greatest gifts you can give to her. She knows she can be a prickly, difficult person after everything she's been through. Knowing that she can count on having you in her corner no matter what is everything to her.

7. Your reward for that patience is that you see a side of her that nobody else ever does, and she looks at you in a way she never looks at anyone else. Her eyes soften. For you, she smiles more. You've heard her laugh -- really laugh, not the sardonic chuckle most people have experienced. When she's alone with you, she feels like more than a weapon, more than a vow. Sometimes, when you're in each others' arms, she can imagine a life after revenge. Someday, she'll complete her task. She doesn't know what she'll do after that happens, but whatever it is, she wants you there for it, always.

[adventuringblind]

is oscar the only driver you do autistic!reader for? if not can I request lando x daniel x autistic!reader.

any situation is fine I don't mind 😊

My love, my life, and nerodivergent partners in crime

Daniel Riccairdo x reader x Lando Norris

Genre: angsty fluff (I think)

Summarry: How Daniel managed to keep two nerdiverdent young adults in line... nobody will ever know

Warnings: Lando is ADHD coded, and you can't change my mind (and he's dyslexic anyway), AGE GAP, Max loves to tease

Notes: I am officially only taking requests for poly reader inserts at this time. Also, do Lando and Daniel have a ship name?!?! I need this information for my masterlist, please, and thanks.

Masterlist

Everyone always wondered why Daniel Ricciardo trailed behind Lando Norris and his girlfriend by three steps. People have theorized its because he's thirdwheeling. Some say the pair doesn't pay attention to him.

The real reason, though? It's his way of showing he cares in the paddock.

Max teases him about it all the time and is the only one who gets away with it. The two younger are, however, a chaotic mess. They can not make it from one place to another without something happening. So Daniel trails behind them a few steps to make sure they make it to their destination.

It's certainly wasn't an ideal way to get together. Especially because Daniel is older than both by more than is socially acceptable by most.

Ironically, none of them were together when Daniel started at McLaren. An Australian who smiles a lot, a Brit who is loose lipped, and a shy little psychologist who hates talking until you get her on driver brains and how they work. What could possibly go wrong?

She started work at McLaren the year before Daniel. Something in the strategy department. She watches and listens and somehow can predict what the drivers are going to do, what they need to perform, and how their opponents might respond. Lando says it's a superpower. Daniel says she's autistic and watches how people behave for a living (she agrees with him).

The three of them got along better than anyone wants to admit. The world saw then as awkward and dysfunctional. Which wasn't a lie, but it's also just their combinations of personalities.

Daniel picked up on it first. The stolen glances and blushed cheeks. Then, drunk confessions happen. Neither of the younger two like drinking. Which is ridiculous, in Daniel's opinion. Or maybe it was ridiculous because he's the one who drunkenly confesses to the pair while they attempt to get him back to his room.

Supposedly, Max was there and heard everything. Daniel denies this relentlessly.

Lando picked up on the confession, confronted him about it, and then awkwardly kissed him on his tip toes (he was shorter then).

The biggest hurdle was the female. The one who studies people. The one who can predict what Daniel is going to have for lunch on Friday at two because he likes to eat later.

She's clueless.

Lando tries to tell her. Daniel attempts sober. She doesn't get it.

The two have to put it in the form of a business meeting and tell her until she gets it. That seems to work as they end up going on a date post confession.

If he's being honest, half the time love them is really just making sure they are getting along with the world. Not people, the environments they end up in (which often includes the people).

So Daniel walks three steps behind them. The people tease on socials. They edit him in tiktoks. But he could care less.

He loves his two nerodivergent partners. He loves their little quirks and they way they see the world. So Daniel determines he's okay being behind them. Because he loves them and wants nothing more than to watch out for his partners in crime.

[fandomsmadness]

Finally back on schedule with

TBHX episode 6 rant

The universe must be a sadistic entity that enjoys making me eat my words because hahahaha did I say we moved on from shock value cliffhangers because HAHAHAHA-

WHAT WAS THAT??

Shang really spent two entire episodes being the biggest red herring of a lifetime. That explains why the name was so unfamiliar. Who is his father with so much money, influence, and an interest in heroes tho? Also he got Xia Qing extra concert tickets one day to go with someone else, then another day asked her out?

Either this is very poor writing from the team who used him just to further the plot whichever way they wanted, or we're still lacking a lot more context which we now have no way of getting? Either way this is infuriating. I will resign myself to never being satisfied.

Something I really like about the Yang Cheng arc is how it's very subtly different from Lin Ling's. Everyone thought Lin Ling was Nice. In contrast, everyone knows E-Soul (OG) is not Yang Cheng, but he's an E-Soul all the same. OG E-Soul should've patented his costume or something.

But the trust value fluctuation is interesting. Are people believing in both at once? Are they forgoing the old one for the new? Why is it that both cannot have good trust value? Why is OG E-Soul losing his when Yang Cheng gains his own?

I have to give props to the animation team and VA here; for someone who barely speaks and keeps his face hidden, this ep did such a great job showing how tired and world-weary OG E-Soul is. He's past his heyday, clearly, and is relegated to being a cash cow through his once stellar reputation, until someone younger and stronger threatened that precarious balance.

And OG E-Soul comes from a time when the internet presumably wasn't booming, when a hero had to claw their way up (quite literally, did you see the guy) to fame and hold on with sheer grit, unlike now, when one video can make you go viral. E-Soul is helpless as his fans desert him for Yang Cheng and that's heartbreaking. 34 years gone, just like that. What happens to him now?

In happy news (for me lol) I theorized last episode that trust value or lack thereof was a method of discrimination in this world, and this episode confirmed it. Yang Cheng led a difficult life, and I cannot imagine the sheer joy he must feel now to have so many people believe in him. However, he dons another's name and is all too susceptible to losing himself. I fear there's no good ending for both him and OG E-Soul. It is, unfortunately, a neither can live while the other survives situation.

We're finally to the less palatable sides of the worldbuilding, and I am eating this up.

Other things of note during this ep:

- Jeopardy isn't a Lin Ling track! It's for...the young/new/imposter heroes? Temp theme song? Placeholder?

- Props to my boy Yang Cheng for asking the pertinent questions! Unfortunately we don't have an answer

- Enlighter being here was so out of pocket I screamed lmao. Look at him, working with the association and agencies and defending heroes! Bro really just said your honour my client is too broke and stupid to do anything you're implying he did lmao. How did he go from this to a sad bitter rank 249er?

- Xia Qing was a surprisingly mature person to be around, I appreciated her emphasis on being true to character so much. This is going to be important I can tell she's totally going to die isn't she

Maybe this episode didn't leave me with as many questions as the previous ones, but it does leave me with a lot of emotions and things to think about.

Can't believe this arc comes to an end next week. How on earth are they going to manage that??

[ghostdiva]

TADC Ep 4 Trailer Dropped

I've taken many screenshots, and it's time to theorize about how I think the episode will go.

if I'm right, then there will be spoilers ahead, so read at your own volition.

now, I think that for this adventure, Caine utilized the Suggestion Box, after getting the feedback from Zooble that no one really liked his adventures.

However Caine, ever desperate to keep his guests happy and entertained, takes multiple suggestions at once, and turns them into the retail hell the circus crew is about to experience.

before that tho, I think Gangle gets some advice from Ragatha

This advice might backfire considering what happens later.

Gangle is also given a new mask by Zooble, who brings her to their room to give it to her.

Gangle Checks out the new mask, figuring out how it functions in comparison to her comedy mask. my personal guess is that it makes her more confident and assertive, which might boost her moral, but change her attitude in a possibly negative way.

also a small side note that's completely unrelated: there's not a single shot in the trailer that shows Kinger in this adventure. So it's possible he either sits this one out, or just straight up doesn't get much screen time. We got a small clip of Kinger in the circus, but that was it.

Anyway, as Gangle is trying out her new mask, her and Zooble's absence prompt Pomni, Jax, and Ragatha to go see what's up.

Jax and Ragatha will likely question Gangle about the new mask. Pomni might voice her curiosities on how it works too (it's only Pomni's 3rd day in the digital world, so there's a lot she still might not know yet).

Nonetheless, after checking in with Gangle and Zooble, they all head back to the main area, where Caine sends them to work at Spudsy's.

Orbsman is probably the "quest giver". though this time it's not really a quest, it's more like minimum wage food service hell. despite that fact, he still assigns the employee roles to everyone, making Gangle the manager.

Gangle, I think, would be sheepish about this role at first, however the assertiveness and confidence from the new mask helps push her to step up to the plate. So Gangle starts assigning different tasks to everyone. Ragatha, Jax, and Zooble seem to take on tasks like prepping and making food for the orders, like frying the burger patties, assembling the burgers, etc. and Pomni, who can't cook to save herself, ends up running one of the tills at the counter.

and Jax runs the drive-thru for a bit.

eventually, customers start to come in, most of them being wooden artist dolls. However, Caine did reuse some NPC's for this one, which is unfortunate for those who remember them.

idk how to make gif's here, but aside from the gloinks pulling up to the drive-thru, I think Pomni will end up taking Gumigoo's order. Pomni is understandably surprised to see the NPC she bonded with in the second episode, as she literally startles so hard she falls over.

Incidentally, Gumigoo probably doesn't remember Pomni at all, and Pomni might struggle to hold herself together when she realizes it.

Like, look at her. she looks like she's emotionally breaking, but forcing a smile because well, customer service. She also could just be happy to see him alive. I think she might try to sneak off to see if Gumigoo remembers her at all.

idk what else this image could be, outside of like, picking trash up from the ground or something.

Jax also seems to genuinely hate the Fast Food Adventure, in fairness, very few poeple enjoy the fast food industry.

he also takes a moment to cause some mischief

Anyway, onto the main plot. this episode is about Gangle. and with the pressure of being a manager, Gangle might start to boss people around a bit.

there are a lot of shots of characters looking like they need a break, especially Ragatha.

I think it's possible that Ragatha gets tired and worn down from milling about and completing orders. and despite Gangle trying to hype her up, Ragatha just can't summon the energy to keep going. Poor Ragatha is clearly exhausted, and needs a break to like, put her head down for a bit and relax.

Gangle continues to be somewhat bossy, her behavior worsening as time goes on. we see this as Gangle get progressively more unsettling, almost acting crazed whenever someone complains or voices a problem they're having.

Gangle probably starts off trying to hype up the others to get them to do what she needs them to do.

However, none of them really see Gangle as a source of authority, and thus don't take her seriously until she starts to lose her composure.

in this clip, she seems to say the word "now". and look at her. she's clearly struggling with the stress of wrangling everyone, and getting them to do what has to get done for things to flow properly.

However, (except for maybe Pomni) everyone on this adventure hasn't worked in the food industry, or any job for that matter, in years. they've gone on wild adventures every day instead, which is wildly different. on adventures, everyone is kinda left to their devices, to do what they want within the general confines of the adventure. Following orders, and doing monotonous, intensive tasks, both physically, and mentally, is not something they're used to doing. at all.

Thus Gangle struggles to get everyone to do what she needs to, and snaps from the stress.

I think after she snaps, the mask breaks, leaving Gangle with her tragedy mask. so she goes outside to get some fresh air, startling Pomni.

I think Pomni and Gangle chat for a bit, since that seems to be a theme. Maybe Gangle will just be expressing remorse for treating everyone poorly while wearing the mask. she might feel guilty for pushing them all as hard as she did.

and Gangle carries that guilt with her after the adventure ends too.

it seems Zooble has words to share with her tho, so it looks like she gets to have 2 heart to hearts, maybe.

[raynavan]

Depot Agents : Uhhh, Sir, whatcha got there?

Emmet, emerging from the tunnel with the infamous giant Gliscor clinging to his back, and the other smaller one following him at his side : A smoothie.

So the idea of Ingo working at the station is just, so funny to me. Ignoring the legalities of pokemon labor, I like to think that both bosses start multiple different types of conspiracy theories.

Like, the Agents see their Boss become incredibly attached to the giant Gliscor. That is not the weird part, Emmet naturally loves his pokemon. The weird part is the Gliscor's unnatural characteristics : impossibly frowny face, silver eyes, huge size, an equal amount of trust in Emmet, and, apparently, *smart enough to do administrative work*

The older Depot Agents are theorizing that, somehow, the Gliscor *is* Ingo. The newer ones think that Emmet projected so hard onto the Gliscor, he trained it to act just like his bro and also somehow taught it to read paperwork.

And what about commuters? Like I get that Ingo would probably only be in the office, but some people would see him walking around. That could be problematic, cause just about everyone uses the subway. Like shady folks who could see an incredibly rare and powerful looking pokemon. Or history buffs who see an *Alpha pokemon *in Unova of all places**

Also side note, you said that Alpha status is a mix of genetics, environment AND a strong will to protect and fight. So then how did it become obsolete? I kinda doubt it was bred out of existence (even if its recessive, Alpha pokemon would undoubtedly be much more likely to reproduce given their everything). Was it due to human interference? As in, humans made it easier to survive in the wild (near routes at least), thus pokemon with less intense genes can survive easier? That doesn't account for the will part, I am very interested in that.

Can Ingo now understand and talk to their pokemon? That'd be a very sweet reunion. Like, everyone is sceptical, but Chandelure confirms it cause it's still the same soul regardless of his body. They'd probably have SO many things to tell him that they couldn't before due to language barriers.

Also, I wonder how Elesa, Drayden and Iris would react. I imagine that Iris' first instinct upon seeing giant bat pokemon that looks well trained and a bit like a wet cat would be to immediately charge right at him to wrestle. Drayden understands that urge, but still scruffs Iris to hold her back cause Ingo clearly looks like he doesn't want to (at the moment).

And more interesting if Skyla (through Elesa) and Clay get involved. Cause they WORK with pokemon of Ingo's types, so I'm sure they'd be fascinated. Skyla tries convincing Ingo to learn how to fly (with her dumb OSHA violating cannons) at her gym, mainly cause she wants to spite Emmet, the train guy, with the fact she taught the other train guy to fly.

I'll stop yapping, but I hope you know this au is genuinely one of my favs and is currently inspiring to write my own fic. Have a good whatever-your-timezone-is.

yeah pretty much fhrueojhtgboerlg

the fic in question

(Big yap under the cut)

in terms of pokemon working- we already have pokedex entries that claim some pokemon have similar, of not more advanced, intelligence than humans. so i would say, generally, if they want to, they can legally be hired for work. but uh... that is also a topic that can differ wildly between my aus and fics- in this one, specifically, while its allowed its not exactly common. im tempted to go into more detail but ill uh. save that for another time ngoerthngo

ingo does all of his work in their shared office, and he... cant... exactly write... he just keeps breaking pens over the papers. the depot agents find it funny that the boss' big gliscor is trying to copy him. emmet definitely leans into the rumor mill and other peoples thoughts / assumptions about Ingo in this case. its much easier to just not say anything and let them think what they want! i can totally see him sometimes chiming in with (true!) information to make people even more confused tho ghioruehgo

im sure the agents all think its really sweet that this big, unwieldy bat seems to have gotten so attached to emmet. of course, then that brings the question of why it seems to care so much about the first person that treated it with any sort of kindness and... well. it really is easier to just lean into unspoken and whispered assumptions.

in terms of people guessing that its ingo- while there might be a thought about it or the idea is brought up, i think that most of the senor agents would actually shut down that kind of thinking. not only is it cruel to the gliscor in question (who would face endless disappointment from others expecting more from it), but its even crueler to Emmet. that's his missing brother- they will not allow emmet to even hear a whisper of people talking about ingo like that. hes not really "over" his brother disappearance (if that's even a thing one can do, really), even if hes coping better now. they would hate to see him turn away from a pokemon that seems to bring his so much joy, just because some of its quirks mirror ingo's.

while ingo does his best to stick by emmet's side, it is rather hard for him to move around that station when its crowded. hes... a little big hugoerhgn (i know i made him "bigger" in the drawing above than previous, but that is more realistic to how large ingo actually is.) ingo would most likely leave the office during calmer hours, or huddle behind his brother on the train when hes running the battle lines. (ingo and emmet have more of a crepuscular schedule when it comes to actually being at gear station.)

people would see him, but he's Always with Emmet. and well... if anyone did try to take him...

neither are exactly pushovers.

in terms of Alpahs as a whole- i think they they do exist, but are extremely rare or difficult to encounter modern day. we actually get a line in-game that says something along the lines of huisuian pokemon being tougher / wilder than most other regions. thus, the alpha populations there were verrry high- lots of competition for resources and a genuine need to frequently fight in order to survive. i like the idea that the reason all pokemon were more aggressive was due to giratina's influence- but by the end of the game, that was resolved. so pokemon began to calm down. with less need to fight all the time, and thus less need to protect all the time, alpha populations naturally diminished. but they are still around- in fact, the trial guardians in pokemon sun/moon were basically alpha pokemon. so they are a lot less common now, but not gone completely. i suppose they might stick to places further away from routes, since they have no real interest in getting stronger with the help of humans like some other pokemon. (basically- there's less of a reason to be an alpha. there was just a very odd amount in huisi due to giratina messing around)

ingo can kinda understand pokemon now! a little! he can understand that some calls have a deeper meaning than others, but maybe not exactly what that meaning is. but he already understood his team pretty well just because he grew up with them. but no, he is, for all intents and purposes, a baby pokemon that grew up Very Fast. he will only really be able to tell things by tone and the calls he understood when he was human shaped.

i don't think iris would be up for immediately tackling the very clearly stressed as hell bat (ingo is nervous about meeting people emmet knows- emmet is Also nervous about ingo meeting people he knows) who is very big and seems incredibly intent on attempting to be the smallest pokemon in the room. i think, as experienced pokemon trainers, all the gym leaders would know to give him some room.

this does give ingo the ability and space to slowly recall things about these people. and also learn about them outside of the context of being a subway boss. i think Ingo would respect them all the more for their patience. to that end, unless ingo himself seemed interested, i don't think hes getting shot out of any cannons lol. Gliscor on the other hand...

anyway- thanks for the ask! it makes me really happy to know Im inspiring your own fic! best of luck with it!

[salty-dracon]

A Study of Hemoanima, As We Know It, Before The Hundred Line's Release Date

I mentioned before that I would be doing some kind of analysis on how exactly hemoanima works, based on all of the information we've been given so far.

Below is the sum total of what I've been able to gather and analyze over several pieces of information- namely the game's demo, the Noisy Pixel English preview video, all of the SRPG segments posted on Twitter, and the English version of the Gameplay Systems video. The Noisy Pixel preview in particular has some major spoilers for later segments of the game, so please be careful!

I hope you enjoy reading through this, and find it useful for theorizing, creating OCs, or whatever else! And keep in mind that NONE OF THIS IS CONFIRMED- this is a basically a mass of pre-release theorizing. And most of this could be disproven by the main story- there is a TON about hemoanima that they're not telling us, and I'm sure the truth will be despair-inducing!

What is Hemoanima?

Sirei says it's an extremely powerful weapon. We still don't know much about it, except that a) it's the only thing that can defeat the invaders, b) it is activated by shoving a "hematomorphic infusion blade" into your chest, and c) it has something to do with blood. The English phrase "hemoanima" has roots in the words "hemo" - blood, and "anima" - most likely soul.

It should be noted that "hemoanima" is also the word used to describe the power itself, not necessarily the weapon. Notably, in the Hiruko-narrated gameplay system video, Eito refers to his weapon by saying "My hemoanima takes the shape of a scythe".

Finally, it should be pointed out that the English story trailer had words flash across the screen at one point - "rejection symptoms", "cryptoglobin", and "world death". I would like to point out that "cryptoglobin" is probably a reference to "hemoglobin", a protein that is a part of red blood cells - specifically, it helps carry oxygen through the blood. If it's brought up in the game without context, I personally think it will be a component of hemoanima.

Specialist Skills

Using Hemoanima for the first time, according to Sirei, also unlocks each character's Specialist Skills. Based on the demo information, it seems that those skills are in some way tied to the personalities of the characters that have them.

Takumi is good at finding people, and there is evidence in the demo that he has some kind of precognitive power that helps him figure out where people are and aren't (though he refers to it as 'trusting his hunches'). His special ability gives him the ability to redo battles, as though he can see and avoid an unsuccessful future.

Hiruko seems to have a sadistic side that enjoys killing invaders. We can tie this to a Specialist Skill that makes her stronger the more invaders she kills in a turn.

This may imply further information about the characters that have them. I particularly find it curious that Shouma and Moko both have their ATK raised when they're hit according to their SRPG showcases. However, Specialist Skills aren't further explained than this, so I won't go into more detail.

Hemoanima forms, aka Class Weapons and Class Armor

As Sirei says in the demo, "A Class Weapon is a manifestation of your own inner strengths. Each one is just as unique as you are!"

This is very true. There are no limits when it comes to forms- wings, cars, mechs- they all reflect the users, no matter how fantastical or technological. Weapons can even take different "themes", with both Gaku and Kako wielding guns, but Kako's gun looking more biological than mechanical. That being said, there are some similarities and differences between the weapons that, when taken together, may reveal more about what Hemoanima is and how it works.

There are some general similarities between the various forms of hemoanima. Most characters' Class Weapons have some kind of general black, white, grey and red color scheme- if not, in the case of Kurara and Moko, there is still some red patterning.

All of them however have little pointy bits that look like razor blades, spikes, or needles. I'll continue to refer to these as "spikes". For melee weapons, they're on the handles. For ranged weapons, they're on the support handles and triggers.

I believe the purpose of the spikes is to draw hemoanima from the user's body into the weapon. This is supported by many pieces of evidence.

a) Please note where Eito's hands touch the scythe while he's in a battle stance- the spikes pierce through his fingers during the battle stance. The same can be said of other fighters- the only place Moko's hands should come in contact with her weapon when she's fighting is the handle for her flail, and yes, they're right there. This suggests that while attacking (or right before attacking), contact with the spikes is important.

b) Gaku's weapon appears to have piping filled with red liquid. An ordinary gun wouldn't have that, and there's nothing about his personality that would suggest that the liquid is a reflection of his personality. So where is it coming from? The answer is, his body- specifically, through his hand, being piped into the gun to be use as ammunition. (The spikes are there, they're just really, really hard to see. I'm trying to track down the video where they're especially clear...)

c) Ima and Shouma appear to lack these spikes. In both of their cases, they are in contact with their weapons at all times- Ima's wings appear to implant themselves into his back, and Shouma is inside his mech. It's very likely that spikes are not necessary in their cases because they are always connected to their weapons.

d) I don't remember how much we've seen of Tsubasa's car, but it's likely that if we looked inside, we could find spikes on the steering wheel, the pedals, or the seats. (If none of those exist, maybe it means something?) (I did some searching- I literally can't find a single shot of any spikes inside her car, but we don't have too many images of the inside.)

Of course, there is nuance to this. Kurara can summon towers without being physically connected to them. Can Hemoanima be transferred between weapons if they belong to the same user, or is there more nuance at work?

It is possible that hemoanima can be stored later in some cases. While Nozomi's hemoanima is supposedly underdeveloped, there is nothing on her weapon proper that indicates that she draws it from her own body during battle. It's possible that her hemoanima is a result of cartriges she has filled up beforehand.

There isn't much to say about Class Armor. Excluding Nozomi, they seem to all change into a similar uniform that has a few variations depending on the character. Some male characters have hakama or longer coats, and some female characters have longer skirts or capes. However, there are a few common elements.

Male characters wear these large-soled boots, female characters wear boots with spiked heels instead.

Every female character wears a skirt with white stockings, white gloves, and some kind of white turtleneck.

Everyone wears an armband with their number on it.

No characters keep their hats- Tsubasa, Gaku, and Shouma don't have hats in their hemoanima forms. Hair accessories like Tsubasa's scrunchie and Kako's ribbon are kept, though.

All characters (save for Nozomi) get some kind of red patterning around their eyes. It looks like it reflects their personality in some way.

The Mechanics of Ranged Weaponry

We have several examples for ranged weaponry, which can tell us some more about hemoanima.

Gaku and Kako use guns, while Darumi uses thrown knives. Gaku and Kako do not appear to use bullets- their weapons appear to fire red light, which, as stated before, we can assume to be Hemoanima. So guns fire bullets of hemoanima. Additionally, Darumi's knives don't seem to persist- they disappear after an attack, probably tied to them being seemingly summoned through portals or magic circles.

It should be noted that strictly speaking, not a single character (besides Nozomi, possibly, but she's a special case) carries ammunition into battle- their hemoanima abilities seem to automatically generate them instead. Darumi's "knife summoning portals" are an example, and so are Ima's disembodied fist attacks.

(This is just a theory based on demo information, but perhaps it would be dangerous for an Invader to get its hands on a character's hemoanima or a part of its weapon, meaning it's questionable how a hemoanima bow and arrow, set of throwing knives, or throwing spear would work if it's a weapon you'd necessarily need to retrieve to use more than once. Then again, Moko seems to discard her weapon entirely before she uses her Special and manages to respawn with it, so perhaps it's not as big of a deal as I think.)

Can Hemoanima Give You Superpowers?

It's possible, but it's complicated and fluid as to when this applies and when this doesn't. While Hemoanima makes you strong enough to fight against Invaders (when a normal person would not be able to) and probably gives you the ability to fight in the first place (I don't believe Kako knows how to fire a sniper rifle outside of battle) there is sporadic evidence of Hemoanima giving extra powers beyond the use of a supernatural weapon.

Eito can summon lightning with his scythe during the move known in the English version as "Jury", but he twirls his scythe to do it, meaning he might not be able to summon lightning without doing that.

Moko seems to have multiple moves where she eschews the weapon entirely and just uses her own body to attack, indicating that the hemoanima has given her body strength instead of channeling it into the weapon.

The connection is a lot looser with Yugamu's Class Weapon. He has a debuff ability that doesn't seem to utilize the physical form of the weapon (he just throws a glob of poison), but his Specialist Skill states that his attacks are stronger when the enemy has a status effect. (Confirmed that this most likely also applies to Ima's slow and Tsubasa's ATK-down.)

Can Hemoanima Shapeshift the Body?

On the SDF's side every weapon seems to be purely additive, and does not change the human body's shape. Whether Yugamu specifically can shapeshift his arms is still up for debate with regards to the fact that he's supposedly been experimented on (and states he had many of his body parts replaced in a tweet about his birthday). Some of his moves, like the English localized "Twisted Whip", appear to make his weapon temporarily longer- whether that applies to his actual arms is still a point of debate (though I personally believe that it's just the weapon, not his body- it might only look like the body because of smear frames.)

An additional point of contention is Moko, whose hemoanima seems to give her the ability to use her own flesh-and-blood body to fight. So there is hard evidence there that hemoanima can strengthen the body enough to make it durable in a beatdown against invaders. Still, that's not really shapeshifting.

However, the School Invader Commander, using a power that was stated in the demo to be all but hemoanima, shapechanged into a massive dragon. Other School Invader Commander designs seem to use similar shapechanges that lengthen the arms and neck or even eliminate the legs and turn them into a tail. However, we don't know if that is Hemoanima as the SDF uses it, or some perversion of it that turns your weapon into a monstrous form. We also don't know what causes it - this is likely something that will be answered in the full game.

Can Class Weapons float?

The answer is likely yes, when they need to. The examples we've seen (that aren't self-explanatory like Ima's wings) are Darumi's knife telekinesis and Shouma's defensive form. However, Kyoshika's sword sheaths float behind her in battle, and they fly to her side when she's about to unleash her ultimate attack. This lends credence to the idea that it's not that Darumi has telekinesis, but that all Class Weapons, or their parts, innately float when it would be convenient for the wielder. In both Darumi's and Kyoshika's cases, they don't have enough hands to hold all of their blades and sheaths.

Can ordinary weapons be transformed into Class Weapons?

The answer is likely yes. It appears that Kyoshika's Holy Jumonji Sword (assuming it is indeed an ordinary sword that isn't otherwise built to harness hemoanima) follows her into battle, and gets a hemoanima upgrade in the meantime, which appears to manifest (at least sometimes) as red flames around the sword. However, it should be noted that in her case, the Hemoanima-formed blade has blood-harvesting spikes and a purple glint, while the regular sword has red effects on her slash attacks and no blood-harvesting spikes. There's a lot of mystery around how exactly her Class Weapon works right now. Specifically, does the purple fire have anything to do with Undying Flames? If so, that may imply something about the flames themselves.

Can a Class Weapon itself shapeshift (ex. can a sword turn into a knife?)

The answer is likely yes, in a limited capacity. It could be visual effect, but Yugamu's knife appears to turn into a "Twisted Whip" for the sake of attacking. And Shouma's mech can transform from an offensive to a defensive form and back again.

So what makes Nozomi different from the others?

She is the biggest puzzle of this cast, but we did get a hint from the Noisy Pixel video- Kyoshika says her hemoanima is "underdeveloped", and that Nozomi can't benefit from the Hemoanima Revival capabilities that other characters can. She instead says "I'll retreat if I have to" when asked about what to do when she's in danger. Basically, Nozomi can't use Hemoanima, or she can only use a limited version of it that require, as Nigou stated in another video, an older model of Class Armor, and possibly Class Weapon as well. It's unknown if she needs to use a premade weapon instead of generating one from her own body. It should also be pointed out that her hemoanima transformation is less an explosion of blood like the others, and more of a blue-light transformation.

Her bullets in particular seem to be filled with a hemoanima-like substance, and while she carries them on her body, they might not themselves be a product of hemoanima. As seen in her ult, we can assume she uses this to heal allies and deliver powerful debuffs to enemies. Where she derives it is unknown (maybe her allies gift her some of their own, or maybe it's her own, but it needs to be processed differently?) but it's her hemoanima equivalent in battle. And like the other SDF members' weapons, she can definitely use it to harm Invaders.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this deep dive!

[icga-blog]

Headcannons about Heartbreak High Characters

I have so many ideas for these guys... So I decided to speak about them! You can clearly see that I start getting tired so Rowan, Missy, Dusty and Sasha (also Quinni and Spider if I am being honest) have lasy sections, but I still think I had some interesting points to make

Note: I seach and know (as well as someone can know from google searching) a bit the foster care in Australia, including that is actually called child protect system, but I will be calling it foster care and not getting into details

Malakai

Realized he had crushes in at least 8 other boys before Rowan, he just didn't notice at the time

Hates watching baseball, even if he loves playing it

Likes rugby

Is into fashion, but just in the sense he wants to wear things that make he feels beautiful

Is really good at languages, but doesn't want to work with it

Is really close to his parents and (eventually) told them about Amerie's abortion

Did not, however, came out to them, but just bc he forgot he needed to

Watches educational videos on tiktok covering topics he actually has no interest in

Knows a lot of random facts

Smokes a lot of weed, but just do it alone (did once with Missy's brother)

Doesn't know how to identify emotions

Never was homophobic until it was his time to be queer, then he needed to overcome the "it's ok when other people do it, but I should not be like that" feelings

Loves "profession reality shows" where people compete to be the best at their job, unless it's a cooking show

Amerie

Used to steal alcohol from Harper's dad cabinet until Harper got too drunk and borderline pass out, then she swore she would never drink again

Her "no drinking" promised lasted almost a year, but she still doesn't get drunk to the point of forgetting things

Watched all the reality shows possible

She has used a lot of different drugs tho

Told her mom all about Dusty back when she was crushing on him

Tells her siblings horror stories sometimes, but she is terrible at making them sound scary

Sometimes sleeps in her mom's bed

Cannot watch horror movies, in any circumstance

Loves her siblings to death, and also hates them with all her heart

Misses her dad a lot since his dead

Knows the lyrics to all top 10 hits of the last 10 years and almost exclusive listen to what Harper calls "way too popular music"

Has an ugly ass handwriting

Knows all her siblings school drama and loves to help them, even if her advices are really bad

Obsessed with clothes and looks, follows all the big influencers

Never had a step-father

Had an active tiktok account with Harper

Harper

Is pansexual, but haven't figured it out yet

Painted her hair black once, with Amerie's mom hair paint, and immediately regretted it

Had a choker phase

Is way better at math than he should be

Was abandoned by her mom when she was very young

Didn't know some words were cursed words bc her dad said them constantly

The first time she passed out drunk she was 12

Had an active tiktok account with Amerie

Kept the house clean to her father

Knows how to make lettering

Posted the whole Chook situation, with updates, on reddit bc she could never tell anyone but also couldn't keep it to herself

Googles anything and everything

Listens to divorce-dad-rock

Started learning how to play guitar and them gave-up 7 times

Has a nice singing voice

Has the worst periods and is in pain for almost a week at a time

Never misses a flu shot

Would do anything for the right amount of money

Accepts anything that is giving to her for free, doesn't matter what it is

Love to drive around at night

Wants to have a munch of tattoos but is afraid of the pain

Quinni

Writes fanfics and have multiple tumblr pages to different fandoms

Likes to theorize to the point where she probably did connections that the authors didn't plan to

Studied a lot of different symbolism

Prefers reptiles and insects to mammals

Knows her biological mom, they have an aunt/niece type relation

Didn't get why having 2 dads was weird for years

Likes fluffy things and have textures she is obsess with

Love to do her hair

Knows how to make jewellery and have a collection of beads

Can do 8 different types of braids, but never has the patience to do them in herself

Knew she was lesbian at age 6

Got a considerably early diagnoses to a girl

Used to try to learn how to make eye contact

Loves Disney movies and knows all the songs

Can name so many different colours that some people think she is inventing

Don't like glittery things

Marks and write in her books

Wants to be a fantasy writer, but probably is going to college to a very different thing (probably pedagogy, but she aint sure)

Spider

Wants to know his bio dad

Loves rugby and have stress headaches after bad games

Likes sudoku

Is freakish good at guitar hero

Knows how to play the violin bc his mom wanted him too

Would never came out to his mom, bc if she isn't going to love him as he is now he is not giving her the parts of him that she would love

Like wine

Dreams about being a father

Is planing in becoming a engineer

Loves to be at Ant's house

Dusty's mom likes him a lot, for aparently no reason

Goes to church when Ant ask's him too

Was the kid that builted cities out of blocks

Knows a lot about constalations bc he wanted to be an astronaut

Has fancy taste to the weirdest things, and do not realize some things are privilages

Do not care about sexualities

Thought he might be trans for 3 minutes before realizing he just wanted his mom to stop calling him names for being a boy

Actually like the name Spencer a lot, but don't like typical nicknames like Spence

Liked to read a lot when he was younger

Begged for a sibling for his whole childhood

Wanted to have a step-dad so bad

Hates both Father's day and Mother's day

Likes Valintine's day

Loves action packed movies

Is going to buy a bike as soon as he is able

Chook

Started to sell drugs bc he grew out of the foster system and didn't have here or how to live

Straight out was homeless for a portion of his life

Have a parent in jail

Beat-up anyone that looked Cash the wrong way

Gave all "his boys" nicknames bc he hates his own name

Lost his virginity way too young, for an older woman

Lets multiple younger boys in bad situations sleep in his house, no questions asked, if they need it, as long as they do small things for him

Darren

Couldn't tell you the name of 3 ministers to save their life

Learned to do make-up as a kid and never stopped

Their favourite colours is orange, but wouldn't tell it to anyone (other than Quinni) for a million dolours

Has way too many glitters and lip balms

Never even asked anyone to test their pronouns before coming out in a moment of impulsiveness

Made their mom call their dad so they could came out to both of them at the same time

Changed schools instead of coming out to the people that knew them before

Refers to themselves as a girl sometimes, but would never let anyone else do that

Cannot lie at all

Never had a boyfriend before Cash, even if they have slept with 60% of all queer man in the Sydney area

Hated Finding Nemo as a child sole bc the dentist was from Sydney but the accent was wrong

Loved playing with dolls

Wanted to be a zookepper before realizing that animals are gross

Doesn't know how to take care of an house

Rowan

Loved the scouts and would actually come back both as a scout and a instructor

Have a lot of camping gear

Like children a lot, regardless

Do not have plans for the future

Learned how to skate out of spite

Likes to swin a lot, but was scared of waves as a kid

Doesn't remebering ever believing in Santa Claus

Could survive out of ice cream

Wanted to work in cinema when he was younger

Actually knows how to take care of farm animals

Never had a pet

Hates lettuce

Missy

Had a pet bird and its dead was so traumatic she never let her siblings got another pet

Behold her older brother, also have a younger sister

Came out to her family in a big family gathering

Is alergic to pinnaples and kiwis

Hates coffe, but drinks it anyway

Wish she could survive out of meat (rare, well done isn't for her)

Listen to country music when she is cleaning the house

Wants to know everything that there is to learn about her culture

Meet Harper first, they become friends at the beach first and her is the one that introduce Missy for the other girls

Had a crush in Natasha Romanoff

Have online friends

Knows how to sew

Ant

Had asthma as a kid (kind of still has, but knows how to deal with it)

Prays often

Knows biblical stories and reference them in casual ways

Knows way too much animal facts

Listen to almost all times of music, but cannot for the life of them remember a single lyric

Played the drums at Church, is were he learned music

Wanted to be a firefighter

Cannot lift weight

Doesn't like sports, but knows a lot about them bc of his dad and older brother

Have the worst grades and also can probably win everyone else in trivia

Knows how to speak Spanish, but his grammar is atrocious

Likes to drink a lot

Is pansexual and doesn't think God particularly cares about it

Loves to climb trees

Hurted himself a lot as a kid and has a lot of scares to prove, but has never broken a bone

Likes to just ride his bike around

Had a crush in Amerie at some point in time, but then start seeing her as a sister

Is the youngest

Loves his brother, but isn't at all close to him

Knows how to make almost all the household chores since he was a kid

Absolutely hates to mop the floors

Likes warmer weathers, but doesn't like summer break bc he actually likes to go to school and see his friends everyday

Dusty

Loves to sing and did singing classes for years

Likes poetry

Never read a room aproprialy in his life

Asked Spider for a kiss but was rejected, so he just pretented to be drunk and don't remember

Knows he is pretty and owns it

Has over 20 different perfumes and likes to dissect their aromas

Hates the concept of cheating and is jealous as fuck

Loves romantic songs, but often missinterpets them

Is too honest at all moments where isn't active lying

Doesn't think most of his actions tru

Loved to play in the dirt as a kid

Cannot stand being alone for more than 5 minutes at a time

Doesn't like to play sports

Spoil brat

Sasha

Isn't out at home, and it is partially because her parents straight up don't notice that she is dating girls

Often finds herself seaching social causes at 3 am

Likes the concept of veganism but is incapable of sticking to it

Is often afraid that people will poke holes at her activism, but it's the only way she knows to try to be a good person

Worst imposter sindrome ever

Cannot let anything untouched, overthinks everything

Is a social butterfly in all fronts

Loved Missy like she never liked anyone else

Polyamorous and shoving it down other peoples throats

Tilla

He's so jealous of Cash and Chook's relationship it's not even funny

Grew out of the foster system on paper, but actually didn't step in a group home since he's 16

Lived with Chook until he manages to get his own house, that he shares with 5 other guys

Zoe

Don't care this much for the indigenous movement, but care way too much about her family and they care for the indigenous movement, so ends up in all kinds of political things

Cannot cook to save her life

Started the pureteen movement to give woman back their bodily autonomy after seeing her friends being catcalled and sexualized way-too-many-times

Was really surprised when boys joined the pureteens

Gets uncomfortable with sex in television or in conversations

Watched pornography once before deciding she couldn't do that

Reads spicy things anyways

Isn't a virgin

Was disgusted when the Incest Map thing happened

Did not care when Missy came out

Jayden

Another boy pointed him in Chook's direction when he needed somewhere to hide from his dad, and since then he is walking around Chook's little gang

Abusive and really poor parents

Thought Chook and Cash were actual biological brothers for almost a year

Knows Cash is queer for ages and do not care

Cash

Disassociates at any sit of trouble

Has drunk as hell when he lost his virginity

Didn't live with his Nan consistently bc his foster agent didn't think she was fitted to raise a small kid

Had bigger problems than politics, so knows nothing about it

Don't actually know some things are illegal, since he has always done them

Hates cops with all his heart

Don't go see a doctor since he was 9 and broke his arm

Knows a guy for almost anything

Start tattooing when he was 15 (and bc of that actually knows how to draw and can imitated designs very well)

Run away from several foster homes and group homes, specially after Chook got his first (very tiny) apartment where Cash could crash if he needed

Lived in the street, but never alone (sometimes with his mom, sometimes with Chook)

Convinced his foster agent to let he stay with his Nan by just saying that finding him every time he runs away is more trouble than letting him stay wherever he wants

Has kissed other eshays, and in fact knows which eshays are secretly queer

Would wear anything anyone hands to him, even female clothes, as long as they don't make him itchy

Was treated like a maid in foster homes before so actually know how to take care of an house

Nan

Fought tooth and nail to get Cash to stay with her

Threatened God and the world every time they took her grandson away from her

Don't think her older son is a good parent, but never manage to take those grandkids away

Has very poor for most of her life

Raise 4 kids in a bad neighbourhood and survived it

Still loves to dance

Had an open-ish kind of marriage before open relationships were a thing

Went to a pride parade at least once

Never protested fully bc she thought it was useless

Hates politics

Doesn't know how to cook

[anadrym]

Extended Author's Notes for Left Behind Ch18.

Spoilers!

Chapter title is from "They'll Never Find Us" by Aviators. (Aviators, my beloved.)

At 7140 words, this is the longest chapter yet. Also, we're on the third document in my notes app. Holy shit.

SHE'S AWAKE!!! I was tempted to keep her unconscious (by writing about the two days between this chapter and the previous), partially to emphasize the agony of waiting and really push y'all into empathizing with Caitlyn. But I couldn't do it. I missed her too much. (Also, I made you guys wait an extra week anyway.)

So apparently, you're not supposed to lie down with broken ribs? Which is the only reason I've downgraded Caitlyn's injury (again). Basically, her ribs were badly bruised but she'll be fine in a few days. I did this explicitly so she and Vi can cuddle because they fucking deserve it at this point.

With most of the serum flushed out, Vi also can remember things a little more easily. So, of course, she gets to remember quiet mornings with Caitlyn. :)

AAAHHH, the bit where Caitlyn wakes up! I really wanted to make this an intimate little moment - honestly, how many people get to see the indents in your skin when you sleep too heavily? - that only Vi gets to witness. The messy hair. The rumpled clothes. The crusty eyes. Those are things that Caitlyn hasn't let anyone else see in five years.

Notice that Vi doesn't say 'I love you' out loud. They're both trying to feel each other out a bit; there's gonna be a little miscommunication and mutual pining in the next few chapters. (Caitlyn thinks Vi was repeatedly sexually abused by the Baroness and Vi doesn't know if Caitlyn has moved on in the time since the Purge.)

I'm really liking the imagery of Caitlyn's eyes being like the sky, and Vi associating that with freedom. Because we see the way she stands and breathes after Cait gets her out of Stillwater. And in this fic, we've established that she didn't get to leave the Baroness's mansion often and didn't see the sky much. So of course, Caitlyn is that freedom.

I actually wasn't sure about having Vi smile again this soon after the escape. (She last saw the Baroness... only three days ago?) But after that moment of seeing Caitlyn waking up... there's a feeling of comfort and safety that I think lets her finally smile again, even if only a little.

And of course, Caitlyn tears up. Because even after all of this, she wasn't sure she'd ever see Vi's smile again. :')

I also debated drawing out Vi's being able to understand speech, but I really wanted her back. I kinda figured that, if the serum was causing that inability to interpret words, then flushing it from her system would let her regain that ability. Caitlyn and Petra theorized the same thing, but they really weren't sure the blood transfusions would actually work. (That's what Cait means by 'it worked.')

I keep coming back to the idea that Caitlyn touches Vi so lightly because she doesn't want to hurt her or startle her or anything like that. And every time, Vi presses more firmly into the touch because she desperately needs to reassure herself that it's real. This wasn't intentional at first, but once I noticed it, I really leaned into it because I think it really fits.

UGH, GOD, just like. Imagine. Being imprisoned and tortured and forced to do terrible things against your will. And you can't remember who you are, you don't know how long it's been, you don't know if there's anybody out there who knows you and cares about you. And the only thing that keeps you from just giving up entirely is a ring that doesn't fit and a few vague memories. Imagine how overwhelming it would be to suddenly be free and safe and yourself again.

Caitlyn was a detective and was good at it. She wants answers, she wants to know what's going on. But she refuses to push Vi into talking when she's not ready. That's love, bitch.

The paragraph about hope not burning out, and standing among rubble and embers? I absolutely love that bit. I don't even know why. I'm just really proud of it.

Oh yeah, a few of you pointed it out in the comments, but Caitlyn absolutely doesn't want to tell Vi how long it's been since the Purge. She will, of course. But she desperately doesn't want to. I think part of it is that she doesn't want to admit how long she left Vi there. (It's not her fault, of course, but guilt doesn't work like that.)

The 'in and out of consciousness' does not include the time spent in the drainage pipe and on Nasir's ship. The two days is just the amount of time since the last chapter.

"The blunt edges of Vi's nails"??? They were jagged and overgrown last time we saw. That will come up again soon. :)

The only reason Petra doesn't wait for a response after knocking is because she strongly suspects that Caitlyn is asleep and won't answer. Normally, she wouldn't come in without permission.

When Vi shoves Caitlyn behind her, Cait makes a sharp sound. Vi bumped her bruised ribs. :(

VI, MY BELOVED DUMBASS. Shielding Caitlyn with her own body when she doesn't even have enough strength to sit up (that's pure adrenaline). I love her so much. Caitlyn is so startled that she doesn't react for a few seconds.

I always have to envision how the characters are physically positioned to write about them, even when it doesn't get described in detail. Vi is on her left side, propped up on left arm. Cait is behind her, leans forward to press her face into curve of Vi's neck and right shoulder. Cait's right arm comes around Vi's waist from above, and she splays her hand over the left (under)side of Vi's ribcage. Hugging AND holding up at same time.

Poor Petra. She has to deal with Caitlyn neglecting her health while worrying about Vi, and now Vi's proving to be just as self-sacrificing as Caitlyn. Just walks into the room and realizes, 'Oh, they're both stupid.'

Petra is also trying very hard to be what both of our girls need. For Caitlyn, it's familiarity, normalcy, a distraction from fretting over Vi, a reminder that things will be okay. For Vi, it's comfort, safety, autonomy, the balance between letting her make her own decisions and not overwhelming her with choices when she's already overwhelmed. That's why she asks for permission to come in (an important boundary to be respected) but directs the question about how she's doing to Caitlyn (addressing Vi as a person but not expecting her to answer a pretty complicated question).

It was so important to me that Petra ask permission to come in and later to touch Vi, because Vi hasn't been given that choice in so long. Petra has a history of dealing with abuse victims, which is why she thinks of things like this while Caitlyn didn't.

Vi is self-aware enough to know that she's not in a great mindset to be deciding who to trust and what's a threat. She knows that Caitlyn will keep her safe, which helps her calm down enough to decide to give Petra a chance.

Vi keeps wondering why she's so tired. It's because she's healing (which takes a lot out of you) and she has a fever (and the resulting fatigue).

Caitlyn is not going to take care of the clean sheets later. :)

There's just... so much that can trigger Vi right now. We're gonna be dealing with that for quite a bit. Meds, transfusions, IVs, touching her head/pulling her hair, certain words, etc.

The people Vi remembers when Cait bumps her thumb while she's panicking are, in order: Powder, Vander, Ekko, Tobias, and - of course - Caitlyn.

"Anything foreign in her veins" - girl, most of your blood isn't even your own at this point.

As soon as Vi manages to calm down, Petra redirects the conversation to Caitlyn, knowing that it'll distract Vi enough to keep her from panicking again. And it works; as soon as Vi realizes Caitlyn is hurt, she completely stops worrying about the meds.

"Barely sleeping" - Caitlyn, you were completely knocked out. It was the deepest sleep you've had in weeks.

I don't know, I just think it's very sweet that Caitlyn reassures Vi about her ribs not by brushing it off, but by guiding her hand there to check it herself. The nonverbal communication continues!

So, I have absolutely no idea what it would be like to try drinking and eating again after years of only getting nutrients and fluids through an IV. I'm just guessing. We've established that Vi can swallow, but only a little bit (blood, saliva, etc.). So, in theory, she can drink, but not a lot because her stomach can't handle it yet. She needs to be eased back onto food (refeeding syndrome) to let her body adjust. Water → clear liquids (broth, juice) → thicker liquids (milk, richer broth) → mashed food (applesauce) → easy-to-digest solids (toast, rice, bananas) → more complex solids. Vomitting is especially bad here because it can dehydrate her faster.

"Her body, broken and skinny and useless" - Vi is absolutely going to deal with body-image issues in the coming chapters. In a way, this is kind of 'non-consensual body modification' and I'm planning to treat it with the trauma that comes with that.

It's a good thing Vi decided to trust Petra because Caitlyn absolutely would not be able to get her upright without help.

Mmm, the intimacy of helping someone drink, of holding a glass to their lips and supporting their head. The need for both trust and carefulness. Also, the grief that your loved one was denied even being allowed to drink water (treated more like a machine than even an animal) and the guilt of having to deny them from drinking too much, even if it is for their own good. Especially when they're practically begging for just a little bit more.

And then Vi saying she's okay after nearly choking on water. They're so stupid and Petra's so tired.

Mad at myself that Caitlyn can't lie down and cuddle. >:(

When Caitlyn confesses about the blood transfusions, I want you to imagine the same nervous expression and tone that she used in the show, when she told Vi that she was seeing Maddie while they were separated. She can't go into this without telling Vi the truth.

"I refuse to lose you again" - God, they mean so much to me. But also, the idea that Caitlyn will do anything to not lose Vi. I love exploring the whole 'Yes, this is a good person. But, at some point, they become a selfish person. What do they have to lose to reach that point? When do they decide, "fuck everything else, I will not lose this one. Not now, not ever."?'

And Vi's trust in Caitlyn overcomes her terror of being injected with something without her knowledge and permission. :(

"She will never hurt you again" - maybe Caitlyn's right. But that doesn't mean the Baroness can't hurt someone else. >:)

(I'm eventually going to give a few more details about what Petra looks like, but I'm really curious to hear how y'all imagine her appearance? Please tell me?)

Teaser for next week:

Vi jerks back again, shaking her head in rapid refusal. "No. No, I - No IV."

The doctor heaves a weary sigh. "Vi, it's necessary. You're just being reintroduced to eating, to drinking. You need fluids and nutrients and, right now, antibiotics."

Vi shakes her head again, turning to Caitlyn. Her eyes are wide and frantic and terrified. "Cait," she chokes, "please, I - I can't --"

"Vi," Caitlyn breathes, quiet but desperate. "Darling, please."

[spencewalterreid]

A House In Nebraska: Part II

Summary: Spencer and Ethel settle in Valentine, Nebraska, and try to fit into a town which is very plainly not meant for them. When Spencer gets close to graduation, they must address the move to D.C.

Pairing: Ethel Cain & Spencer Reid

Category: Angst, hurt/comfort

Warning: Fake death, losing a child, heavily implied prostitution, allusion to rough sex (resulting in cuts/bruises), parent suffering from dementia, platonic (?) cuddling, flashback to overdose (very vague), kinda sexual harassment/dubious consent (for a brief scene, doesn't get far, it isn't really smut. just heavy petting), emotional manipulation, meltdown, I think that's it?

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's note: Sorry this chapter is taking so long! I'm not sure how many parts it'll have, but there will probably be at least one or two more, and then we're onto Western Nights! AO3 saw it first. Enjoy, enjoy!

☆☆☆

Winter, 1984

Ethel Cain is dead.

Her mother was shattered when she disappeared. Her younger sister, Allison, was rendered everything but mute in the grief of her absence. For a day or two, Shady Grove was shrouded in a heavy silence much the same, and the next church session was cancelled in favour for search parties sent through the streets, door-to-door, past missing poster after missing poster, and then through the forest when there they found no luck.

The town searched in vain for months before they accepted she had likely passed away. Her mother, understandably shattered, never let go. She continued the search, calling police precincts from all over the state, begging to be heard. She even began calling hospitals and morgues, after a while. In a moment of true defeat, she even called the FBI. She didn’t get more than a few sentences in before the call went dead for sake of lack of proof for kidnapping. She’s a teenage girl, Vera heard time and time again. She ran off. She’ll be back.

Eleanor Reid and her brother Spencer, however, are living perfectly respectable lives in Valentine, Nebraska. They go to church each and every Sunday, much to Spencer’s chagrin. They buy their food at the local grocer. They have a home stacked with books, soft furniture and a fire burning in the hearth. Coffee is brewed every day and poured into homemade mugs, courtesy of Ethe- Eleanor’s recently-embraced prowess in all things pottery. Spencer is finishing up another degree. He’s aiming for a career in FBI profiling. He’d do exceedingly well in that field, though he worries how it might impact Eleanor. She doesn’t do very well with violence.

That’s to say, she does very well with violence. She watches as many horror movies as she can gets her hands on, watching enraptured as yet another damsel is ripped apart piece by piece. She has a particular affinity for Midsummer. Spencer could barely finish it, cringing as the gore worsened throughout the film. His stomach was turning by the end, but Eleanor soaked it in for a while, rambling on and on about the intricacies of the meaning behind a man being stuffed into the skin of a bear before being burned alive with the corpses of his friends.

Since that night, he tries to keep her far away from his work – or, at least, studies.

As far as income goes at the moment, they keep it under wraps. People of the town inquire about Spencer and Eleanor’s occupation, which is generally met with a vague reply insinuating they’re entrepreneurs. They never specified what it was they did. What they did disclose, though, was that they were brilliantly successful. The people theorize, of course; the most popular idea is drug peddling. Naturally, it gets back around to the Reids, but they shrug it off.

Word gets around in small towns, they’ve realized, whether or not the word is true. News of their parents passing tragically in a house fire, or illness, and one particularly gossipy old woman decided Eleanor had killed them. A temperamental young woman, always fidgety and skittish, but fiery when provoked. Surely, she’s capable. Spencer also puts people ill-at-ease, speaking out of turn and avoiding eye contact, but he’s just docile enough to keep his older (or maybe younger?) sister under wraps. It’s all very hazy, but depending who you ask, it’s certain there is violence in their history. Maybe.

When Spencer enters the second semester of senior year, Eleanor gets even worse in her bipolar tendencies. She shuts down, to him and everyone else. When she does speak to strangers, it’s curt and simple. Only when necessary. It has the desired effect, though; pushing anyone and everyone as far away as possible.

Eventually, they need to make their way to D.C., Spencer realizes one night as his frien- sister leans against his side, some crime procedural droning on the television screen. God help him.

“Hey, E?” He rolls his shoulder gently, stirring her from a light sleep.

She hums in response, tilting her head up but leaving her eyes shut.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Mnh-mnh.” Eleanor shakes her head against him, burying her face further in his sweater.

Spencer huffs. “No, get up. Seriously, I need to talk to you.”

With a pissed-off groan, she sits up. “What?”

He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, steeling himself, then releases it to continue. “You aren’t gonna like this, but-”

“Stop stalling. What?” she repeats.

“I need to be in D.C., for, uhm. For my training.”

Eleanor furrows her brow, leaning back against the armrest on the opposite side of the loveseat from Spencer and crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you already did that.”

“Yeah, I passed all my tests, but I have to do physical stuff too. At the academy.”

“Aren’t there academies in Nebraska?”

He shifts uncomfortably and almost considers conceding to drop the conversation. She has such a talent for making him feel stupid lately. “Yeah, but… El, this isn’t new. We both knew at some point I’d need to be at the office. I figure, better sooner than later, right?”

She squints accusingly. “I’m not going to D.C. I like my life here. We’re happy, aren’t we?” Eleanor’s expression drops into something soft, reaching out to take Spencer’s hand. She lets herself sink into the familiar motion of massaging his palm, and he almost groans at how good it feels.

“Yeah, I like it too.” He forces a smile, and feels himself relax a bit when she doesn’t call him on it. “I just… I guess it can wait.”

When she settles back into his chest, snuffling with a sigh, it doesn’t feel as calm as it should. It feels warped, tilted, like he’s lying. Like there’s a critical truth just on the other side of his longing for his… his sister. Remember? He tangles a hand in her hair and absently considers asking her if she’d like to take a bath tonight. Might be good for her.

The T.V. drones on and he revels in the monotony of the show. He feels as though he’s seen this episode a thousand times, though he knows he hasn’t. These damn procedurals, they all feel like the same thing. White male, mid-30s, killing for his daddy issues. We all have one or two of those, but nobody kills about it. No one in their right mind, that is. He drags his mind away from the in-between he was focusing on, not quite on the T.V. but not quite on anything closer. He settles on Eth- Eleanor.

Her long eyelashes contrast her under-eyes more than they used to; she’s filled her evenings with far more rest than she was able to in Alabama. Her shoulders are a bit broader, grip stronger. She’s more beautiful this way. Happiness looks very good on her.

He couldn’t say when, but at some point, he fell into a fitful doze.

—

Diana Reid is an uneasy woman. Whether or not she’s always been that way, Spencer couldn’t say. His grandmother didn’t seem to think so. When he was little, she used to tell him stories of his mother. Stories of her gentleness. Of the time she’d had a bird hit her window head-on, and the way she’d cradled it as she brought it inside. The fragility of her voice as she presented it to her mother, begging to save its life. Its wing twitched once, twice, and when they were sure it wouldn’t happen again, they’d resigned to digging a shallow hole in which to let it rest. According to his grandmother, she was a forest fire of a girl. Headstrong, willful, charming, self-assured. Everything Spencer was not. Even in her forgetfulness he’d known in her since childhood, she was still so confident in all she did. When she was demanding to see her son as he stood right in front of her: she simply would not accept anything else until she was sedated. He envies her for it, even still, at the age of 20: a capable adult, in college, after moving across the country, he still finds himself with the uncertain embarrassment of the kid who had to rear his mother.

He takes care of Eleanor the best he can. He wakes her in the morning with a cup of coffee, makes her toast and makes the bed. He does the laundry and he holds her as she screams, blaming him for dragging her away from her home. He understands when she tells him he’s going to hell, the bastardized heathen. He does not raise his voice to match her own. He soothes her like a wounded animal, because maybe she is. He holds her as she falls asleep, more often than not, but it doesn’t always stop the nightmares. He does not push when she wakes in tears under the streetlights illuminating the early hours of the morning through the window. He knows, somewhere distant and uncomfortable in the depths of him, he cannot leave her. She’ll implode. He also knows he cannot stay with her, as much as it tears at him. Tomorrow’s problem, he’s been telling himself, but one day all those tomorrows will twist and wind around one another, and they’ll gang up to strangle him. Rationally, he knows this, but still: tomorrow’s problem.

—

Spencer wakes a few hours later, an awful crick in his neck from the awkward angle at which he dozed off. He looks down instinctively, admires Eleanor with her face dutifully buried in his thigh, a damp pool of heat under her mouth. He smiles despite himself. “Good morning, sweet girl,” he whispers, and his expression only doubles when she buries deeper into his leg. As much as he hates to wake her up, he hasn’t spoken to his mother in far too long, and he wanted to call her this morning. He debates for a moment whether he wants to go in a different room to call her or stay here, as either choice will wake the woman in his lap. He decides to avoid the morning grumpiness and stay put, straining to turn around against the arm of the couch to get his phone off the side table. He hadn’t charged it; it’s at an honourable 36%. Good enough.

There’s a ringing on the line once, twice, three- ah.

“Bennington Sanitarium, this is Darlene, how may I help you?” chirps a grating, bored voice. It sounds like she has to make a herculean effort even just to say hello.

“Hi. Uhm, this is Spencer Reid. May I speak with Diana Reid, please?” He drags a thumb across El’s temple in apology as she stirs with an unhappy groan, but she fails to be roused.

“One moment, I’ll transfer you.”

“Good morning,” he whispers as he’s put on hold, and El gives him another indignant harrumph in response.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Spencer! Where are you?” She sounds panicked. Fuck. Here we go again.

He bites his lip before responding in a carefully level voice. “We talked about this. I’m in Nebraska, remember?”

She gasps. “How did you get all the way out there?” Diana clears her throat, then switches lanes. “You need to come home, Spencer. You can’t be alone, you need to come home.”

Eleanor cracks one eye open, tilting her head to look up at him. He very much does not react to the change in pressure against his inner thigh as her chin digs into it. He shakes his head to tell her it’s okay.

“I’m fine. I’m with Ethel.” He knows he shouldn’t tell her this, he shouldn’t tell anyone, because Ethel Cain is dead. Diana Reid, however, speaks to no one but herself and her journals, so he reckons there’s no risk of being found out.

The woman in his lap twists her mouth in a frown, but closes her eyes again and says nothing.

Diana sighs, audibly calmer. “Okay. Alright.” Another huff. “Okay.” There’s a shifting on the other end, then: “Are you happy?”

He dodges the question artfully. “Are you?”

“Spencer.”

He hums. “I’m okay. E is happy. It’s good to see her doing so well.”

Eleanor smiles against his leg, and it’s all that he could ask for.

“I didn’t ask about Ethel, I asked about you.”

Spencer can hear the frustration even all these miles away.

“Yeah, Mom. I've been going to church every week, and school is going well, save for my sociology class. The professor is awful.” He settles into the saggy couch, glad to be back in safe territory. “But it’s good. I’m almost done with my degree, then I’m gonna see about becoming an FBI profiler.” It’s always hard to guess what his mother will and won’t remember, so it’s more efficient to just remind her of the basics regardless.

Diana scoffs. “I don’t like you having a career that’s so dangerous, but… but if anyone could do it, it’s you, honey.” A pause. “Have you seen about applications?”

He tries not to seem overly ambitious, but: “They said as long as I stay on the track I’m on, I have a spot in the Behavioural Analysis Unit.”

Eleanor tenses up, but stays quiet. He scratches lightly at her scalp and she relaxes just ever so slightly.

“I’m proud of you.”

Spencer tries to believe her even if she sounds like she’s about to cry. He coughs lightly. “Did you already have breakfast?”

She stutters at the abrupt change in topic, but recovers quickly. “Oh, no, not yet. I’m about to. They’re bringing french toast.”

“Okay. Good, I’m glad.” In the span of a few seconds, the conversation has turned awkward and stilted. He wants to get off the phone, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to be the one to hang up. Thankfully, she gives him an out.

“Hey, sweetheart, the nurse needs her phone back, okay? Call me soon, Spencer. I love you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, I love you too-” But she’s already off the phone. He hears a muffled click in the background, followed by shuffling footsteps.

“Mr. Reid? Are you still there?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Yeah. I’m here. Is there something you need?”

“We were just wondering if you could stop by sometime soon. Diana always seems to do so much better after a visit from you.” She sounds nervous. Why does she sound nervous?

“I, uhm. I’m sorry, I’m out of town. Is she okay? She sounded alri-”

“She’s getting worse, sir, I’m sorry.”

Spencer feels his heart tumble against his ribs to bounce against his intestines, then pop right back up to the bottom of his esophagus. “You, uh. What do- what do you mean, worse?”

Eleanor fully wakes up then, groggily sitting up and causing his hand to fall to his lap. There must be something in his expression when he looks at her, because she picks up his hand and begins digging her thumbs into his palm, watching his face with worry in her eyes.

“She’s just-” a sigh. “She’s eating less and less. She’s getting, uh. Violent, against nurses. She’s started threatening other patients, demanding to ask why they made her son leave.” Darlene’s sentence gets quieter and quieter, until he can barely hear the last word.

“Violent,” he repeats, disbelief drenching the word to the point it feels heavy in his mouth. “She’s never been violent. What… what changed?”

Another pause, but this time he can hear short, indignant huffs in the speaker. “You,” she says, then adds. “Mr. Reid, sir,” seemingly remembering she’s supposed to be a professional.

He’s warmed at the idea that the staff cares so deeply for his mother, but peeved at her perceived anger at him. He stills his voice, trying desperately to slow the grief and guilt clawing at his throat. “I’ll visit when I can,” he replies, and there’s a scoff on the other end.

“I hope so,” Darlene says. “For Diana’s good.” The call drops.

Eleanor is soft and sweet in her inquiry, eyes cast downward when she says, “Are you okay?”

Spencer hums, pulling his hand back toward him, and Eleanor with it. She falls against him and he wraps around her warm, lithe body like water around an anchor. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust his voice not to say something he’ll regret. They stay there until the sun is bright in the curtains and their stomachs growl insistently, enough to pry them off the sofa. But for a brief moment, the easy affection is a welcome respite from the voice in his head.

Take care of her, it growls, his father’s voice so harsh even now, even over a decade later. You need to take care of your mama for me. He blinks against it, breathing in Eleanor’s sleep-heavy scent.

Take care of her.

—

Spencer bides his time for another two weeks. They continue on in the same limbo they have been for two years; the same foggy, faceless dance they’ve been swaying to for what feels like ages. It feels like he’s living in a purgatory, a time loop, the same thing every damn day. Breakfast. Prayers. Maybe another of those damn T.V. shows. Schoolwork. Lunch. Schoolwork. Prayers. Schoolwork. Asking Eleanor to please turn the damn music down because I need to focus. Prayers. Dinner. Eleanor’s work. Bed. Every. Fucking. Day.

On the other side of things, however, El happily gnaws on her lengthy end of this nasty-ass stick. She seems just as snug as a bug in this little town, bathing herself in the sameness. She chats with the churchgoers like she belongs there, and they glare like they’d tear her face off if they could, and she pretends she doesn’t notice, and so it goes. The same damn thing, every damn day. Spencer isn’t bitter. Of course he isn’t. Eleanor is happy. She’s bright, smart as a whip, kind, and she smiles more than she ever has before. She has just as many angry outbursts as she used to, but he guesses it’s just in her nature. Fiery temper, but when she comes down from it, she crashes and rarely remembers the brunt of it in the morning. At least, if she does, she ignores it. She’s never been keen on apologies.

Spencer bides his time for two weeks, until he gets another call from the sanitarium. He’s lounging on the couch with another novel he stuck under his shirt at the bookstore when he gets the call. Diana isn’t doing well, they’d told him. Another nurse in and out of the revolving door, so he didn’t bother to remember the name. We can’t get her to get out of bed. We don’t know what’s wrong with her. No, her vitals are fine. No, she hardly eats, either. Yeah, she’s on an I.V. She keeps asking for you.

He picks what is maybe the worst possible time to bring it up to El.

It isn’t too late tonight. Relatively speaking, she got done pretty early. She stumbles in the door at around half past ten, makeup smudged almost as if it’s melted down her face, and dress hanging loosely, torn in places. Spencer thinks maybe there’s blood on the lap of it, but he swallows down the thought before he can dwell on it.

With a long-suffering sigh, Eleanor dumps herself heavily on the sofa, eyes shutting on the impact. “C’mere,” she drawls, Alabama accent swaying more recognizably in her sleepiness. When Spencer does not approach, still on his perch at the kitchen table, she cracks open an eye. Pouting, she holds an arm out. “Come here, honey.”

Spencer shifts uncomfortably on the cheap plastic chair and casts his eyes downward before daring to look at her again. She really, really needs to take a shower.

He’d love to be the one to take that damned ratted dress off her battered form, unzip the back and peel it off her shoulders. Run a warm bath, maybe with some body wash poured in first to make bubbles, and ease her into the porcelain vat. Drag a soft washcloth along her arms, her shoulders, her chest. Navigate across the cuts and bruises, the scratches of fingernails up and down her thighs and hips. Wash away all the filth from those that ever-so-graciously provide them with food on their nasty fucking table. He shakes the thoughts away, and in a voice so damn sad he doesn’t know if it’s even loud enough to register, says, “Ellie, we need to talk.”

Eleanor drops her arm, letting it sink into the plush sofa. She hums, closing her eyes and letting her knees fall apart. “Can’t you just come over here?” she whines, a slur in her words he hadn’t noticed at first. This again.

He can’t help his gaze traveling down her now-exposed leg, pale in the spots her tights have been ripped. “Are you drunk?”

El grins lazily. “Maybe. Who cares?”

After a brief war with himself, Spencer pushes up from the kitchen table and migrates to the living room to sit gingerly next to Eleanor. Softly, so softly, he drags his fingertips across a particularly gnarly gash on her knee. She doesn’t react. “This one was rougher than usual, huh?”

“He was good, though. Mm.” Her smile doesn’t fade, but her head lolls to the side to look at Spencer. “Hot. Real hot. And, my Lord, it felt… amazing. He has a motorcycle.”

His stomach twists and jolts at her words. Spencer pulls his hand back like he’d been burned. He knows what she does when she leaves at night. They’d had a long, horrible conversation about it shortly after they’d moved. We have to make money somehow, she’d said, gravel in her desperate voice. He’d agreed, not that she needed his consent. Since then, when she comes home with an odd bruise or bump, they don’t talk about it, but he cleans her up in the bathroom and tucks her in. Always chaste, always clinical, but if he slips in an affectionate word and kisses her head as he pours alcohol on the broken skin, then maybe that’s no one’s business but his.

He knows what she does at night, but that doesn’t make it any less nauseating.

“Yeah?” he coos, knitting his hands together in his lap. She grabs his combined wrists, lifting them up to lay down on her back, head on his lap and legs draped over the armrest. She lays his hands back down on her sternum and he does not touch her any more than this simple contact, the sides of his wrists and forearms laying gingerly atop her dress. He does not think about what may be seeping into the fibers as they speak.

“Yeah,” she agrees, opening her eyes yet again to look at him. She lifts a hand to tangle it in his soft, clean curls. “So pretty.”

He lets her explore. He lets her drag her fingers through his hair, then down the side of his neck, his jaw, and for just a fleeting instant, his bottom lip. He does not open his mouth.

Eleanor looks at Spencer like he’s something important. Even when she’s pissed, knocked around too much by whomever she was rolling around with and arriving home with a vengeance, rage turned uncaringly toward any victim it can find. Even when she looks at him like she wants to peel him apart layer by layer, flay him bare, hang him up and keep him on ice until she’s hungry. Even when she treats him with the same intensity of fury that her father so often displayed, she’s still looking at him like he matters. Like he’s worth getting angry at, and that’s as much as he can ask for. Hatred is its own violent sort of love, when you think about it.

Spencer pries his fingers apart from one another to take her wrist in his palm when she touches his throat. Not harsh, not hurtful, but curious. He can’t take another second of that sweet wonder in her eyes, in the caress of her fingertips. “Ethel.”

She recoils as if she’s been hit, but she lets him keep hold of her wrist.

“El, we need to talk,” he reiterates, voice soft, fighting the urge to press a kiss to the pulse point at the base of her hand. He puts it back on her abdomen with its counterpart just to make sure he continues to succeed.

Eleanor’s face hardens. “I’m tired.”

“Sweetheart, I know, but we have to-”

Before he has the chance to be embarrassed at the name he used, she’s up and off his lap, storming down the hallway and narrowly avoiding putting her head through a wall due to her severe stumble. She drags herself up the stairs, Spencer hot on her heels.

“Ellie, don’t-” The bedroom door slams in his face. He sighs, a deep, scraping thing. He knocks twice. “Eleanor.”

Spencer chose that name for her. She always hated the one she was born with, sounded far too biblical. No real person has a name like that, she’d told him. I like Eleanor. Far more dignified. Since then, he tried never to use her real name if he didn’t have to. Better anyway, safer, because Ethel Cain is dead.

He knocks again. “Ellie, I’m coming in.”

When he opens the door, she’s curled up on the bed, facing away from him. He fights an overwhelming wave of nausea at the memory it evokes. When he approaches, he half expects to find bloody foam at the corners of her lips. He doesn’t. Her face is pinched tight, eyes closed, as if she believes if she just sells the idea of being asleep well enough, he’ll leave her be. She’s wrong either way, but even so, she’s awful at pretending. He sits gingerly at her feet and lays a hand atop what he assumes is her ankle. “Hey.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she grumbles, muffled by the blanket as she burrows her face deeper.

“You don’t even know what I wanted to talk about.”

She huffs, shoulders curving even further into herself, if it’s possible. “Can’t be good.”

She got him there. Spencer sighs, lost for how to approach it. “We knew this would come at some point, Eleanor. We couldn’t just stay here forever.”

El sits up, groaning like a disgruntled teenager. As young as she looks, she’s a grown woman now. She’s fuller than she used to be, the hard set of her jaw softened enough to make her look almost kind. She’s just as strikingly gorgeous as she always was. “And why not, huh?” she asks, leaning forward to take his hands in hers. She places them in her own lap. “Why can’t we stay here forever? What’s so important out there that we’d have to leave? What’s out there that’s more important than me?”

Spencer finds himself wishing she wouldn’t touch him so much. It’s intoxicating. He’s desperate for more. He hates it.

“My mom,” he whispers, and resents how fragile he sounds. “My job. I don’t want you to have to-” he cuts himself off. Low blow. “I want to be able to support you.”

Eleanor takes her bottom lip between her teeth, deep in thought, before she pulls his hands closer to her, past her sides, and leans into him. “You know how you can support me?”

“What?” Spencer says eloquently. “I- you-”

El throws one leg over his lap, straddling his hips. “Hush, Spence, okay?”

She lays his hands on her hips, crooking her head over his shoulder and pressing a sweet kiss to his neck.

Oh.

He moans, wanton and horrible, and tilts his head back before he knows what he’s doing.

She bites gently and starts to suck, and his brain clocks back in.

Oh.

He wants this. God, he wants this. He’s wanted this for years. When it happened, he couldn’t say, but somewhere between being bloody in her living room at the hands of her father, just trying to protect his friend, and yanking her from the ledge of a cliff with his fingers down her throat, it clicked. He has wanted Ethel Cain his entire life, as long as he can remember. He wants to drown in her, hair between his fingers, skin under his nails, saliva on his lips, falling into his mouth. He wants to feel her wrapped around him, hot and wet and fucking delectable. He wants all of it, so badly he sometimes wonders how he doesn’t simply implode from the idea of it.

But he can’t.

They can’t.

She’s drunk, and she’s probably got someone else’s cum in her right now, and she’s just trying to distract him, and he can’t.

She rolls her hips forward into his growing crotch, and he digs his fingers into her hips. He’s trying to stop her, trying to keep her from doing that again, but she’s whimpering into his throat at the pressure of it. He wonders if the other guy did that, too.

I can’t. We can’t.

“Eleanor, stop. Stop.” His voice is not his own. How could he say that? How could he stop her, when she’s finally, finally- “Ellie.”

He pulls away as best as he can, pushing at her hips, then putting a hand on her shoulder to push there, too. Her arms wrap tightly around the back of his neck, pressing in, rolling those damn hips again, and his breath catches, voice pitching up. She presses him back, and his head hits the dirty mattress with a soft thud. She abandons her grip on his neck in favor of his wrists, tugging them upward until they’re above his head. For a moment, he wonders if he should just let her do as she pleases. He has never, ever felt this way when he’s done it in the privacy of his own bedroom, and they haven’t even really done anything yet. But she’s so good, so passionate and heady. And she’s moaning and panting and all she’s doing is pressing against him, and-

“God, El, you-”

“Just stop,” she mumbles, whining again at the friction. “Just let me-”

She's drunk. Some other guy just did this; moaned into her mouth, dragged fingertips down her sides, tugged at her hair. She's vulnerable.

Not like this.

“Ethel! Enough!”

Shit.

She scrambles off of him with a hand over her mouth, jaw slack. Spencer can’t guess he looks much different.

He yelled at her.

“I’m sorry, shit, El, I-”

She crumbles. Tears pour down her face and she’s in pieces. “Sorry, so sorry, ‘m sorry, Spence. ‘M sorry. Forgive me. Sorry. God, forgive me.” Her knees buckle and she’s on the floor, knotting her hands within one another, mumbling under her breath. Praying, again.

“No. No, it’s my fault. Hey. Hey, Eleanor. Look at me, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Spencer follows her to the hardwood floor, pulling her into him and she goes, limp against his lithe chest. “Please, honey, look at me. You’re okay. It’s alright,” he continues, pressing his lips into her hair.

Tears soak his shirt and he lets them. She doesn’t reply, and she doesn’t look up, doesn’t do anything for a good long while. It has to have been hours, judging by how long it’s been since the ache in his spine has numbed into nothing. Spencer keeps his mind firmly blank, just dragging his hand up and down her arm for the longest time. When she recovers, she asks him to make her tea. He does, and by the time all is said and done, he’s too damn tired to bring up leaving again, whether it be to visit his mom or go to D.C. Just damn it all to hell.

—

May, 1985

Spencer has spoken to his mother less and less. Every time he calls, she’s more confused, and every time, he has to re-explain where he is, who he’s with, why he isn’t coming to see her anymore. It’s exhausting, not to mention fucking depressing.

Eleanor starts seeing that boy regularly. Logan, apparently. He’s been around for 4 months and become a staple in daily conversations: Logan said this, Logan did that, Logan made me cum four times last night. Spencer is just so sick of hearing his name.

Ellie comes home in a delightful mood. Granted, it’s 6 in the morning and Spencer was just about to leave for class, but whatever. At the sound of the door clanging open in the next room over, Spencer tosses his legs over the side of his bed and downs the rest of his coffee.

“Spence! Spencer, where are you?”

She bounds through the hallway, turning the doorknob and it’s thrown open, slamming against the wall. Eleanor strides over to the bed, flopping down onto her stomach. “Good morning,” she purrs, a dopey grin on her lips. Spencer is hit with a stab of jealousy, just beneath his ribs.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, dumping his mug on his side table with a firm clank. “Good morning.”

Ellie frowns. “Who pissed in your cereal?”

“It’s nothing.” He whirls through the room, gathering materials: socks, shoes, his book bag.

“Did I do something?” she asks, pushing herself up to sit on the bed cross-legged, all the excitement from a moment ago gone in a blink.

He plops down on the bed, bringing his ankle to his knee to pull on the first sock. “No.”

“Are you sure? You seem mad.”

Spencer rolls his eyes with a scoff, yanking the other sock on before dropping his foot to the ground. “You’re gone all night, didn’t even say goodbye. I stay up half the fuckin’ night waiting on you, and you only bother to come back home at the crack of dawn, right before I leave. You tell me, Eleanor, why do I seem peeved?” He flinches at his own language. He doesn’t like to swear, but with her he seems to knit the words together like second nature.

She seems shocked, but not upset. Score.

“I’m sorry, I just- we got distracted.” Her posture slouches, and her eyes shift around the room. Spencer lets her sit in silence as he tugs on one shoe then the other, and with his shoulders set, he stands by the door.

“Distracted,” he huffs out a laugh. “Next time, try not to get distracted enough to let me think you’re dead, ‘kay?” When he storms out of his bedroom and slams the door shut, he feels just a twinge of vindication. It’s nice to be the one with the temper every once in a while.

—

When Spencer comes home, the house doesn’t stink as bad as it usually does, like mold and dust. Incense is burning in the kitchen, and it looks like the floors were mopped. Perplexed, he toes his shoes off and lays his bag on the couch. He retires to his bedroom and finds Eleanor sitting on his floor, book in hand. “Hey.”

She looks up, expression soft and controlled. “Hi.”

As long as his legs are, sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on creaky old oak wood is not the most comfortable position, but it feels the most natural.

“We talked about graduation today. Uhm, my behavioural analysis professor, he was talking about future possibilities for graduates.”

Ellie tenses, laying her book open-faced on the floor, pages downward. She looks at him, but says nothing, so he continues.

“I know you don’t wanna think about it, but… but I’ve gotta go, you know, to D.C. I want you to come with me.” Spencer shifts uncomfortably, leaning back on his palms so he doesn’t pick at his cuticles. He hopes he looks more relaxed than he feels.

“I like it here,” she says, and he’s heard that before. Every time he’s tried to bring this up, he’s heard that.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go to D.C.”

“I know, El, I’m sorry.”

She looks deep in thought for a moment, lacing her fingers together in her lap before she says, “Okay.”

Spencer reels. “What? What do you mean, okay? You’ll come with me?”

“No, I’m staying here. I’m gonna live with Logan,” she says, nodding her head like she’s come to a conclusion. “Yeah. I can stay with him.”

Spencer blinks. “Uh.” With a harsh swallow, he forces himself to nod right along with her. “Are you sure?”

Ellie shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, you have to go. I get it, but I don’t want to go to Virginia. Too close to…” she trails off, then picks it back up, albeit choppy. “I don’t wanna go south. So I’ll stay here.”

Spencer opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Okay. I guess… I guess I’ll just go by myself, then.”

Another shrug from Eleanor. “Guess so.” She picks her book back up, leaning against the side of Spencer’s twin-sized bed.

Still gobsmacked, he returns to the living room to get his laptop, and settles on the couch to look at apartments.

[1moreff-creator]

Now that you've had some time to cool down from the Fuckfest of Friday Night, I'm a little curious on what you think of MonoTV's whole deal, because I haven't seen anyone actually talk about it much and that makes me so upset because wow Dev somehow managed to get me to care about this piece of steel

Spoilers up to the end of CH2

Hey! Yeah, MonoTV, huh? With everything else going on, this thing kinda got pushed aside, but there's been some really interesting developments indeed. I agree though, it's genuinely pretty incredible dev managed to get me to care about what up to this point had been nothing but a device for plot and humor.

You know, I originally wanted to keep this brief to give my full thoughts on the full part 2 analysis I'm working on, but maybe it's better if I just talk about it in full here and just link to this post from that one. Let me start by the theory side, because that's easier for me to write about :v

While MonoTV's creation being connected to XF-Ture Tech was always a very real possibility, the confirmation that at least its personality drivers come from them is nice. And there doesn't seem to be any type of repurposing going on:

MonoTV: Whenever I make a decision, ultimately, I must make the choice that fulfills my purpose [to run the killing game until the death of every participant]. After all, that was why I was created.

While we don't fully understand how this all fits together yet, I'm glad XF is being brought up because that might mean Min content in the future? For me, please? :,D

Anyways. Having a clearly stated goal for the killing game (killing all the participants) is also pretty useful for theory-crafting purposes, so look forward to seeing that line referenced in mastermind discussions moving forward. Not to mention, the secondary purpose of MonoTV playing the villain, with the reasoning:

MonoTV: This so-called TV show is more about appearances than you'd think.

So... ignoring the weird phrasing of "so-called TV show" as opposed to just "TV show," because I will go crazy if I look too deep into that, the confirmation that the appearances of the killing game are important seem to confirm a suspicion Teruko had back in CH2 Ep2.

Teruko: And also, [MonoTV is designed the way it is] as a way to reference that "past killing game," right?

Assuming via context that she's talking about THH, MonoTV being specifically created and programmed to look and act sorta like Monokuma could have some interesting implications moving forward, especially given things like Duke Spurling being alive to see the Tragedy and maybe wanting a recreation of the THH killing game. Thankfully there's no character with a talent for recreating things, such as art, an art forger of some kind, because if there was this could realistically point to them as the mastermind. :)

Final note about theories: I... called it? Sort of?

[Extract from Vivisection of the David MV] What I think is the best idea [regarding the multi-colored "original"] is that all the characters [which includes MonoTV] got the word. [...] I think it makes more sense to relate them to the meaning of "original style" under my interpretation, where "original style" means a change of heart.

Well, MonoTV sure had a change of personality, albeit briefly, now didn't it? (Please ignore the fact that I dismissed the possibility of MonoTV changing in the lines following that one :p) Admittedly "characters in DRDT will have character development" is possibly my least wild theory ever, but a W is a W (?).

Alright but screw theorizing that's for insane people. Let's go for character analysis, because the fact that MonoTV has become a genuinely interesting creature to study is possibly even wilder than the XF-Ture Tech name drop.

Now, a lot of what we hear character wise is similar to stuff we heard in MonoTV's previous character building moment; CH2 EP3.

MonoTV: Does a toaster know why it toasts? Does a calculator know why it adds and subtracts? They are simply machines that do their job without needing to understand why. To that end, I don't know who made this TV show and why. All I do is carry out the directives programmed into me.

MonoTV: I have no conscience, no sense of morality, no will at all. I am merely a robot, subject to the laws of my code. I have no choice but to perform the actions that my creator dictated I must. [...] All the decisions I make were already decided by whatever entity created me, because I am a robot.

It's stated in a much more melancholic tone, given the music in the background, the sprite pose, and the generally less silly "default personality," but it's nothing really new. MonoTV is a machine, it follows programming.

Except.

MonoTV: Even if I feel pain or guilt, I cannot stop. That is the fate that I have, to make others suffer. And there is no diverging from that fate.

Hey MonoTV what the fuck does this mean.

"Even if I feel pain or guilt"? Instead of "I can't feel pain or guilt"? The choice of wording here is very interesting, because it seems to imply that MonoTV does feel pain and guilt over the killing game, regardless of how impossible that should be. The "fate" drop is pretty huge for thematic reasons, as I'm sure you're aware; Teruko explains her own feelings about it in the rest of the scene, there's Xander's speech to Teruko before he attempted to stab her, Ace talking about how he was too much of a coward to fight his fate, Arei actually defying a similar fate in a way, David with the LGI lyrics, Whit and J and Rose and so many other people, all interconnected by this damn concept. I think it'd be fine if this is all we hear about MonoTV in relation to it, but there's definitely fun parallels to explore regardless.

Given how little we have of these particular character details so far, there's not much I can say about it other than I love the concept of an AI being forced to do something it doesn't "want" to because of code, and I'm interested to see if MonoTV will act differently in the future. It's supposed to reset to its previous personality in the full reset, I imagine, but it's not like we can just ignore all the shit it said here. I'm very curious to see where dev takes this.

That said, I also wanted to point out how this vague allusion to feeling pain and guilt and possibly hopelessness against fate aren't the only feelings MonoTV exhibits. Because for some unfathomable reason, it seems to care about Teruko to an extent?

MonoTV: Is something the matter, Teruko? Everyone else has already left.

Like, maybe I'm misreading because the personality change is fucking with me, but this feels like a concern more genuine than I would expect from pre-2-16 MonoTV. And...

MonoTV: You have to decide the answer for yourself.

This, along with the little speech about Teruko's humanity that precedes it, again comes off as MonoTV genuinely trying to help her through her emotions. I don't see how this correlates with its purpose, unless it somehow "believes" that giving Teruko advice on this will somehow lead to Teruko killing someone or something to that effect, which makes no sense.

If it doesn't help kill the participants, isn't necessary for the killing game, and doesn't make MonoTV seem like a villain, then it's not related to any of its purposes. It isn't code making MonoTV say this things. It's MonoTV's... consciousness? I guess? It's very, very interesting.

I am genuinely super interested in where dev is taking MonoTV, and if you told me that was a sentence I would unironically type before this episode, I would have called you insane. The writing in this series is genuinely immaculate, I can't believe we're getting genuine basis for MonoTV angst and it's compelling. Dev does it again!

Thanks for the ask, this was fun to ramble about!

[lilythelitten]

Murdle Jr. Headcanons

The second Murdle Jr. book comes out in two weeks!

So here are some headcanons about the Junior kids. (Buster not included, sadly, because it’s hard to come up with headcanons for a cat 😔)

Spoilers for Curious Crimes below!

Jake

Jake was mad about being sent to a stuck-up private school. For about a day. Then she found out Sacred Kidney was taught by the suspects Deductive Logico puts away on a weekly basis, and for a week straight she would not stop bugging them about what it was like to be investigated by him. (I feel like most of the suspects, for all their many issues, draw the line at harming kids. There may be exceptions, and I will tell you them when I come up with them :P)

Her coat is several sizes too big for her. She got it cheap and insists she’ll grow into it. She will one day. Today is not that day XD (shout-out to Lunar for this one)

Okay, so she doesn’t actively try to be a jerk, but. She can be? Like, when you’re making huge scenes, shouting accusations, being all dramatic in elementary school, you’re gonna make some poor kid cry. Doesn’t help she’s not exactly subtle. (Translation: the reason she would be expelled in the book was “generally being a bully” and I wanted to expand on that :P)

Despite her loud and confrontational personality, she has a surprising love for puzzles. Crosswords, jigsaws, logic puzzles—in her mind, this is peak detective work. She’s emulating her detective hero ^^ (Logico was just like “…holy crud” when he realized he actually had a fan)

Keeps a truly ridiculous assortment of things in her pockets, from candy to fake money to pencils (she lent Sterling one of hers, he did not want his formerly lucky pencil back after Eggplant murdered someone with it). Some have theorized her pockets are actually a bag of holding. (Once again, credit to Lunar for this one ^^)

Julius

So uh, Julius didn’t actually know his uncle was dating Deductive Logico. In his defense, the relationship was still pretty new by the time of Murdle Jr., but it was still an eye-opening experience when he saw his uncle kiss the weird tall guy with thick eyebrows.

On that note! Irratino’s not technically his uncle, Julius is the child of one of Tino’s cousins, but it’s a big family and everyone gets called aunt or uncle to make things easier.

One time, Julius asked Irratino how he and Logico got together. Irratino briefly mentioned their first meeting (not really their first, but SoM is a complicated story and Julius is ten years old) was Irratino faking his own death. Julius attempted to fake his own death to woo Coral. This backfired horribly when Irratino entered the room and almost had a heart attack. (Logico thought it was deserved.)

He tends to miss smaller details, being more focused on the vibes of things and also the obvious stuff. This actually works in his favor sometimes—while everyone else is obsessing over the tiny breadcrumbs, Julius points out the elephants in the room they missed.

He generally tries to play peacemaker. Jake and Olivia clash pretty often—Jake’s anger issues and Olivia’s ego aren’t the best mix—so Julius has to cool things down when tempers run high. Or, when that fails, grab Buster and duck for cover.

Olivia

It should surprise none of you that Olivia’s mother is. Not present. There’s not much of a story here: Olivia’s parents married young, had a baby young, and when Olivia was only a few months old, her mom basically called it quits and walked out. (You ever heard the song “You Don’t Even Know Who I Am” by Patty Loveless? It was basically that :P) Indigo refuses to talk about her (and if anyone asks, he says she died so they stop asking), there are no pictures, and Olivia doesn’t care much for her mother’s whereabouts.

You don’t get raised by an unrepentant narcissist and not pick up some ugly traits. While not nearly as bad as her father, Olivia has a noticeable ego, a bit of a bratty streak, is fairly unempathetic towards other people, and tends to go into everything assuming she’s the smartest person in the room—and, like him, is easily blindsided when someone outsmarts her.

Has a strong nerdy side. Not just for computers—she greatly enjoys sci-fi and video games, and has been getting into mysteries as well (much to her father’s chagrin).

Surprisingly, likes animals—especially cats—a lot. She really wants a pet cat, but her dad won’t let her get one. Not to be mean or anything, he’s just incredibly allergic and (understandably) likes being able to breathe through his nose :P

Her morals are kinda, uh. Looser than everyone else’s? Like, she isn’t gonna kill or harm anyone. But bribe a witness into revealing important details, blackmail a suspect to admitting their secrets, threaten the culprit’s livelihood until they’re confessing? What’s the harm? A lot, actually. And, frankly, being part of the Detective Club is what’s teaching her that (along with that respect doesn’t need to be earned, and that she doesn’t have to be the smartest person in the room).

[biancasaidstfu]

First of all, Happy New Year to you!

I know you don't want to discuss the adjacents anymore, but I was wondering something:

Suppose L and A had something together, even if it wasn't serious. How would the contact between the two, (thee,) be now, since A is friends with his sister and she is apparently still in his group of friends? How do they do that now that L and N are together? How do they deal with that? They will regularly meet each other (Luke, Nick and A) at parties or birthdays...

This seems very awkward for N, and of course for L as well. What are your thoughts on this?

They're all adults in that situation so they would all be adults and make things work.

Simple enough.

If someone didn't want to be an adult about the situation (NOT pointing fingers, this goes for anyone) then that would likely be worked around as well.

This isn't an end of the world scenario for people. We also don't know any of them would act in that scenario either. Ultimately, it would be up to them and how they would choose to go about it.

Really nothing we can theorize on since we don't truly know these people.

P.S. Keep family conversation extremely limited. I don't want to see any bashing of anyone part of Luke's family in the notes AT ALL. I will block over it.