#possibly more that i don't remember but still...

[idle-vapourings]

This is so real.

for myself, I've just had to realize when I'm talking to someone who has no desire to understand me.

because yeah, ableist people be ableist, bigots be bigots, selfish people be selfish, and it will be a losing game every time trying to make them come around.

i had this happen with a friend who had hurt my feelings. I kept it very short and polite because I didn't want to be angry with her or make her feel bad. and then she interpreted that negatively and had a lot of questions for me about my feelings. so i tried to take that in good faith, and explained myself in more detail. I tried to be both empathetic but clear, but really explain and answer her questions. she kept asking me to explain my feelings and at some point I felt that I was being asked to justify having an emotion, which I explained why that hurt. She wasn't getting it, so I explained with more words in an attempt to be clear while being honest how what was happening was frustrating and hurtful to me. she took that as aggression and an unwillingness to work things out with her (the precise thing I was attempting to do). and then she blocked me.

that stung and for a while i thought, hm did i fuck up. but the thing is, no i didn't. really, what it was about is that she refused to accept that she had done something hurtful. so the issue wasn't how i was communicating. it was that she refused to accept a world where she hurt my feelings - even if I had told her it was okay and that I know she didn't mean harm and that I had moved on. Instead, she needed to dissect why I was hurt to begin with and challenge it, rather than accepting that she was a human being who made a mistake. that person wasn't interested in my feelings or my take on the situation. they were interested in being right. and when they couldn't find a path to that with me, they just bounced.

I've also had this happen when requesting disability accommodations after getting a job offer. I requested clarity. I got obtuse replies. I gave more clarity. I got more obtuse replies. That was interpreted as me not wanting to participate in a good faith process. The reality was, the process was not good faith, and it never would have been, no matter what I said.

This feeling of no matter what you say it being wrong can be crushing and frustrating. because at least for me, I feel my autistic brain is really set on there being a solution, a right way to say something to get through to someone or to bridge a connection. and a sincere desire and deep need to be understood and heard. what I've had to come around to is that... sometimes people do not want to hear me. and if they don't, yeah, no matter what I choose, it results in misunderstanding.

I give it a genuine good go once or twice but if they're still interpreting me in the worst faith way possible or choosing to not really hear me then, yanno, time to not bother talking to someone who isn't listening and go talk to someone else worthwhile. I just try to remember that the failure is not mine, here. Someone who doesn't want to listen will never hear me. And people who don't actually want to hear me are never, ever worth my energy in the long run.

The people who really want to listen are out there. I say my thing, I be myself, and I see what the other person does with it.

I LOVE being autistic and trying to communicate because every time it’s

[mrs-delaney]

Letters You Never Sent | Part One

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 17.2k-ish words

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

📝 Author’s Note:

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

i hope you feel it.

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

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

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

alexa play if i were a boy by beyoncé 💔

✨ my masterlist ✨

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before loving him nearly killed you.

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

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

It used to be everything.

* * *

August 2017 Ohio State University

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Joe," he offers, extending his hand.

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

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

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

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

"Your turn," he says.

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

"Second? What happened to the first one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ouch."

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

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

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

"John?"

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

"That's stupid."

"Welcome to my life."

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

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

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

"Thanks," he says quietly.

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

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

"Campus tour, I think. You?"

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

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

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"It's very okay."

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Three weeks later - September 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And do you?"

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

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

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

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

"Shoot."

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we do both?"

"We can do both."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course. But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

* * *

Two weeks later - October 15th, 2017

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"I did want to know what you thought."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

Something that felt a lot like falling.

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

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

October 15, 2017

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially because Joe will never know it exists.

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

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

Something that feels like forever.

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

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

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

* * *

December 16th, 2017

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

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

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

"Like a date?"

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

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

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

"Friday works."

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

"Sounds good."

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

* * *

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

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

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

"Thanks. You too."

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

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

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

"Solid criteria."

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

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

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

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

"Maybe it is."

"You're insane."

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

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

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

"Clearly."

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

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

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

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

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

"Were you weird about it?"

"Was I?"

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

"Ouch."

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

"Y/N," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

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

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

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"That was..." Joe starts.

"Yeah."

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

"How long is a while?"

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

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

"You absolutely did. It was very attractive."

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

"I'm counting on it."

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

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

"Probably?"

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

"Tell Allie I said hi."

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

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

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

"Everything?"

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

"Great."

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

"Yeah. I will."

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

"So?" she demands.

"So what?"

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

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

"Good enough for a second date?"

"Definitely good enough for a second date."

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

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

* * *

April 14th, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, in the second quarter, something clicks.

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

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

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

"Did he just—" you start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Since our first date?"

"Since our first date."

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

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

"Not perfect. But maybe perfect for you?"

"Definitely perfect for me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were amazing."

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

You laugh. "High praise."

"The highest."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later that night, in your dorm room

April 14, 2018

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I get to love you through all of it.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

May 18th, 2019

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

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

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

"Joe?"

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

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

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

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

"But?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about us?"

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

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

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

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if the distance is too hard?"

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

"When did I teach you that?"

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

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

"You really think I should go?"

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

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

"Now?"

"Now. Before I lose my nerve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're really doing this."

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

"You're going to LSU."

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

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

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

"What if I miss you too much?"

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

"Promise?"

"Promise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 19, 2019

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you. Go be great.

Forever yours, Your biggest believer

* * *

Chapter 7

December 14th, 2019 - New York City

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe Burrow. Heisman Trophy winner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you too."

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

"The NFL?"

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

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

"I want that too," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 14, 2019

My Heisman winner,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, The girl who knew first

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

* * *

April 23rd, 2020

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

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

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

"I'm not bouncing my leg."

"You're absolutely bouncing your leg."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You excited about that?"

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

"No more sitting on the bench."

"No more sitting on the bench."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 25th, 2020

Moving day is chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

"What, moved in together?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What's scary about it?"

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

"We've been adults, babe."

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

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

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

"Everything okay in there?" Joe calls out.

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

You and Joe exchange a look and burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was an accident!"

"It's always an accident with you."

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

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

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it a thing."

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

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

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

"They were really nice plates, Dad."

"They were highway robbery is what they were."

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

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

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

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

"I have my moments."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Definitely banned."

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

"Yeah?"

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

"Even if it's scary?"

"Especially because it's scary."

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

"What?"

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

"Hey, my cooking isn't terrible."

"Remember the smoke alarm incident last week?"

"That was an accident!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

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

"You ready?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels like forever.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep

July 25, 2020

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

April 15th, 2022 - Cincinnati Children's Hospital

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

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

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

"Special visitors?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you?" Sophie asks Joe.

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

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

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

"It's my job."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love what I do."

"I know. It shows."

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

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

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

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

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

"They love us," you correct.

"They love us," he agrees.

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

But today deserves to be remembered.

April 15, 2022

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Your very proud girlfriend 

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

* * *

January 30, 2022 - Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City

The silence in the family section is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you see him.

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

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

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

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

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

"I know, baby. I know."

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

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

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

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

"It doesn't feel extraordinary."

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

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

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

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

"Even after that interception in overtime?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

"Please. For me."

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

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

"Not really."

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

"Promise?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, that's what you think.

Later that night, while Joe sleeps

January 30, 2022

My heartbroken love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Y/N

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

* * *

March 15th, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. "What kind of something?"

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

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

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

"Sarah, what—"

"Keep scrolling," she says gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want to talk about it?"

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

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

"Promise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we talk?"

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

"Can you put that down? Please?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

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

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

"Doesn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aren't you? Kind of?"

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

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

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

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

"My problem?"

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

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

"I wouldn't care."

"You wouldn't?"

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

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

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

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

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

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

"Try again."

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

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

"So?"

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

"People need to mind their own business."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fine. I'll be more mindful."

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

"Joe—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 15, 2023

Joe,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N

[theladybrownstarot]

𝜗𝜚 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ?

|𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ִֶָ |𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐝-𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ִֶָ |𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 ִֶָ |

|𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ִֶָ |

HOW TO PICK A PILE ? Take a deep breathe , close your eyes after your open them up choose the pile where your sight goes first in calming inner silence . If you are called up by more than one pile you please feel free to choose them.

𝜗𝜚 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏 ! 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:

The month of July is going to be about forgiveness and acceptance. You may let go of some opportunities you waited for because they didn't turn out to be as expected. You are moving towards those choices that are aligned with your plan. I can see that you are becoming more spiritual than a material person. Basically, you have realized yourself and your goals, which won't let you take choices that are less for you or do not support your long-term plan. I can see some long travel this month; some people may leave their home. The energy of this month for you is very still because you are calm and controlled, almost like a siren. This is a good month to do charity also. The theme of this month is more self-reflection and searching for higher emotional ground, understanding them. You are developing inner strength. You will be lifting many heavy karmic energies. There is a divine plan for you, which you are following, so do not fear or get scared if things do not go your way. I can see Gemini energy, which can indicate that there could be the possibility of it having misunderstandings this month or being delusional too. Something from your past will be repeated. For monthly messages, it is coming that there is an old pattern rising up in you, and it's time to deal with it and release it for good. You know what you need to do, so don't delay it any further. What you need is courage and one step at a time. Also, don't let yourself feel unloved. Trust your intuition. Be assorted because you are ready for the great miracles of this month because divine trust you at the same time thatyou think that you may continue what was started in July within the next few months.

🌸Here's my link to personalised readings - link

🪷 You may even donate to suppport me - link

𝜗𝜚 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐 ! 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:

In the month of July for pile number 2, you people will need to make a decision between what you love and what is your priority, but how you will make this decision will depend completely upon you. Some people may need to make specific decisions regarding their love life or with any current person they are with right now. This is an ethical decision that needs to be made. It is possible for a few people to meet someone romantically this month. You will need to take care of your routine this month because I see anxiety over some things, which could possibly result in you having bad sleeping patterns as an effect. There could be a period of tension, but anyhow, you will come out of it successfully ending another cycle of karma or karmic cycle. You people may go through some Venus transit or Venus dasha. For Oracle guidance, look beyond your current situation, raise your vibration, focus on love, and always remember that where your eyes cannot see, your heart will definitely see it. Don't allow your ego or doubt to play games with you; just stay calm and keep your eyes open towards what you want. You people may start tarot readings or any occult studies too. I sense here that people may connect with some spirits, basically a beyond-human-comprehension type of thing. You may have to face a major downfall, and this will lead you to interact with them. Listen to and believe in your intuition. No matter what happens, there is always a peaceful solution for everything. Some of your expectations might not be fulfilled, which is only to protect you.

🌸 Here's my link to personalised readings - link.

🪷 You may even donate to suppport me - link

𝜗𝜚 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑 ! 𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:

From what I am getting, somebody will betray you this month, and I feel that you know who this person is, so trust your intuition. People may act against you out of jealousy, hatred, envy, aggression, or retaliation. You will definitely grow up this month, but you need to keep your eyes on the people because they will definitely try to bring you down, but anyhow, you will get them back down out of revenge. Whoever this person is, they are younger than you. You are someone of importance; remember that. Do not overthink this month, and keep your hopes high. Apart from this, the month will go by connecting with your inner child, healing your trauma, and understanding your feelings. You will daydream a lot this month. This is childlike energy here. You can expect some romantic confession this month through someone. Allow your creativity to surface. You're definitely going to make some major decisions this month regarding your life, like you are going to change everything, but of course, as I said, you will rise, but people will try to get you down, so you need to protect your energy and trust your intuition. There is a possibility you may get sick this month, but you will improve. This is a perfect time to start something, but you need to look for some sign, which is the sort of protection too from negative energies. Don't rush; just follow the signs by asking God.

🌸Here's my link to personalised readings - link .

🪷 You may even donate to suppport me - link

[somewheres-woods]

You Know Better.

Starboy Series.

I

Content Warning: Gender neutral reader, gore warning.

The mountains have never been kind.

This, you know.

The lesson had been beaten into you long since before you could walk.

Your grandparents had meant well with these lessons, especially in a place such as the Appalachian Mountains. They had known many that had vanished without a trace here, and many more who were left behind.

As a warning?

As a threat?

You're unsure.

You remember the first day you saw them.

The swinging of the wire in the frigid winds, the crimson trickling down upon the earth beneath. They didn't look human. Not anymore. Any traces of humanity stripped from their bodies, leaving macabre corpses strung upside down like it was a form of art.

You were no older than a decade. But sights like those tend to stay with you for life.

Your grandmother had shoved your head into the side of her leg, an attempt to shield you from it. However, it had been too late.

You remember it so vividly that you can still count the number of flies that had been circulating around the corpse. Regurgitating its acid on the flesh to a more palatable consistency for consumption.

Skinwalkers. You were sure of it.

What else could possibly skin a man like that? String it up like meat that no longer provided use.

That wasn't the last sighting.

From the sheriff to the homeless man that sat outside of your favourite diner.

But there was one disappearance that had the whole village tipped into a frenzy. An incident that happened only two years after your initial meeting of death.

You had a friend you went to school with. She had been quite the troublemaker. Always questioning authority and doing idiotic things. She had been a blast. A bright young spirit that surely had a future far bigger than this small town.

She had convinced you to sneak out of your house late at night to play with her at the park. By the time you arrived, the moonlight had perfectly framed the sight of blood on the slide.

They never did find her body.

Your grip tightened on the door handle, eyes squinting in focus as you do your routine checks.

A rattle on the handle. Once-- twice. Ensuring that it's locked before you retire for the night. Pulling down the blinds to shield the inside of your home. Cocoa, the malamute, who followed you like a shadow, twisting her head to the side at your perceived hesitation.

Something just felt off tonight.

You don't understand why.

You scratch your wrist, backing away from the door in slow steps. Almost dragging your feet as you attempt to back away from this imaginary pull.

You step forward once again.

One rattle, two.

It's still locked.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to turn to the side. Yet even as you move yourself away, you can't bring yourself to turn your back to the door until you're in the safety of another room.

If you see something you shouldn't have, no, you didn't.

If you hear something you shouldn't have, no, you didn't.

Mind your own business or else it'll become theirs.

You mentally recite those rules over and over. Your fingers tracing along the edges of the frame containing a picture of your grandparents. You have no candles for them tonight. You hope they won't be too upset.

You hear a gruff coming from Cocoa, her relaxed body language dissipating into something tense as she eyes the front door. Which doesn't chase away the goosebumps on your arms in the slightest.

Your hand reaches out to touch her, to run your fingers through her coat to soothe her, but she shuffles off to the side. Her gaze still fixed on that damn door.

No sooner do you look over, the very foundations of your house begin shaking. A blinding light shines through the curtains as the sound of wind slices through the stillness of the night. It sounds like whatever it was had just flown by overhead, just missing the roof of your cabin before a loud crash pierced your ears.

Cocoa is barking like crazy by the time your ears stop ringing. You groan in disorientation before you finally begin to gather your senses.

You didn't know what the hell that was, but you knew it couldn't be good.

You're already pulling on your boots and jacket and heading towards the door before you stop. You really shouldn't be going outside at night...

But whatever that was had to be a vehicle of some kind, right? Like a helicopter. Something human.

You couldn't just ignore the possibility of someone being hurt.

Just in case, however, you pull your grandfather's old shotgun off the wall. Already loaded for quick access should you ever need it.

"Come on, girl." You beckon Cocoa as you pull open the door, slamming it shut behind you as Cocoa runs into the dark forest.

It's snowing.

You pull your scarf over your nose as you trudge forward.

A light guides you through the forest. Something warm. Something destroyed.

You aren't left to guess long before you arrive at the crash site. The surrounding area's snow completely melted, but the fire seemed to be controlled. Going out as the winds sharply whistled through the trees.

You see some kind of large parachute burning in the branches above, thick wire connected to some kind of capsule. You don't recognise the design of it. It's something sleek. Something foreign.

Something alien.

You cock your gun as you see a shadow moving, pointing the barrel at a figure in the centre of the demolition. It claws at the ground, pulling itself from the broken capsule before giving a weak groan. Collapsing in a heap.

Cocoa is the first to approach it, sniffing the beast intently as she tries to figure out what it is. Neither of you are able to satisfy your curiosity, even as you approach to take a look yourself.

All you can determine is that it's not of this earth.

Something vivid and green pours from it. You can only assume that it's the beast's blood.

It's bleeding.

...

You should put it out of its misery.

You have a gun.

You could put a bullet in the back of its skull.

You should.

Nothing seems to be going the way you want it to go tonight, however.

.

.

.

It took a long time to drag the thing back to your cabin. It's definitely the early hours of the morning by now. A quick glance at your phone confirms as such. You look down at the bandages that looked almost primitive adorning this advanced looking alien.

You've gotten a better look at it now that it's stretched out on the wooden floor. You would've offered the couch, but that seemed far too small and weak to support this beast.

The alien was easily nine feet tall. Muscular too, but not to the point of being grossly muscular like many of the gym rats you've known. A perfect mixture of fat and muscle.

Its skin was almost reptilian in nature, yet it ran hot like something warm-blooded. Its scales were as deep as the void of space, yet not entirely devoid of colour. In fact, between its scales and panther-like markings ran traces of deep royal blues and purples. Its... hair? Long tendrils that just barely exceeded past its mid-back, the ends a deeper shade of dark periwinkle.

Its face was nothing like you had ever seen before.

Yet it wasn't... ugly?

You think that's the word many would attribute to this... thing.

Its face was just so damn intriguing.

You had taken its helmet a while ago to check for head injuries. Thankfully, it seemed mostly fine. Its helmet had taken most of the battering.

It was probably unwise for you to sit this close to it. To be observing it like an art piece.

You reach for the tendrils, holding one lightly in your palm as your thumb traces over it.

A decidedly horrible decision.

It growled like a tiger as it suddenly pounced towards you. Your head hitting the floor with a resounding bang as the thing nearly sinks its entire weight on top of you. A breathless wheeze escaping you as the wind is knocked out of your lungs.

Its face is so uncomfortably close. Its brows furrowed, its mandibles twitching a little too close to your skin.

And its eyes—

His eyes...

What a pretty shade of blue.

Cocoa's barks echo from the other room, growling and scratching at the door at the beast. He doesn't even acknowledge her. Only you.

Until he flexes his muscles, feeling something tight and restrictive on his arms, torso, and thigh. Bandages.

You watch as it pauses, as if considering something.

You wonder if, for even a brief second, he might feel gratitude—

A large hand finds the collar of your shirt, lifting you up and slamming you back down onto the floor. A deafening roar being screamed directly in your face. Your ears pounding as you clench your eyes shut.

The weight is moved off of your smaller body. You suck in several gasps of air, coughing and spluttering as you roll over weakly onto your front. Tears clinging to your eyelashes as your breathing starts to regulate itself normally again. You flinch as you hear a crash from your left, turning your head to see your sliding glass doors shattered as the beast disappears into the night.

He spared you. For now, anyway.

Once he's gotten over his initial gratitude.

He'll come back.

Up next: A Kindness You Can't Afford.

You should've known better.

Taglist [OPEN] — @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog , @distinguishedprincesstrash , @gremlinartstudio , @me753 , @juuuuno-o , @badbye666 , @yoonsilly , @mei-simp , @theclownkisser , @strawberrybl1ss , @pink-sunrise-56 , @the-shark-named-sharon , @carminhadaavenidabrasil , @broken0verseer , @mys0cksrwet , @straw--b3rry

[tagged-by-trauma]

hi lovely! i hope you are all well and safe! could i request something with pedro x plus size reader? it makes me feel valid and seen :) it can be about anything, your choice! have a great day! xx

They don't deserve you

When the man you've been dating basically dumps you, Pedro shows up at your apartment and shows you just how much you're really worth. Pairing: Pedro Pascal x plus size!reader Warnings: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, reader feeling insecure, crying, Pedro saving the day, soft reassurences, first kiss, cuddling Word count: 1.4k A/N: Hey anon! This request hit home as I'm also a plus size woman, but I was happy to write it for you! Hope you'll enjoy!

You have been sitting on your couch in your little apartment for over an hour now crying your eyes out. The man you’ve been talking to for months now, who you’ve went even on a date with just wrote a text to you that he didn’t think that it could work out for the two of you, and that you can still stay friends even though the complications that just stepped up between you.

You didn’t answer him. Didn’t know how. You just read the message and cried. You felt like you weren’t worthy of love anymore, that maybe you’re just not capable to be loved. Your thoughts even swam there where you thought it was your body—although you usually felt confident in your own skin. That maybe you were too much for anyone in this world.

The tissues were scattered around you, blanket pulled over your body as you tried to disappear.

He was your closest friend for years now, and you couldn’t deny that you had feelings for him, but things were far more complicated than just confessing to him and waiting for his reaction. You didn’t want to ruin that friendship you had with him. Once you even gave him a spare key to your apartment, letting him into your life completely, and trusting him with your secrets. Years ago, you decided to have a movie night every Wednesday evening, and that night was today.

You didn’t even remember, too buried in your own shame.

You heard your front door open, but you didn’t dare to look up or even stand up to greet him from your place. But as Pedro stepped inside with a bag full of snacks and drinks, he knew that something was definitely wrong because the silence was hanging too thick in the air. He put down the bag on the kitchen counter and walked inside the living room with careful steps, the wood softly creaking under his weight.

And in the doorway, he faltered in his steps.

He looked at your tear-streaked face, the dirty tissues threw around you and the snacks placed on the coffee table. He couldn’t help but be angry. Not at you. But for that person who hurt you this amount. With a soft sigh he walked closer to the couch and sat down. That’s when you looked up at his sad face, and you tried to dry the tears off your cheeks with not much success.

“What happened, sweetheart?” his voice was soft, laced with a bit of pity, and your nose crunched up a bit at the sound of it. That was the last thing you needed. You didn’t want to be pitied, you wanted to feel like yourself again without the doubt in your mind.

“It’s nothing,” you reached for another tissue when his hand came around your wrist and held it gently. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep in the new tears that found their way, and you let out a sigh.

“Cariño,” he scooted closer to you. “It’s not nothing when it makes you cry.”

“It’s just,” your voice faded as you tried to put your thoughts into words, and the warm feeling on your cheeks was proof that the tears spilled over again. His hand came up to your cheek and his thumb dried up the drops.

“Hey, hey, you know you can tell me, right?”

He was so soft with you that the words spilled out of you without a second thought. Maybe they were coming with anger, maybe sadness, but the most possible way was just saying everything with a numb tone.

“There was this guy I met in a café. He was sweet and caring and handsome. He walked up to me, we started talking and, in the end, he just ended up asking for my number. We went on dates, it seemed like everything was going so good, and then he texted me today that it’s not what he’s looking for but we can still stay friends,” you felt your heart become slightly less heavy, but it didn’t change the fact that you still felt like someone who was just dumped on the side of the road, left with nothing but a broken heart and no more tears left to cry.

Pedro looked at you with something unrecognizable in his eyes. Maybe a mix of anger and protectiveness, but there was something way more than these two, and you tried to figure it out. His arms came around your shoulders and he pulled you into his chest. The fabric under your cheeks smelled like him, like the place you got used to, and his arms felt like the soft reassurance after the storm.

He felt like home. And you were afraid of this quick conclusion.

“I just feel like that… Maybe I’m not capable to be loved. Maybe I’m just too much for people,” you mumbled under your breath, but he could still hear it, and he pulled you even closer. “I mean, I’m not those type of girls who walk on the street and every man’s gaze fall on them. I’m not the one who could easily borrow a shirt from their boyfriend and just wear it. I’m not—”

You were cut off by the feel of his lips on yours, and at first you were caught off guard, just sitting in his embrace, trying to not overthink everything. And then, your mouth found the same rhythm of his and the next thing you knew you were sitting in his lap, thighs resting on either side of his hips. His hands moved on their own route. His right tangled in your hair and his left resting on the small of your back, steadying you. Yours were both in his hair, ruffling the brown hair with soft grey streaks in it.

Probably seconds passed like this, but it seemed like minutes. Your dream that you never dared to do is now playing down in front of you, and your mind had to catch up with the emotions and the feeling of his warm body pressed tightly against yours.

You finally leaned back, your breaths coming in shallow puffs against his cheeks, and he gave you a soft smile from beneath you, so disheveled but still so handsome.

“That man doesn’t even deserve to breath the same fucking air as you. You’re not too much, you’re just not for people who can’t handle real beauty. And you,” his hands moved lower and cupped your thighs, giving them a soft but reassuring squeeze. “Are so fucking beautiful, cariño.”

You blushed at his compliment, your fingers combing through the messy curls on his head.

“Thank you,” he wanted to shake his head, as if indicating he doesn’t need gratitude, he was just doing what he wanted to, but you stopped him with a simple look. “Not just for this, for reassuring me that I’m worth it but for everything. For always being there for me, for always showing up when I’m at my lowest. Thank you.”

He pulled his face closer to his, his eyes so full of affection and care that you could have melted there on his lap.

“You’re really worth it, cariño. And if I’ll need to prove it, I will burn down the whole world for you,” his hand moved up and down on your legs, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the bare skin that was revealed by the ridden-up shorts. “I love you. I loved you for a long time, but I was scared. Scared of losing something so deep we had. Scared that if I said the wrong words, you would leave me there. But now I’m saying it. I love you, cariño. So fucking much that sometimes it hurts.”

His words striked a part of your heart you long thought was buried. But now he found it, and he was determined to bring it up to the surface.

“I love you too, Pedro.”

That’s all he needed. His mouth was on yours again. Hungrier, more desperate, full of emotions.

That night you both slept in the same bed. Not because something happened, but because you both wanted to feel each other close. His strong arms around you, the fabric of his t-shirt falling over your body, and the scent of his cologne filling your whole bedroom, lulling you into the calmest and deepest sleep you’ve ever experienced.

Maybe the world didn’t appreciate you the way you would have wanted, but Pedro was there.

And to you, he meant the world.

[vera-deville]

I am here with but one simple request, jack with a non-confrontational, socially anxious reader! it’s such a contrast with his own confrontational manner and lone-wolf nature that I think would be quite interesting to explore (๑>ᴗ<๑)

love your writing, keep up the good work ^_^ ♡

Louder Than Words 05/03/2025

Pairing: Jack Howl x Reader Word Count: 1,104 Warnings: N/A Gender: GN Tags: @qaxdea, @katzline Notes: Thank you so much! I really needed to hear that, and I'm so happy you enjoy my writing! Masterlist

You had always known that group projects were simply another nook of purgatory established to make life that much more devious to get through.

The very idea of them gave your stomach leeway to twist into anxious knots, constricting like a boa until you couldn't breathe anymore. It wasn't that you didn't like people (okay, perhaps a little), but it was more so that you didn't know what to do with them. The talking. The awkward "who's doing what" conversation. The silent tug-of-war when nobody wanted to take the lead, and everyone kept glancing around, waiting for someone to volunteer. You'd rather write five essays alone in a cave than do one group project with three strangers who barely remember your name.

So when Professor Trein announced a four-person Herbology research project, you nearly curled up under your desk and died on the spot.

And of course, fate - cruel, ironic fate - put Jack Howl in your group.

Jack, with his gruff voice and stone-faced demeanor. Jack, who didn't care if someone got upset when he said what he really thought. Jack, who had no problem walking straight into confrontation like it was a warm summer breeze.

You were going to die. Or cry. Possibly (most likely) both.

The rest of your group was rounded out by a loudmouth from Savanaclaw named Yulan, who had opinions about everything, and a sleepy Octavinelle student who you were 90% sure was just in it for the grade. That left you, nervous, anxious, and wouldn't-say-boo-to-a-ghost you, trying desperately to keep things from going up in smoke.

The first meeting went about as well as expected.

"I'm just saying, if we're talking about magical soil composition, we have to include the variant growth properties from the Scarabia greenhouse. That stuff is wild."

"Yeah, but that's not what the assignment's asking for," Jack cut in, arms crossed. "It says we need to focus on herbological integration in real-world applications, not theory."

"I am talking about a real-world application!"

"Not if you can't prove it," Jack said flatly.

Yulan slammed a notebook on the table. "You wanna bet?"

You could practically feel your soul saying goodbye to your body.

"Um...maybe we can, uh, do both?" You squeaked, almost whispering.

Neither of them heard you.

"Alright, I'm done arguing," Jack growled, standing up. "If you want to waste your time, go for it. But I'm not failing because someone can't read a prompt."

Yulan bristled. "Who're you calling someone, dog boy?"

You slid a little further down in your seat.

And yet, even after the shouting and the note-slinging and the pure chaos of that first meeting, Jack stayed behind when the others left.

You hadn't said a word in the last fifteen minutes. Just scribbled things in your notebook and tried not to look like you wanted to evaporate.

Jack leaned against the table, arms crossed, looking almost...thoughtful.

"Hey," He said. "You okay?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

He nodded toward your still-white-knuckled grip on your pen. "You looked like you were about to bolt."

You flinched. "I...I don't really do well with conflict. Or people in general."

Jack's ears twitched. "I could tell."

You braced yourself for the judgement. The teasing. The "well, toughen up" speech.

But it never came.

Jack looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to snap like that. I just hate when people don't listen. It's not personal."

You blinked again. Slowly. "You...weren't mad at me?"

He snorted. "You didn't do anything."

That shouldn't have made you tear up the way it did.

"Thanks," You said softly. "I, um...I wanted to say something, but I didn't want to make it worse."

He looked down at you, golden eyes narrowing slightly. Not in judgement. In...curiosity?

"You always like this with people?" He asked.

You nodded mutely.

Jack grunted. "Then I'll talk to them."

"What?"

"I'll keep the loud ones off your back. You focus on the research stuff. You're good at that, right?"

"I-I guess so. I mean, I like organizing and writing..."

"Good," Jack said simply. "Then you do that. And if Yulan tries to start another debate, I'll shut it down."

You blinked. "Just like that?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to not help you?"

"No! I just...I'm not used to people being that direct."

"Guess that's why I'm here," Jack muttered. "Balance."

From then on, Jack didn't just participate in the project - he managed it. Not in the way most people would simply take over, but rather by smoothing out the chaos so that you never had to. If Yulan got too loud, Jack would glare at him until he quieted down. If the Octavinelle student slacked off, Jack growled until he did something useful. And whenever it came time to present your findings to the professor, Jack always, always deferred to you to start the presentation.

"You did most of the writing," He'd shrug. "It's only fair."

You couldn't remember the last time someone had made you feel...capable. Protected, even. But never belittled.

It wasn't just about the project anymore.

Jack started walking with you to class after your meetings. He'd slow his pace to match yours, quietly adjusting his long strides so you didn't feel like you were trying to keep up. When he asked you questions, he actually listened - ears twitching every so often as you spoke, tail swishing thoughtfully behind him.

"You talk quiet," He once said, "But you say smart things."

You flushed all the way to your ears.

Eventually, you even got comfortable enough to sit with him at lunch. Jack didn't talk much, but you didn't feel like you had to either. He liked the silence. He thrived in it. And now, so did you.

"Can I ask you something?" You mumbled one afternoon as you sat underneath a tree, papers spread between you.

Jack nodded.

Why do you go out of your way to help me? I mean, I'm not...strong. Or brave. Not like you."

Jack looked at you for a long moment, then snorted.

"You ever try doing something when your heart's about to leap outta your chest? Walking into a room full of people, talking even when your throat locks up?" He shook his head. "That's strength, too. Just a different kind."

You stared at him.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like I said something poetic."

You laughed. "Sorry. You just surprise me sometimes."

He shrugged. "I like people who are real. You don't put on a front. You just...are."

Your chest swelled with something warm and unsure and a little fluttery.

Maybe group projects weren't all bad.

Author's Note: I've been in a bit of a rut lately, which I was really sad about, because a couple of months ago, I had a really good streak going, and I was churning out fics at a rapid rate. Unfortunately, I just kind of fell off that streak for a while. I'm trying to get back into it, and I also plan on opening commissions soon! Please be on the lookout for more information regarding that, and I hope you enjoyed this fic!

[insanebookreader]

𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐈𝐭 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬, 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝐀𝐔!

Pairing: S2 Philosophy professor x Non- BAU Fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Synopsis: He didn’t originally plan on staying for so long– though he wasn’t sure he minded anymore. It was a quiet, small town with an even smaller population– the perfect escape. But when he starts reliving the same day over and over again, what was supposed to be a break from reality becomes an endless loop that tests his sanity. Everyone forgets. Even her. Only he remembers. Trial after trial, mistake after mistake, he searches for a way out. But what happens when he finds a love he never thought possible–one that follows him, chooses him, even when it doesn’t even remember him?

Key: ★❥🖤✧ (okay basically everything)

Content warnings: TW!: Mentions of attempted suicide, depression, psychological slight insanity(?), hard angst but there is a happy ending. Mentions of height difference, cheating (but past), reader has hair😭, PIV and there's implication that it's without protection but not explicility said..DON'T FOLLOW IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS. Mentions of injured kitten? Also she always willingly goes with him even though he's a stranger? Again, don't follow in her footsteps. Spencer faints from happiness? In one of the loops he love bombs(?) Descriptive scene of drowning. Broken-heart syndrome mentioned. Spencer's POV

A/N: "Fate is a tricky lady, when you try to figure her out, you just get more confused." This is a quote from 'When We First Met"- I was watching it when I was finishing up this fic and it literally like..hit me. I was like oh em gee this so fits, I had to tell you guys. The cat's name was originally "Eureua" but I changed it to "Mini-Meow" last minute when I saw an instagram reel. ALSO I AM SO SORRY, this was meant to come out...weeks ago. Weeks. But it's HERE. After so long. Much thinking into it. Much of my pussy, tears, and whatever else. Thanks to my close friend for being my BETA reader. <3 BUT YAY. IT'S HERE.

There is heavy research, weaved in themes, easter eggs, etc into this and I'm a little proud. There's two heavy.."themes?" Reasonings? That cause this and have him get out. I won't say because I don't want to spoil but I hope you get them. Might do a post A/N.

ALSO YES, there is no other interactions besides reader and Spencer because it IS MEANT TO FEEL ISOLATING! That is his world. Everything is intentional.

much love, enjoy <3 (and this is my baby, I worked so hard- please be gentle.)

Word Count: 12.6k (DAMN)

Friday Harbor in San Juan Island, Washington. It was supposed to be a break from the weight of his everyday reality. Sort of. Originally, he was filling in for a professor on sabbatical– temporary, a favor. But somehow, over time, he fell in love with the mellowness and serenity of the small, endearing town. The stillness of it. The clarity. He’d finally gotten settled. Somewhat known, but not recognized. Acquainted, but not obligated. It was refreshing. A few months had passed since he ended his semester at the local university. Just a few weeks since he decided to stay. Since he decided to call this place home. He was starting to form a daily routine, the kind that quietly fit without friction– and then… it happened. 

He cracked an eye open and turned toward the nightstand, toward the soft blue glow of the digital clock beside his bed. He shut his eyes again. Letting his head fall back down onto the pillow with a long, slow sigh.

January 12th, 2025. 7:00 A.M. 

It had been like this for what felt like an eternity, even though it wasn’t. He hated– no loathed it. He felt like the universe was toying with him. Was it? Had he racked up so much karma debt that this was the result? Was it this town? A glitch? A curse? The same questions, every same morning. And still– no answers. That’s what he needed. What he continuously searched for.

After he did his usual routine– shower, teeth, vest and tie, breakfast, the practiced quiet– he made his way into the living room. The space was warm, the kind of comfort you couldn’t fake. In the corner stood the mobile whiteboard on wheels. He grabbed the black whiteboard marker. Again.

Horology. He might as well be able to teach that alongside his other subjects now with how obsessively he fed his mind with it every single day– well,..same day. Closed Timelike Curves, loop quantum physics– how time and space might be fundamentally structured in a way that allowed for possible loops. Because that’s what was happening. A goddamn. Endless. Loop. 

Loop Quantum Theory, Bootstrap Paradox– the scientific name for time loop. He went through this every (same) morning. Scientific overview and further investigation, some deep diving into fictional time loop theories even though he hated the fact it was fiction. Really, he just needed something– anything to grasp. To explain, analyze, debunk. He had discovered far early in his life that that is what he was best at and loved– facts, logic, reason.

By the time he came up for air, it was nearly 10 A.M. – time for his usual run to the coffee shop that was conveniently down the street, get his overly-sugared cup– and step into the bookstore that was next door to the quiet aforementioned coffee shop.

“Hi! Welcome to ‘Helena’s Book Home,’ if you need any assistance, feel free to let me know!” He knew that same exact practiced sentence by heart about now. It wasn’t the sound of your voice that annoyed him, no, never– it was the fact that he could recite your exact words in his sleep. 

He decided, you know what, why not try something different today? (He always did, but usually not until later in the day.)

So, he stepped toward you, nodding with a soft, approachable smile as he slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. “Actually, could you lead me to where 'Strangers On A Train’ by Patricia Highsmith would be?” Okay, well..he actually knew exactly where it was. He’d been here multiple (and he meant multiple) times, even before this whole Bootstrap Paradox, time loop, whatever-it-was started.

But he didn’t mind the philanthropic smile that graced your lips as you gazed up at him, nodding willingly. “A fellow connoisseur of psychological thriller, I see. How interesting. Follow me.” You knew Highsmith? That’s what he thought to himself. Almost on autopilot, his footsteps echoed behind yours against the dark oakwood flooring.

You turned to him swiftly once you arrived at the mystery/thriller section tucked in the back of the store, grabbing the book without looking before holding it out to him with a smile, like you knew the shelves by heart. “If I told you the amount of times I’ve read this, you’d be astonished. Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

He’s not sure whether he’s hurt or agitated at the question, maybe both. Because you have seen him before. Numerous times, but then again, he couldn’t blame you. 

Careful not to let his frustration slip into his tone, he took a breath– and shook his head, offering a faint smile. “I just..don’t come into town often, I usually stay home.” Wrong. Just like this goddamn time loop. Everything was wrong. And he just had this itch– this unbearable urge– to figure it out, to–

“Oh! Well..” You pursed your lips, glancing around then down at the faded, aged watch on your wrist before meeting his gaze again. A small smile crept onto your lips– the kind that pulled one onto his own before he could stop it. “If you’d like, and if you’re free, I could..show you all the hot spots. And a few of the more hidden, niche places, too? Only if you want! I just..-”

Before you could spiral into a ramble, he cut in gently, shaking his head. “I’d like that. I’ve recently moved here, so I don’t know too much about the town.” Half-truth. He had  moved here recently. But he wasn’t oblivious– he'd explored nearly every inch of this tucked-away, quiet place. Of course, he couldn’t tell you that.

He saw your shoulders relax once you processed his words, like you’d been expecting him to oppose. You nodded as you crossed your arms over your chest– something he noticed you did often. Not for any particular reason. It was just you. He’d learned that through the many ‘trials,’ as he liked to call them. “Cool. Uhm..my shift ends at two. So...a bit of time. But, if you’re willing to wait,..I could get us a discount at ‘The Market Chef?’ I have a friend who works there. It’s a really good deli– has wine, bunch of other stuff. Then I could show you around town.”

Please. As if he’d object. It was almost ridiculous how hesitant you sounded asking him this– though, again, he had to remind himself that he was a ‘stranger’ to you.

Agreeably, he nodded, tapping the book in his hand for emphasis. “Sounds perfect. I’d be more than willing to wait for you.”

And so, now he sat in Overlook Park with a tremendous amount of papers and research in hand. It was almost noon, so he had time to kill– and what better way to do it than by trying to figure this shit out?

Look, he usually wasn’t an irritable man. He liked to think of himself as calm, collected, and rational. But anyone would be on the verge of madness after being stuck in a place that was supposed to be as close to nirvana as possible– only to realize it was samsara.

He sighed, scribbling messily across the pages in front of him, his brows drawn tightly– lips curled into a small frown that seemed permanently etched onto his face when he was alone lately. It wasn’t just the fact that he was going insane in this paradox from hell–it was the not knowing that really got him. He couldn’t figure out why. Or what. Or how. Or when. None of it. 

And Spencer Reid loved knowing. He loved logic. Understanding. Clarity. He had none of that right now. Great. That, and he had zero control over any of it. Why did life have him by the balls right now?

The Law of Cause and Effect– how Karma operates on the principle that every action, thought, and intention has a corresponding consequence. It’s a casual law, not a divine judgement. That means the person in question is fully responsible for their own actions– and the outcomes.

Makes sense, right? He taught this for a living. Philosophy. So..maybe if he kept digging. If he kept solving. Searching. He’d find the answer. That’s how he looked at life: answers.

Time loops also existed in this very field, theories suggesting that all moments in time– past, present, and future– exist simultaneously. That in a looped model, these moments could continuously repeat, which creates a timeless structure where events are replayed indefinitely. 

Oh god. Would that happen to him? Would he be in this until the end of said time?

No. He couldn’t stand the thought. 

Okay, well..he knows how time was the comparison of one open system– aka, the clock– to another open system, where energy arrives at the observer from both open systems. Basically, this logic means reality is timeless. The loop that generates human experience of time is simply the capacity of memory– how we, as humans, imagine past, present, and future states of clocks or other quantities map to an imaginary timeline.

So which answers did this provide him?

 Absolutely nothing. 

~

As he sat across from you on the wooden bench outside the deli, he noticed things he hadn’t before. Usually, he’d only see you at the bookstore, the coffee shop– quick, convenient places. He’s never actually been with you like this before.

He noticed how your lashes were so long they kissed your brow bone, how your nose scrunched with every emotion you expressed freely– annoyance, amusement, joy, even frustration. It was endearing.

He watched how you flashed a smile and small wave to the baby nearby, sitting with its mother at another outdoor table, your eyes curling into crescent moons, full of warmth. 

“You know,” He started, “Neonates often stare at people who are more beautiful. Their minds are still developing, exploring the world, practicing their visual skills, and even mirror other’s expressions. Over time, they begin to favor faces that resemble their parents or guardians– it’s a form of familiarity. It’s quite fascinating, actually. They’re already learning to recognize certain facial features. Children notice a lot– different facial or body shapes. Shiny and/or oddly shaped things catch their attention too, especially vibrant colors. That’s why kids' toys are always bold, bright colors.” He spoke quickly, gesturing with his hands as the words flowed from his mouth like a fountain of knowledge.

You looked at him with a curious tilt of your head, eyes glinting and narrowed. “Is that so? Soo..” His gaze flickered down when you pursed your lips, looking at the baby then back at him with a playful flash in your irises. “Are you calling me beautiful?”

To that, he breathlessly and shyly chuckled with a small grin, shrugging nonchalantly like his cheeks weren’t flushing. “Uhm...yeah. I guess I am.”

A small, teasing– though soft– hum left your lips as you confidently held his gaze. “You don’t even know my name.”

But he did.

“I need to know your name in order to observe the obvious? And plus, I do.” He followed up his statement with a soft call of your name, looking at you with a gentle smile as he pushed his glasses back up the curve of his nose.

The way your brows furrowed in confusion should’ve alarmed him, though he didn’t process his own predicament until the words left your lips. “How’d you know that?”

Well. Shit. It totally wasn’t because he’s been reliving January 12th for a frustratingly long time now. 

He knew you. You didn’t know him. Right.

“Your name tag. Back at the shop?” What a save.

Your eyes then lit up with recognition as you pointed, nodding as your eyebrows raised. “Ohhh…okay. Yeah. That makes sense.” You took a sip of your drink before looking at him abruptly, leaning close with the wonder of a child. “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

He pressed his lips together tightly, nodding before speaking smoothly, an edge of sorrow if you looked close. “Dr. Spencer Reid. But you can just call me Spencer.” He fidgeted with the paper napkin he had in hand, continuing. “You don’t, uhm,..You don’t have to address me so formally.”

You let the syllables of his name slowly fall from your lips, like you were testing how it felt and sounded from your tongue. “Spencer.” An almost wicked grin graced your lips afterwards. “Hm. I like it.”

Right on time, the waiter walked back to the table, ready to take both your orders.

It’d been some time since then– late afternoon now, the clock nearing the spiritual number of wholeness and balance. Oddly fitting, considering he felt just that in this moment. 

You two leaned against the long, red wooden railing of the bridge that stretched across  the front of the Brentwood Bay Resort & Spa, standing above the quiet waters. From the point he and you stood, you got a gorgeous view of how the sun slowly descended down the expansive, painted sky.

Another needle-like breeze swept over the two of you; January in Friday Harbor was unforgiving. He wished he’d known that before moving here– but whatever.

Thankfully (for once), given that he’s been reliving this Thursday again and again, he knew the exact weather by heart. Precipitation levels. Wind gusts and their MPH. Humidity. All of it.

Knowledge.

And because of this knowledge– something he always tightly clung to, he was prepared. Well and thickly dressed. You, unfortunately (and he guessed resentfully towards yourself), were not. A little underdressed for the cold. Though, in your defense, you hadn’t planned on ending your day like this– not here with him.

In his periphery, he caught the shudder of your shoulders and heard the faint clatter of your teeth. So, of course– like the gentleman he was– he urged you closer, already shrugging off his coat. 

You immediately shook your head with a wave of your hands, smiling at him as you stepped back. “No. It’s okay. Thank you, I’m not even-”

“I insist.” He cut in, already draping his coat over you as he looked down at your shivering form. “And yes you are. Your lips are turning purple and you’re shivering. Please. Take it.”

He saw the way your breath was visible in the cold air when you sighed, nodding as you obliged– tugging his coat closer. “Thank you, Spencer.” He enjoyed the sight of how his coat was slightly (more than slightly) big on you, his build far taller than your own.

A small faint smile crept onto his as he noticed that, clearly his throat as he pushed his glasses back up– nodding diffidently. “Course.” 

“Have you always lived here? You seem to know the town like you’re the mayor yourself.” He blurted out, looking to the side at you as he leaned against the railing– you now having your arms tightly wrapped around yourself, clutching to his coat.

Was he cold? Yes. Kind of freezing. Actually. But it didn’t matter to him– as long as you were okay.

Wait– what?

You shook your head, gazing at the now ember horizon, which casted a glow upon your smooth skin. “No. I, uh..” You followed with a breathy laugh, looking back up at him. “I actually used to live in New York. For a while. Born and raised.” 

His brows shot up in shock, turning to face you fully as bewilderment graces his features. “Wow. That’s..uhm..”

“Yeah.” You chuckled, nodding with an amused and knowing smile. “This place is a big turn around compared to New York.”

He nodded affirmingly, chuckling as well. “Yeah. Definitely. I mean,..why? What made you move here? To somewhere so..quiet. Instead of that usual hustle and bustle.”

“It was a lot. I mean,.don’t get me wrong, I love New York. But..after some time, I needed somewhere to breathe and just exist. I needed something different.” After a small silence, you shook your head– looking away timidly with a scoff. “It sounds silly.”

“No, no, no. It’s..it’s not.” He quickly interjected, entirely intrigued by the fact that you felt the way he did. “I completely understand. I actually came here– well, originally I came here on sabbatical and filled in for a professor for a semester. But I ended up falling in love with the.., well everything about this town. So I decided to stay. Because I needed exactly what you said. To breathe.”

You looked at him with a softened gaze, humming as you processed his words before nodding. “Professor.” You mirrored his own stance, turning to fully face him. “What do you teach?”

“Philosophy. I also have a degree in neuroscience.” He proudly stated, glad to share something he was proud of with you. He didn’t know why, but it felt good to try and impress you– as well as to share his achievements with you.

He saw the way a smile made its way onto your lips, a small affirmative and impressed hum following afterwards. “Brains, beauty, and kindness. Can’t say I find that in a lot of guys.”

And it stayed like that for a good hour or two more– close together like intertwined vines, a growing connection from the ongoing conversation being the blossoming dahlia’s.

After going to the port, sharing warm cocoa– where you had wiped some whipped cream off of his nose, and the alleyway that was infested with cute cats – you two had finally settled on your last destination of the nipping, dark night.

He hummed, nodding as he licked his thumb before dusting his hands off. “Now those are delicious. What are they called again?”

You scoffed, looking at him with widened eyes as you ate your own chocolate truffle. “You’re kidding. They’re Lindor! Lindor milk chocolate truffles. They’re absolutely delicious.”

He nodded as he stored the name in his infinite vault of memory— looking back forward at the view. You both currently sat at the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling over the concrete surface, earbuds in with some low music creating an even more peaceful ambience. Oh, and of course, a blanket draped over the both of you, given it was absolutely freezing out.

“You know, I usually enjoy classical music. But..I like this. Jeff Buckley, you said it was?” He questioned, ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” flooding both your ears. A masterpiece. Truly.

“Mhm! He’s a genius when it comes to lyrics and his music. I mean– listen to it? And his vocals?” You spoke passionately, sighing like a lovesick teenager. “Ugh. Just pure perfection.”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, a faint smile forming on the corners of his lips– to which, he didn’t even know was happening. Not until he saw your quizzical expression and tilt of your head. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

Immediately, his cheeks flushing, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Nothing..just. I-..you got so passionate about his music. It was..it was cute.”

You stared at him with stars in your eyes, just like the very ones you both were gazing at– only the ones that swam in the pools of your eyes were far more breathtaking. 

He didn’t process the sweet and chaste kiss you left on his cheek until he felt your lips pull away– the warmth from them gone the second they were even there. 

“Thank you, Spencer.” He questioned why you were thanking him? He knew why, with the whole cute comment thing– but he felt he should be the one thanking you for giving him his own blanket which was the warmth that spread across his skin from the innocent, loving kiss. 

~

He blinked. Once, twice, thrice– then the blurry ceiling above came into clear view. Again, on routine– he turned toward the digital clock on the bedside table.

7:00 A.M. January 12th, 2025. 

For a pregnant moment, he just stared at it– wondering, is this seriously my life right now?

He groaned frustratedly, pulling at his hair before throwing the duvet off from him with a huff– getting up from his bed that he now saw as shackles. 

Shower. Teeth. T-shirt and jeans. Breakfast. Forget the practiced quiet– his mind was the embodiment of what a fork in a garbage disposal sounds like right now.

As he, like always, paced the living room with his marker in hand��� he abruptly stopped. A scoff leaving his lips, like he just discovered the cure for cancer.

“That’s it. I’m in a coma! My mind simply is fabricating a false reality. Hold on..” He practically sprinted to the tower of books piled up in the corner of the room, pulling out the ‘The Neurology of Consciousness: Cognitive Neuroscience and Neuropathology’ book from the middle- not paying mind to how all the others toppled in a clumsy mess.

He hastily flipped through the pages for the next 5 hours. 5 whole hours of overwhelming his already storm of a  mind with a plethora of topics. He already knew most of this, given he has a great amount of knowledge in neuroscience and almost everything. But it didn’t hurt to review. To try and find answers in the cracks of the stubborn wall he kept hitting.

He was set on the idea that this reality he was reliving was Comatose hallucinations. There’s many factors as to why this may be happening, he’s possibly in the ICU which would be considered a strange, unfamiliar environment– the medications he possibly was being given. 

Since even though he may be in a state of deep unconsciousness, his mind isn’t fully inactive– a knock at the door.

The hell? He looked down to the watch on his wrist– it was almost 12:30. Not only that but who could be at the door?

Another knock. He sighed, shutting his textbook after glancing at the page number before setting it down. His skin grazed the door knob after unlocking the door, opening the d– wait, why were you at his doorstep? In the number of times he’s lived this day– you’ve never come to his doorstep or to him? But he’s also never not gone to town in the morning.

You quickly looked up from having been concerningly staring down at the small, gray injured kitten in hand– eyes wide and apologetic. “Hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt your day, sir. But I..” You sighed, soothing the meowing kitten with a clutch of it to your chest.

“I was on my way to work when my boss called me to say there’s been a small flood and not to come in. I was walking back and..I saw this small kitten injured and I just knew I had to find someone quickly. Your house was the closest.” You quickly got out, looking back and forth between him and the ash gray kitty wildly.

Well that explains why you weren’t at work right now. And provided him with another piece of information to store into his mind about you – alongside everything else he learned about you yesterday– you were tender and caring, looking out for those around you, including a little injured furball. 

He cleared his throat as he fixed his glasses, nodding as he stepped back and opened the door wider for you to walk in. “Yeah..yeah, of course. Uhm..shouldn’t we go to the vet or something?”

As he shut the door behind you, you shook your head– sighing and turning to him. “The vet is like..2 hours away or something. Plus, we’d have to go to the emergency vet anyway and that’s not happening.” You held the kitten close to you, having it wrapped in your now bloodied scarf.

“We’ll have to treat it a bit first then get this poor baby there later. Do you have a small cloth and possibly pet antibiotic cream or ointment?” To your question, he nodded– having you follow behind him to the bathroom down the hall.

Once you finished gently cleaning, drying, and putting some cream on the kitten’s wound– you gently started to wrap its little leg in the white bandaging. He watched how you wrapped it with such consideration and care, so delicately like you gave life to the kitten yourself. But he figured that was just your kind-hearted nature shining through. 

He saw how after aiding the poor kitty, you held it to your chest– whispering some soothing words even though it couldn’t understand you, following your words with a love-filled kiss on its head.

Reminding him of your kiss on his own cheek from ‘yesterday.’

‘Uhm…I’m Spencer, by the way.” He held out his own hand to shake, surprising himself since he didn’t like doing so. But he narrowed it down to the fact that one: he grew a weird liking for you, and two: he felt he basically knew you.

Your eyes widened before you nodded, smiling kindly as you met his hand with your own, introducing yourself. “I’m sorry for not starting off with that. I probably should’ve, you know? Probably felt spooky letting a stranger into your house. It’s nice to meet you.”

He withdrew his own hand with a small laugh, nodding as he slowly reached over to scratch the kitten behind its ear. “And you willingly walked into a stranger’s home. So I guess we’re even.”

You nodded with a small chuckle, gazing back down at the kitten that was now sound asleep in your grasp. “I guess we are.” 

“So. Is the little guy– or girl..is it okay?” He asked with a tone of genuine worry, leaning back against the sink counter. 

“Yup. He’s all good. And you were right the first time, he’s a little dude.” You met his gaze again, your eyes crinkling at the corners from your growing smile. “Thank you, stranger. For helping me with him.” 

He shook his head, smiling with a scratch of his nape as he looked at the sleeping kitten then back at you. “I didn’t really do anything. I just provided the supplies.”

You shrugged, tipping your head to the side with your gaze holding his own, a warm, sunset-like feel to it. “Still. I appreciate it. That and you not murdering me.” You held up your now bloodied scarf with one hand, making sure not to wake the small malkin in the other. “I gotta run. Get this washed at home before it sets in.”

“Oh, uhm..” He leaned off the counter edge, pushing his large, dorky glasses back up. “I have a washer and dryer. You can just wash it here.”

With a small shake of your head, you kindly declined with a shy air to you. “I appreciate it but I wouldn’t want to intrude. More than I already have.”

He didn’t know what it was about you– well, besides the fact he’s learnt so much about you in the past day and has seen you over and over– that just..tethered him to you.

“Are-..are you sure? I mean, uhm. I just..well, I know I’m a stranger but..I don't know. We just saved a kitten together? So..” Okay. As the words left his lips, he realized how desperate he sounded. Maybe a tad bit creepy. He quickly fumbled, eyes wide and alert. “Wait– that sounded really w-”

“It’s okay.” You smiled up at him, though narrowing your gaze with a lighthearted, suspicious glint to it. “On the off chance that you’re not some Ted Bundy 2.0..I’ll stay. Only because my dryer is broken currently. And I didn’t have anything else planned for today. So.”

He felt his muscles relax, a tender smile forming on his lips. “Yeah. Cool..uhm.” He opened the bathroom door, leading you to where the washer and dryer were.

~

You two were now chatting it up in the kitchen, laughter filling the air– which mixed with the scent of the food on the stove, you were perched up on the counter while he cooked up some casual, easy to make dinner. The small kitten– that you two agreed to name ‘Mini-Meow’ – nuzzled in between your criss-crossed legs, purring and peacefully snuggled up. 

“Seventeen, drunk off our asses, and walking to the 7-Eleven down the street from my house.” You spoke with disbelief, shaking your head. “It was so stupid. I don’t how we made it out perfectly fine..but we did.”

He scoffed humorously,  shaking his head with a grin as he looked at you from the corner of his eye. “Yeah. Thankfully. What were you thinking?”

You snorted, “That’s the thing, we weren’t.” You continued to caress the grey ball of fur’s head with the pads of your fingers, looking down at it with a small grin.

“You know, kittens are the best thing ever.” You said, like it was the equivalent to saying two plus two equals four.

He laughed at that, nodding in agreement as he put the lid over the pot before turning to you, leaning against the kitchen counter opposite you with his hands on the edge. “I’m a cat person, too. They can actually jump up to six times their height– they’re extremely athletic.” He started doing that thing with his hands as he spoke, eyes glinting as he enthusiastically rambled on, bringing a smile to your lips.

“They also have night vision, 32 muscles in their ears along with astonishing hearing– which can rotate 180 degrees. On October 18th, 1963— a cat was actually launched to space by French scientists. The cat’s name was Félicette.” He pronounced with an alarmingly good French accent. “And there’s actually been a cat mayor. His name was Mr. Stubbs, he came to paw-litical..” 

He breathed a laugh at his own small joke, grinning stupidly before licking his lips and continuing. “..power in 1997 of Talkeetna, Alaska when he was elected honorary mayor. He was an orange tabby cat. He was mayor for 20 years.”

You just stared at him in bewilderment for a long moment, completely shocked though increasingly impressed. “And you just..” You smiled amusedly, gaze narrowing suspiciously. “..Know all of that off the top of your head?”

He shrugged with a giddy nod and grin, fixing his glasses as he gazed at you proudly. “Mhm. I uhm..I actually have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187, I can also read 20,000 words per minute.”

Your jaw dropped as you gazed at him wildly, the cat also lifting its head suddenly. “So..I’m talking to a genius.”

As he went back to paying attention to the food on the stove, he sheepishly nodded, wanting to be modest but also holding some inner cockiness. “I guess.”

“You guess?” You set the kitty down on the ground as you hopped down from the counter, stepping up beside him.

“You’re literally a genius. That’s so badass.”

His brows furrowed as he looked to the side at you, his glasses fogged from the steam that rose from what he was cooking, which made you giggle, eyes squinting as you widely grinned at the silly sight.

“You think it’s ‘badass?’”

“Mhm! Totally badass. Intelligence is the greatest power, you know. I learned that in high school government class.” You peeked at the food he was making before looking back up at him.

“Huh. Badass.” He liked that. You thinking of him as something impressive and worth praising, encouraging what others usually scoffed at in annoyance.

As you two ate side by side at the island, shoulder to shoulder– he couldn’t help but forget about how his days would be a rather tortuous, dreaded feat for him. Instead, all that came to mind was the vault of moments he had with you that just kept compiling.

He wished for more. What could he do to make these moments permanent? To make it forever. To make you and him forever.

“Spencer?” Your voice and wave of a hand in front of his face snapped him from his trance, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Hm?” He blinked, shaking his head to rid of the fog that clouded his mind.

You set your glass down after drinking from it, smiling at him kindly. “I was asking where you’re from originally since you said you moved here recently.”

“Oh. Uhm..” He looked down to his almost untouched food, grabbing his fork. “I’m from Las Vegas. Left when I was eighteen, lived in Virginia for quite a bit and..” He shrugged, looking back at you. “Now I’m here.”

“Huh.” You said, expression slightly surprised. “You don’t peg me as the type to be from Sin City.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Have you ever been?”

“Mhm. I have. Once. But..” You sighed, scratching your head. “It was with my ex-boyfriend. And..not only was he super controlling on the trip with what I was wearing, going, all of that. But it was also the trip where I found him cheating on me with some random girl in our hotel bed. So..safe to say I don’t have the best relationship with Las Vegas.” You laughed bitterly. “Yeah. He’s actually one of the reasons I moved here from New York.”

He was baffled. Completely. Somebody cheated on you? Why? What could imaginably be the reason for someone to do that to someone who withholds the beauty of both the moon and the sun? Both inside and out.

After a moment of collecting his own, he softly spoke with a shake of his head. “He’s a total imbecile. I’m sorry for that.”

“Eh, it’s..” You sucked in a deep breath before sighing as you swatted your hand. “Whatever. Anyway, enough about me. I want to know about you. You have this mysterious air about you.”

He nearly shriveled under the attention. He was never too good at talking about himself. It’s not like he liked to anyway. “Uhm..” He looked away as he thought, you taking some bites of your food, letting out a small hum of satisfaction. 

“I like science and philosophy jokes.” 

You raised a brow with an intrigued look, swallowing your food before speaking. “Oh yeah? Hit me.”

He then straightened up, clearing his throat before speaking, already grinning like a kid at disneyland. “How many existentialists does it take to screw a lightbulb?"

You hummed, head tilted and expression expectant. “How many?”

He let out a snort, putting two fingers up. “2. One to change the light bulb and one to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness."

The only sound in his sun-bathed, humble home was the refrigerator running (lol) and the distant sound of the dryer with your scarf in it. Could he even hear the air?

One mississippi, two mississippi–

The silence was broken with a snickered, loud laugh from you as you looked at him with a wide grin– one that made your eyes crinkle– and a shake of your head.

“You’re..something, Spencer Reid. I like it. One day you have to teach me all about it so I can fully grasp the nature of that joke.” 

“You’re..not mocking me?”

“What?” Your voice almost incredulous. “Mocking you? Why would I do that? I mean- I may have not.. completely understood your..joke.. but I still liked it. 10/10.”

Skip.

And then one more. Two skips of his heart. How could something as simple as you laughing at his joke make him feel so seen? Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. But still. It’s hard not to feel that when everywhere else he felt so alienated. Hell, even in a room full of scholars just like himself, he felt like he was the butt of the joke.

Instead of feeling his stomach twist uncomfortably with anxiety and regret, he felt it warm with relief and admiration. 

And instead of feeling his heart clench and climb to his throat like a newfound home, he felt it quicken and jump in excitement. Like it was trying to leap out of his chest to meet your own heart that he hoped was doing the same. 

~

Your scarf had long been washed and dried. The dinner long gone, stomachs satisfied, and dishes washed. Though you still breathed the same air as him, still helped him with filling the four walls of his home with laughter and mild chaos, and still filled his nostrils with the scent of your faint perfume that was mixed with the underlying scent of just you. 

Because you were still here. 

With him.

You groaned in exasperation and frustration, throwing your cards down with a huff as you glowered at him. You just lost another round of poker to him.

“You have to be cheating! Are you peeking? Did you rig it?”

He laughed with a shake of his head and shrugged, grabbing the chips from the pot to where he had his whole pile of chips already forming. “Nope. Just better than you.”

You rolled your eyes with a huff before shaking your head. “It’s because your ass is from Las Vegas. I’m not leaving until I win a game.” You said as you started grabbing all the cards and shuffling them.

He snorted at that, even rolling his own eyes at your statement. Which he took as a joke. After shuffling the cards and dealing them out to the both of you evenly, you got up and pointed at him with a knowing expression. “No cheating. I’m going to the bathroom.”

Once you were down the hall, he immediately flipped your fanned deck up and peeked before nodding to himself and putting it back down. Since you were gone for a moment, he had to sit with his thoughts for a few minutes. 

He didn’t want to admit it to himself but his thoughts heavily circled around just everything you. How– just like the moon upon the ocean– you had a magnetic pull, he the ocean. And how– just like the daystar– your light would peek through the cracks of even the gloomiest of days. You brought a stillness to everything. More specifically his mind. You brought a lingering silence and tranquility that he often craved– what he precisely yearned for from this town. You made and let him just be.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was able to do that.

Eventually you padded your way back into the living room and sat back down on the floor across from him, grabbing your cards from the table before looking at him slowly with a brow raise.

“You cheated.” 

“What? No, I-” You were already placing your cards on the bottom of the deck and grabbing five new fresh ones from the top. Which made him visibly deflate with a huff, looking to the side with a slight pout.

“Ha! See. You being upset about me getting different cards proves it.” You gloated, wearing a smug smirk as you held your chin high.

“Why are you acting like you won already?” That immediately wiped the expression from your face as you did the same as he did– deflating with a pout. But you also glared at him from the corner of your eye.

“Just..freaking start already.” You said in a sour tone as you both placed your starting bets in the pot. Which was a chip that you both agreed was the value of ‘ten dollars.’

As the next game of poker started, he kept his gaze on you with a narrowed, analytical though easy gaze while you kept your own callous and untelling.

“I’ll raise you..” He slid five chips of 20 into the pot before meeting your gaze with his own, a cocky grin plastered on his lips– to which you stared at him with your jaw dropped and deadpan.

“You suck. You actually suck.” You sighed, sliding the same amount before looking to your own hand, studying it then looking at the community cards. 

Ten minutes later. Again. Cards were heard being thrown against the table with a frustrated huff, to which he laughed in amusement.

“Ugh. This is actually bullshit. I’m never winning a game. You keep cheating and one day I’ll prove it!” You finished off with a huff, crossing your arms as you glared at him.

He continued to laugh as he fixed his glasses, bringing all the chips from the middle pot to his side. The ratio of his chips compared to yours was…..embarrassing. 

“You still have yet to beat me.” His voice was completely smug and he saw the way it pissed you off even more.

With a long exaggerated sigh and roll of your eyes, you stood from the ground– stretching your limbs with a glance at the clock. “As much as I’d love to stay here and..continue getting my ass kicked by you, it’s getting late. And I love my sleep. So.”

He had been hoping that those words wouldn’t come. But he knew it couldn’t work his way, so he nodded with a forced smile as he stood as well.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I..I had fun.”

You nodded with a small grin as you started to grab your things, making sure to get everything. “I did, too. The food was delicious by the way. So thank you.”

He forced a nod and faint smile, rising from his feet as well. “Of course. Uhm..let me walk you out.”

Once you got your shoes and coat on, he opened the front door for you, you both walking out.

“I had a nice time. I’ll take care of Mini-Meow, don’t worry.” He softly spoke, not yet wanting you to go. 

“I did, too. And you better. I’ll be visiting to make sure I don’t have to take full custody.” You said with an exaggerated, serious expression and pointed finger.

He was about to respond before he paused, looking around then looking back at you with his brows furrowing. “Hey, wait– are you walking home?”

You nodded with a small sigh, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “I am. I’m not that far from here. I’d say like ten minutes.”

He immediately shook his head, shutting the door behind him and stepping closer once as he fixed his glasses. “I’ll walk you home. I don’t like the idea of you walking home alone this late.”

“Hm…okay. Thank you.” You said with a smile, you both now on your way to your home.

The walk was, like you said, ten or so minutes. It was cold and quiet, the gracings of moonlight shining on both your faces. Most of the time though, as you two talked on and on, he couldn’t help but look at you and you only.

“Well..yeah. I graduated high school at 12. Got my undergrad degree at 16. I actually gave my first lecture at 19. So.”

To which, you looked at him with a scoff, brows raised in disbelief. “You’re kidding. Holy..you really are a fucking genius. What are you? Related to Einstein?”

He shook his head with a laugh, looking down at you whilst you both walked in time together. “No. I am not but..though being a so-called ‘genius’ does have its perks. It also has it’s downs.”

With a curious and listening ear, you tilted your head in curiosity, encouraging him to continue. “Like what exactly? If you don’t mind me asking. You totally don’t have to answer that.”

“Well..” He shrugged, looking forward instead as he contemplated his words. “It’s not exactly the easiest for me to..make friends. Or relationships of any kind. I mostly just stick to logic over emotion, too. So that probably doesn’t help.”

“Hm.” You nodded slowly, staring at his side profile as he spoke before looking back forward, absorbing his words without judgement. “I think..maybe you should start listening to your heart over your mind more.”

~

It went on like that for weeks. Walks, dates, whispered moments mixed with giggles. He didn’t know when he let it happen but he had started to feel...very deep emotions for you. Things he didn’t even know he could. Sure, he’s had a girlfriend or two before but this was completely new territory for him. 

For once, his heart was starting to override his brain. And he wasn’t sure if he minded it too much anymore, especially if it meant he got to be with you.

There was that time where you both just basked in the mutual but comfortable silence of his living room, your head on his lap with his right hand running through your hair, left holding the book he read to you, his voice being the only thing to break said silence, him being able to see how your eyes fluttered shut from the corner of his eye. 

When you two walked town with ice cream, stumbling upon a group of baby ducks and their mother— you nearly exploding from cuteness overload. He had watched your reaction with a soft, loving gaze.

There was that time you had– he still didn’t know how– successfully convinced him to go roller skating with you. The night had been filled with clumsy falls, boisterous laughter, and bruised butts. He still remembers how your hand felt in his.

Oh! And that moment when you two slow danced to some 60’s music atop the same roof you two once star gazed at, him stepping on your foot a few times. He memorized the sound and feel of your steady breathing, the scent of your shampoo, how your warm body snugly fit against his.

Of course, these moments were never permanent in time as how they were in his mind and heart. 

Currently you two were laying on a blanket on a grassy hill, him pointing out the constellations. You two had just gotten back from having a nice..unexpected, dinner together.

“Okay, and you see those stars right there?” He pointed North, your heads directly near each other so you could see from one another’s view.

“Mmmm..” Your brows furrowed, trying to decipher the exact star he was referencing. “Oh! Yeah, I see it.” 

He then started to lead his finger along the stars which formed the shape of Ursa Major. “Follow my finger. Mhm, that’s Ursa Major.” He looked to the side at you, making sure you were following along– only continuing when he was sure you saw it, too.

“It’s one of the oldest constellations. Its right ascension is 9 hours, 46 minutes, and 31.7 seconds. Its declination is about 57 degrees positive from the celestial equator. It contains a nebula, a double star, and several distant galaxies that can be seen with a telescope. And the big dipper? Seven of the brightest stars in Ursa Major shape it.”

Your head turned away from said constellation, looking at him instead with a delicate smile and curious gaze. “You really just know all that off the top of your head?”

He didn’t know why but that simple sentence brought a great amount of deja vu to him.

His gaze drifted to your own with a mirrored smile, nodding proudly though obliviously. “Mhm.”

He watched as you turned onto your side to face him, each individual eyelash visible from how close you two had been. “Huh. You truly are a wonder, Spencer Reid.”

His stomach flipped with his lips parting in surprise, breath hitching with this decipherable flicker of awe and longing in his eyes.

To him, the words that fell from your lips weren’t just a simple compliment– they were a smooth, angelic melody of praise that only mattered because it was from your lips– one that he’d gladly drown in indefinitely, one that he’d bathe in to wash away his terror and tragedy, the very one he’d consume as his sustenance, one that he knew he couldn’t survive without.

There was words he so desperately was trying to pull from his throat– but for some reason he was just..frozen. 

When he finally was able to open his mouth and barely get a word out, he was cut off by the feel of your lips on his own. His eyes had widened, even more stunned than he previously was.

Before he could even react and kiss you back, you had pulled away with a breath– leaving him disappointed and with a small frown. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been really wanting to do that all night. And then you were just staring at me and not saying anything, so I–”

His lips collided with your own, tired of simply wondering what your lips tasted like and how they’d feel with his. Instead wanting to figure it out on his own.

It wasn’t long before your own lips started to move with his, one of his hands moving to brush some hair from your face and find place on the smooth skin of your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing back and forth absentmindedly. 

He could feel his heart skip a beat when he felt you smile against his lips, one of your hands tangling in his own hair as he shifted to slightly lean over you.

-

His hands were shaking with need and desperation as they traced your skin so tenderly, lips slowly dragging up the side of your neck– almost reverent – one of his hands finding home at your hip, gripping and holding it down firmly against the mattress.

The bedroom was solely illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the curtains of his window but it was enough for him to see how your head tipped back against the pillows, chest heaving with your face beautifully contorted in pleasure.

“So..” He panted against the shell of your ear, his hand by your head fisting the sheets beneath you both, inhaling your scent deeply. “So good..you feel so good.” His voice came out breathless, completely desperate, pronounced with a soft whine.

Your own hips jolted in response to his wantonness, goosebumps littering the expanse of your skin, hands threaded tightly in his hair. “Spencer,” you moaned breathlessly. 

“I know..I know.” He then lifted his head to look down into your eyes before meeting your mouth with his own again, his eyes shutting as he brought his hand from your hip to the side of your face, the other tangling in the strands of your hair.

His hips met yours over and over in a deep, achingly slow pace that made it sure for you both to feel every inch of one other. 

One of your hands dragged down his back, nails leaving red streaks as your breath mingled together, skin pressed flush against each other.

With his hand in your hair, he angled your head to have more access to your mouth, his tongue delving past your lips against your own, earning a groan straight from his chest at the taste of you.

Swallowing his groan, you breathed your words against his lips, the hand that was still in his hair gently tugging. “Faster..need more. Please.”

“Mm. Yeah?” He pulled away, watching how a sleek string of saliva connected your tongues before it broke. “I’ll give you anything you need.” His gaze drifted down to where both your bodies met, his hand from your cheek slowly and gently moving down to the small of your back, leaving a lasting, hot trail of goosebumps.

A soft, needy gasp left his own lips with his eyes fluttering shut when he compiled to your words, once more slotting his lips against your own in a deep, all-consuming kiss as your bodies met deeply.

He revelled in the way your legs tightly wrapped around his hips, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently as the room started to fill with heavy breathing and the moans that left both of your swollen lips. 

His body shuddered as a slow, tantalizing shiver coursed through his body from the way you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, his fingertips pressing into the skin of your back as his movements gradually started to grow frantic.

Your own mouth fell open in a gasp against his, pleasure leaving you incapable of doing anything but turn into a growing mess beneath him. 

“Like that..don’t stop..god, don’t stop,” you fought to get out, which was nearly impossible with how your body was practically vibrating with burning, overwhelming  need. 

He was only able to weakly nod in response, completely overtaken by the feel of you around him, the mewls and soft sighs that fanned across his skin from your own lips, and just the way you sounded. So desperate, breathless, and utterly sinful.

But it was just also the fact that he finally had you. He had you in his arms, as close as physically possible, there with him. You were so beautiful he felt it was absurd you didn’t have people bowing at your knees as you walked.

He felt himself grow verklempt with gratitude and infatuation. He felt so privileged that it was him you were with.

To his own thoughts and feeling of your body wrapped in his, he couldn’t help the string of moans that left his lips- which mixed with your own as he held you tightly to his skin, his breathing ragged. “I..-”

The words 'I love you' hung on the tip of his tongue, which surprised him greatly. He never thought of himself as someone to get emotional during sex. He hadn’t even fully known he loved you yet.

He quickly caught himself, knowing he couldn’t say that to you since you barely knew him. So he opted for a breathless plea against your neck. “I..I need you. So badly.”

Your back started to arch off the mattress with your own body coiling up, nodding quickly with your arms holding him close like a lifeline.

“Me too..Spencer, I..,” You gasped, throat bobbing as you thickly gulped.

A low, guttural moan pulled from the back of his throat as his hips stuttered, feeling his stomach start to tighten as his movements only grew more feverant. “Could listen to the way you say my name all day..”

He noticed the way your thighs tightened around him, hips lifting with sweet, needy noises leaving your plump lips that made you sound like you hadn’t ever properly been touched. He knew you were getting close.

His hand trailed from your back to your hip bone, his touch featherlike and slow. “I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” He whispered between kisses against your collarbone.

Your hips jolted with a gaped moan as his fingers grazed over your clit, the tips of them moving in tight, slow circles in time with his hips.

The sound and sight of you in itself sent a sensual, slow shiver down his spine, which made him tremble and nearly come undone right then and there. 

He moved his free hand to your chin, tipping your head up so your eyes can meet his as he continued to get you closer and closer, his pace and fingers unrelenting. “I got you. You’re doing so good.”

And thanks to his eidetic memory, the feeling of your walls clenching around him as you approached your orgasm, your calls of his name would forever be burned into his mind.

Your chest rose and fell in short, heavy breaths as your head tipped back with your eyes shutting, breaking his gaze as you did so. “Oh..oh my god. I’m gonna..” 

A deep groan escaped his lips as he had to keep himself from spilling himself inside of you, his nose tracing the angle of your jawline, nodding quickly. “I got you. Come for me. You’re doing so good.”

His words were what caused the string in your lower stomach to snap– the sting from your nails clawing at his back and gripping of your thighs around his hips was enough for him to know you were coming and it only brought him closer to his own orgasm, his breath catching in his throat as his hips stuttered and vision went black, spilling his release into you with a moan of your name.

“Shit..,” He breathed against your neck, his body collapsing atop yours after a few seconds. “That was..”

You nodded as you moved some hair away from his face that was sticking to his skin with one hand, doing the same to yourself with the other. “Amazing.”

He smiled against your skin, planting a sweet, gentle kiss– taking a few minutes to catch his breath and just bask in the afterglow before slipping himself out of you and standing from the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

But before he could get away, you tugged him back down into a heated but sweet, blazing kiss before letting him go, flashing that wicked grin at him.

With a cheeky, shit-eating grin he stepped out and just like he said, he quickly returned, now with a warm damp cloth and glass of water.

He cleaned you up, had you rehydrate- to which he insisted were necessary-, and you both now were tangled in the sheets and in each other’s arms.

His gaze drifted to the side at the digital clock beside his bed, smiling to himself triumphantly. 1:37 A.M. 

Did he beat it?

With this newfound victory, he looked back down to the side of your head rested on his chest, his fingers delicately running through the strands of your hair, sighing softly at the way the moonlight accentuated the lines of your face, which was an arresting sight.

The comfortable, mutual silence was broken by the soft, low sound of your voice. “You know..”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze with your own. “I don’t..usually have sex on the first date. But..” You shrugged, sitting up a bit.

“I really like you,” You continued, his own gaze slightly widening as he felt his own heart nearly beat out of his chest.

‘Yeah?” He asked with a hopeful tilt to his voice and loving gaze.

“Mhm,” You carried on. “And..I don’t know.” He watched as you shrugged, moving closer with an almost endearing glint in your eyes. One that was directed at him. 

“I would..really like to see where this could go. You and me. How..about you?”

He nearly choked on his spit, his heart melting into a puddle with his eyes forming into those usual puppy eyes of his. “I..” a smile grew on his lips, one that he couldn’t control. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?” You questioned with a mirrored smile and wide eyes.

“Yeah. I really would.”

He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, almost like he was seeking shelter.

The sensation of your fingers running through his hair casted a blanket of fuzzy warmth around him, making him hum in contentment as he listened to the sound of your soft breathing and heartbeat.

He really can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He doesn’t know if he even ever has. Being with you, learning every little detail about you, sharing moments together has been something he really can’t put into words.

All he knew was that it felt like drinking hot coco in warm blankets while watching movies on a rainy day. It felt like watching the sunset from a hill while being entangled with the person you love. And it felt like learning a language he didn’t ever want to forget or share with anyone else.

Really, it felt like coming home.

You and he remained like that for a few more hours, entangled in the sheets with shared, small giggles and smiles, staring at the ceiling together with tired, barely audible words exchanged, Mini-Meow lying between the both of you at one point- learning about each other even more as well as your lives that he hoped would continue to twine together. 

The soft, gentle feeling of your hands in his hair paired with the feel of your skin beneath his fingertips as he ran them up and down your smooth, warm skin brought his mind to a quiet peace, eventually putting him to sleep. 

It was the best sleep he had in ages.

The next morning when he woke up, everything was reset. Again.

 And when he realized this, he cried for hours. Sobbed, actually. He didn’t know if it was from frustration, anger, sadness, desperation– maybe all and more. He felt so pathetic. But he was just so done. He was also kind of scared.

~

He didn’t care how sloppy he looked with his pjs still on, hair tousled– he just knew he had to stop by the bookstore to check if you really–once again– forgot who he was and everything that happened between you both. Everything that was intimate, so beautiful, so delicate between the two of you.

He cherished it.

Would you?

Only life didn’t work that way. And his certainly didn’t.

When he heard the same, daunting greeting you’ve told him a million times before- like he was no one to you- he almost collapsed. And he wasn’t exaggerating.

He swore he felt his last breath escape his lips, he should've died from broken-heart syndrome right then and there. The cause of death where someone literally dies from a broken heart, where an abrupt surge of stress hormones are produced that disrupt the heart's normal function, ultimately ending up in death. 

Yeah. That.

From then on, he spent his days wallowing in self pity. Drowning in his misery. Near agony. At first, it started with the constant searching for answers. By nonstop..he meant non. stop. He wouldn’t change out of his clothes, didn’t shower, didn’t even stop to eat or drink. 

He was desperate but he didn’t care. He used this manic state to touch every subject, book, online resource, literally everything possible related to time, physics– hell, he didn’t care. Anything to figure this shit show out.

Then eventually, he had another idea and tried tried to leave town. He had packed all his necessities, everything he needed for Mini-Meow, and left. Booked a flight and just left. 

That didn’t work.

And there was that one time, where he saw you and some guy walking into some bar when he was walking home.

Of course, he followed you both in. Totally innocent. 

The night ended in him drunk from drowning himself in hard liquor in the corner of said bar.

Why?

Oh, maybe because you were singing karaoke with your date. Practically perched on his lap. With the occasional– not so innocent- kiss.

God, he was covetting so hard. It actually hurt. 

After the hangover that transpired the next morning, it completely went downhill.

One day, he poured his heart out to you– confessed his love like a crazy obsessive stalker, because- well - hell, why not? It’s not like it’d fucking matter in the end.

He told you about all the past times you had together, everything he knew about you, all the love that he had bottled up in every atom of his body for you. It was pathetic to him, and definitely terrifying for you.

Whoops.

Then, there were other times where he begged on his knees for you, tried to play hero when the flood happened in the bookstore to get your attention- to which he ended up making it worse, one time where he was drunk and passed out right in front of you before he could even get a word out.

So, he decided to simply just watch you from afar because he knew you were something he could only admire and yearn for. Not actually have.

He would say he lost you, but you can’t lose something you never had. 

And that fact only haunted him every second, of every day. 

So then, the next cycle started.

 Science and everyone else would call it depression.

He called it life on hiatus. 

He still kept up his mild research, which reduced in size day by day– only it now would be in his bed. 

On and on, your song would be on-loop, like a maddening background to his endless suffering. 

Broken down and hungry for your love

With no way to feed it

Where are you tonight?

Child, ya know how much I need it

“Fuck,” He muttered to himself, looking down at his shirt that he now stained by dropping a spoonful of ice cream on.

With a sigh, he got up from his bed, trudged out of his room while peeling off his shirt, and to the laundry room.

He opened the washer, throwing in the shirt with a frustrated grumble, soap, and so on. Once he got the cycle running, he turned to the dryer, opening it to make sure nothing was in it for when his shirt was done washing. 

It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head.

When he saw your scarf in there, he wanted to punch a wall. Simultaneously, he also wanted to ball up and sob until he had no more tears to shed.

His hand shakily reached out, grabbing it– to which he sort of struggled with how blurry his vision was from the wall of tears that rapidly transpired.

A broken, absolutely devastated and defeated cry left his lips when he inhaled its scent. He didn’t know how it still held your scent. He didn’t even know how the scarf was still there. He didn’t even fucking know how the cat was still there with him for christ’s sake!

That day of you bringing in that damn kitten in, all wrapped up in your scarf, the dinner, poker, him walking you home– it was ingrained in his mind like a damn tattoo. Both a blessing and a curse.

The intimate night you shared burned onto his eyelids so every time he shut his eyes he’d see you so beautifully splayed out beneath him. The events that led to that moment– how beautiful the night sky reflected onto your features.

He almost hated you for running through his mind so endlessly. Almost. But he knew he couldn’t. Not ever.

So I'll wait for you, love

And I'll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should've come over

'Cause it's not too late

It’d been a few days, he had slept with that scarf every night with Jeff Buckley playing on repeat through the earbuds he also went to sleep with.

He hadn’t seen you in ‘weeks’ since he didn’t leave at all. His only company ‘Mini-Meow.’ Which..still pained him. Considering you were both his ‘parents.’

He didn’t really hear the sound of his own voice as often now. Which only heightened the silence and isolation that he felt was perpetual.

He still searched for answers. Only..barely now.

He was starting to lose hope. Not only in finding said answer but in..everything. He didn’t understand why he had to start reliving this same day over and over if it meant he didn’t get to change anything. He always ended up in the same spot.

Yes, it was the reliving the same haunting day over and over that brought an unsoundness of mind to his soul, but it was- and he’s told himself this before- the fact that he couldn’t. do anything. about it. He didn’t know anything. He was lost.

He was completely lost and he had no idea what else there was to do. No answers. No possibilities for him.

But he knew.

He knew there was one thing he didn’t try.

~

He was terrified. 

Staring down at water below him as he stood atop the very bridge you two once stood together at. Poetic, right?

It was night– so no one would bother him or try to interfere. He wanted this.

Right?

A shiver ran down his spine from both fear and the breeze that nearly swayed him off the edge.

He did think it over for a few minutes. Was this the right thing to do? Or was it just a mix of helplessness and a need for answers dwindling together that got him here?

He knew the answer, he just wouldn’t say it aloud. He really didn’t care anymore. He was in a never ending broken record-like world of agony. Shortened version? He was dead inside. 

He was empty. His soul was void of any light; void of you, his heart was simply functioning, not really beating. The oxygen he breathed in felt like something he needed to eradicate. Because what was the use?

Living was simply torture at this point. It was if the grim reaper himself had his throat tightly in his grasp, taunting him. Teasing him with death above ground.

“Okay,” He whispered to himself. Almost a promise. For what? He didn’t know.

Tightly, he shut his eyes. Taking one last, deep, shaky breath. And leaned forward.

The cold wind blew against his skin and pushed his hair back as he descended with an increasing speed.

And he saw it, the ‘life flashing before your eyes' thing people always said.

All he saw was you.

He saw your radiating smile that always reached your eyes when it was directed at him. He heard your boisterous laughter, the way your head would tip back as your eyes shut. He saw the glimmer in your eyes when you talked about something you loved or even when you listened to him talk about something he loved. He saw your puffed out cheeks when they were stuffed with food and he remembered how it would make him laugh endearingly. 

He remembered how your lips felt on his cheek that first night. How he felt your warmth radiating off your own skin and onto his when he touched you, or when you held him and vice versa. He remembered how your scent was so distinguishably you, it always mixing with the perfume scent he loved.

The way you said his name. How it’d sometimes have a teasing edge to it. Or how you shouted his name in a laugh when he accidentally pulled you down with him while you both roller skated. You had ended on top of him, the crash being a mix of ‘ow’s’ and laughter, only for you two to be yelled at since you were in the middle of the rink in people’s ways.

He suddenly realized that you were the one constant in his life. You tied everything together. He needed you.

No.

No. No, he didn’t want this anymore. He couldn’t do this. He wanted to go back. He’d make it work. He had to.

The water had slowly, but very painfully filled his lungs. It was a burning, flame-like sensation. His body jerked and he clawed at his throat as he panicked– suddenly forgetting how to swim. He began to have hypoxic convulsions, his muscles spasming as his screams got muffled by the water.

He grew disoriented, thrashing around, not even knowing which way was up anymore because it was pitch black. Because it was fucking night. 

He could feel himself slip away, losing consciousness, body going completely numb.

And then–

He abruptly sat up from his bed, coughing and gasping loudly which woke up the kitten beside him.

His wide eyes searched the room as he threw the duvet off himself, turning to the side and looking at the blue numbers he always did.

Of course. Same time, same day.

How?

How wasn’t he fucking dead?

After an hour or so of just..staring at the ceiling..questioning his sanity and just simply repeating the same question in his mind; what the fuck, he quickly dressed, cleaned himself up and burned everything.

He burned his research books, threw out his whiteboard, whatever else he had that related to his research that he busted his ass on.

“Bullshit.” He threw out another book. “Bullshit.” Another. “Bullshit!”

He huffed, slamming the door behind him, taking a deep breath and strided to town. Where did he find this newfound courage and confidence? Who knew. He certainly didn’t.Maybe it was the basically dying. But whatever.

With his chin high, tailored slacks and purple tie, he got his coffee (tipped the barista), walked to the neighboring bookstore and–

Shit.

“Shit.”

He stared at the sign that read ‘Helena’s Book Home,’ suddenly frozen in place, to which a few people had to weave around him. His breath left his lungs, the sensation akin to the one he felt ‘last night.’

He was terrified because he didn’t know if he could take it again. You looking at him with zero recognition. Because to him, you were the love of his life. You were his life. You were his safe haven, his lifeline, you were- as typical as it sounded- his everything. 

You were what he lived for.

But the thought that resided at the forefront of his mind was..

What if he continued to just be nothing to you?

With a shaky hand, he stepped forward, entering the bookstore where– he had come to realize a while ago– it all started.

The bell rang above the door, it softly closing shut behind him. He felt his throat go dry when he seen you behind the front desk, his body feeling like it wasn’t his and coiling up, his anxiety spiking.

Then a gasp. “Spence!” You practically crashed into him, arms wrapping around the back of his neck.

He looked at you with wide eyes, his heart rate quickly escalating, his breathing growing erratic, and-

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed, immediately kneeling down to cradle his fainted form.

~

As his eyes slowly peeled open, he immediately winced from the bright, fluorescent hospital lights, starting to sit up.

“Woah! Hey, easy.” He felt hands push him back down gently, those hands belonging to you. And when he realized that, he felt like he might faint all over again.

“I..” His brows furrowed as he looked around, inhaling deeply. “Did you take me to the hospital?” 

You breathed a small laugh, shrugging with a sheepish expression. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was so worried and..and I remember hugging you and then..and then- you just..you fainted! So–”

He pulled you down into a sweet, deep and needy kiss with his hands on your jaw. He needed this. He needed you. After everything, he knew he just needed to take. To feel. To want.

How were you here and still remembering him? He didn’t know. But he honestly didn’t care. Not anymore. He was done racking his brain with trying to find the logic in things. With driving himself crazy. With demanding instead of living. With searching instead of feeling. 

That changed now.

Because all he cared about now was the smile he felt against his lips from yours– the kiss deepening for a few more seconds before you pulled away- to which he chased your lips with his own before he relented.

“Someone’s happy. What’s all that about?” You inquired with a teasing hilt to your voice, gazing at him softly with your thumb gently caressing his cheek.

“I’m just..” He shook his head, staring up at you with a wide smile, trying to gather his thoughts into words.

He inhaled deeply, holding your gaze– yours reflecting love and endearment back at him.

“I love you.”

'Cause it's not too late

Upcoming works

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

L Lawliet x Reader pt. 25: the Billionaire and the Prostitute

Welcome to the mini!

9 AM, on the dot. You watch him pull into the driveway, already seated on your stoop. The giant suitcase full of your clothes, makeup, hair products, and other necessities was such a pain to roll down the stairs, but thankfully, Watari exited the limo to assist you.

You thank him, make your way to the passenger door, and open it to find L, seated and picking m&ms out of trail mix. "Good morning."

"Morning," you sigh, settling across from him. "How long's the drive?"

"24 minutes, accounting for traffic. Take-off is at 9:30."

"I'm a little nervous..."

"It's natural to worry about your first time."

"Don't say it like that."

A ghost of a smile. "Like what?"

"...you know what." You turn to look out the window, open space wizzing by.

"Have you eaten yet?"

"No, not yet." You feel something tap your knee. When you look down, you're met with a candy bar, held by L's spindly fingers. You chuckle, and take the item. "I can't have candy for breakfast."

"Why not?" He has his own now, eyes locked on yours as he peels away the plastic.

"I need something with more substance. Like a sandwich."

"Mn...we may be able to stop on the way..."

"No, we're on a time limit, I'll just wait until we're on the plane...you did put real food on the plane, right?"

"Yes, I put all of your needs into account. Though I stand by dessert being a real food."

You grin, and bite into the candy. Nougat, caramel, and nuts in a chocolate shell. "How do you manage to eat like that?"

"The more you use your brain, the more you burn sugar."

"What about protein and vitamins and all that?"

"Fruit has plenty of vitamins, and there are proteins in nuts and legumes."

"What about all of the fat?"

"You know, I'm surprisingly active."

"Mm...I'm not surprised," you tease.

He takes another bite of candy. Were you...flirting with him? Unprompted? He can't remember the last time you've flirted with him unprompted. Well...he can, but the figure of speech still stands.

Perhaps this trip will uncover things he never thought possible.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

I've been royal watching for years. I was excited for a new royal wedding but soft alarm bells were already ringing for me in the engagement interview. Then came the constant tsunami of pr & gossip, Meghan and Harry's weird behavior on engagements, her eye-wateringly expensive wardrobe, the odd fit. The rumor was she was mean, no family at her wedding except mom, the disagreement that she could taste egg in a dish led to Queen Elizabeth intervening. Anyway I remember shortly after the wedding being shocked that neither Philip nor the Queen was attending Louis' christening and the only reason they gave is that it was a "mutually agreed" decision between the queen, William and Catherine. BP said the decision was not based on health reasons, but rather to allow the Queen to focus on other engagements, as she had a busy schedule that week. (Nothing newsworthy though, no travel anywhere). I remember when I heard that I said the queen is already crafting a precedent for not attending Baby Sussex's christening. Everyone around me thought I was mad, there was no way the Queen would miss her first mixed race great-grandchild's christening, it would look racist. But miss Archie's christening, she and Phillip did. They said they wanted to get away for a couple of days so they left Windsor Castle where the christening had been planned to be held and went up to Sandringham for 3 days which they never really did that time of year. This is the conspiracy that I can't shake, why would she miss Louis' christening? Was it to give her cover for missing Archie's? Did she premeditatively want to miss both those kids christenings, or just Archie's? Those two are the only two among her great-grandchildren's christenings she has missed. She attended Lena Tindall's christening who was born barely a month after Louis; and later she was there for Lucas Tindall and August Brooksbank's christening.

Is it possible they asked the then Cambridges if they could bow out of Louis' christening so HMTQ wouldn't get too much blowback for not attending the christening of H&M's child? Why was the queen adamant about not being there? Was she afraid Meghan would be unpleasant? Was she purposely avoiding the Sussexes? I recall in Spare when Harry complained how his father was telling him Meghan couldn't go to Balmoral after the queen's death. Harry was only placated when Charles told him Kate would not be there either. The Cambridges fell on their sword to pacify the Sussexes at the Commonwealth Day Svc by taking their seats and not processioning in with the queen, Charles & Camilla like was written on the order of service. Please tell me I'm barmy imagining she premeditatively chose not to go to Louis' christening to pave the way for her not to attending Archie's christening. Am I even making any sense? I've taken an Ambien so I will be calling it a night.

Fear not! You are barmy. It's the Ambien speaking, I think.

For two reasons.

First, Louis was born long before Archie was incubating in his mother's belly and while Meghan was still somewhat on good behavior with the firm and family. As bad and intolerable Meghan became, I don't think it would have stopped The Queen and/or Philip for attending a Sussex child's christening. Especially since, remember, The Queen and Philip did a photo op with newborn Archie, Meghan, Harry, and Doria a few days after he was born. That's more than future king George got. So I have to believe, and especially given The Queen's faith, that missing Louis's christening had nothing to do with Meghan attending or a prospective future Sussex child.

Second, by all accounts, Archie's christening was scheduled at the last minute and without consulting anyone's schedules. We have two leaks that confirm it. The first leak is that the Archbishop of Canterbury wasn't even in London that week - he was all the way up in York for the Church of England General Synod. That meant there was a lot of scrambling to not just clear up Welby's schedule so he could do the christening, but a lot of scrambling to get him to and from York and Windsor at the appropriate times.

(Do note that it's not required for the Archbishop of Canterbury to do the christening.)

The second leak is that The Queen was already committed to royal duties and couldn't change her schedule. And actually, your point that "they...went up to Sandringham for 3 days which they never really did that time of year" is incorrect. It's been revealed that after Philip retired and moved full-time to Wood Farm on the Sandringham estate, The Queen actually spent a bit of time at Sandringham to visit him and time that was outside of her annual January/February stay. So it's fully and truly plausible that The Queen was actually regularly staying at Sandringham.

(That said, I do suspect her "royal duties" was cover for horses and something to do with her racing operations.)

And then a partial third, remember that Zara and Eugenie held a joint service that saw Lucas and August being christened together. So even if The Queen and Philip had a "policy" of just two christenings per family, it was still within The Queen's policy to attend the christening of Zara's third child because it was also Eugenie's first child's christening - and remember that it was August who wore the royal christening gown for that service, not Lucas. (And yes, this is very much round-hole/square-peg.)

But this is very much one of those YMMV analyses. Some people think William and Kate fell on their sword again, allowing Louis to be snubbed. Others think that the Sussexes didn't care about The Queen being at Archie's christening.

FWIW, I don't think the then-Cambridges felt like they were being snubbed or having to fall on their sword. We know that The Queen and Philip had a good relationship with Louis just from the comments we know Louis made after Philip died and from the interactions between The Queen and Louis on Trooping balconies.

[prism-forgone]

kris and the soul

my hot take is that i think the soul inside of kris is, in fact, theirs

the prophecy calls them THE CAGE, WITH HUMAN SOUL AND PARTS. if it was just the soul that was mentioned, i could consider the possibility of the first hero simply housing that soul. but parts - as in, a body - implies both the soul and the body are both parts of one whole - of the cage.the soul and the parts are of the cage. unless we're arguing kris's body isn't theirs either

additionally, the soul getting hit when it's out of kris translates into damage to them (this screen is from after Kris's Justifiable Crashout in the bathroom, i don't remember if HP loss happens after the part in the closet in dess's room. though i suspect it does, given they collapse there too).

if it's not theirs, why would it be tied to them in such a manner for such a thing to occur? it's a different matter in the dark world, where it getting hit can translate into damage for any and all party members, including kris, but this is in the light world. the light world, where kris has to reach into their chest and rip the thing out instead of it freely flowing out of them to close a fountain, for combat, however diegetic it is, or to uh. gayly descend down the inside of a titan with it between kris and susie

regardless!!! if kris were to be obtaining damage in the dark world for the same reason as on the rest of the party, so due to the soul getting hit, this influence would most likely cease in the light world alongside all that freedom of movement. the light world is a bit more concrete, barring the soul from having such a heavy metanarrative sway, making it less a concept and more a tangible thing, and setting it more solidly within kris. and yet, the moment it gets hit, it impacts kris's body, independently of if it's in them

i think kris falling over after inserting the soul back is a hint to have us check the hp and notice this because why else would you put it there, they hadn't had that kind of reaction before after inserting the soul back

as for the soul being theirs and us controlling it - it shouldn't be anything new. that's exactly how undertale worked, no one ever argued the soul wasn't frisk's. hm. i shouldn't say that. i don't know that for a fact, and i know how utdr theories can be. cough. i don't think it'd be reasonable to argue that it wasn't frisk's. there was no reason to question it at the time but we, in retrospect, hijacked that soul the same as the one within kris in deltarune

we - and i mean we as singular players all independently playing our instances of the game, not the collective playerbase - are not a real character in deltarune. we don't have a body and we attempt to make a vessel. our soul does not literally leave out bodies and enter the survey program, it would stand to reason it would be something provided for us. no one can chose who they are in this world, so why would the soul be yours?

and if the soul is not kris's but still some other human soul that just so happens to just there, the presence of that other human soul, with no other human in hometown other than kris in sight, would demand an explanation. and i honestly think it would be too messy no matter how you slice or x-slash it

this isn't meant to drag anyone because all this is for fun but i think that too often i see people argue for something being possible without considering that it's part of a story. they're meant to be cohesive and have elements lead into each other. the fact that something isn't impossible doesn't mean it can happen because the most important question isn't "how?". it's "why?" - to what end? what sort of ending would it beget? would it be satisfying? i can't help but feel like this is the third entity discussion reincarnated

[threegoldfish]

Steven has never had the opportunity to ever go through that kind of conversation - to face someone who listens with such intent, just to offer words in return that... that, well, give Steven so much more than he thought words ever could. He's never gone to therapy before, never thought he'd need it - if anything he'd considered to go to a GP perhaps, to try and let them figure out why he's doing the sleep-walk thing - but now that he's here, even though he cannot remember how and when he'd ended up inside this psychiatric hospital... he realizes that therapy might be the right thing for him.

He's never felt so seen, so heard; While he's not sure how much of the whole topic really connects to his being-up-at-night-issue, he supposes that, maybe, one thing could led to another, in a way he's unable to see just yet.

He's got social anxiety, apparently, and... that makes sense. Steven's not really read about anything in that regard, or other mental illnesses... but the more they talk, the more Doctor Harrow offers insight into what might be Steven's psyche, the more it makes sense, as said. The more he's able to agree, to see that this might be something, yeah, that... that stuff is going on there.

Perhaps Steven isn't stupid, isn't a hopeless case, a weirdo - maybe he's got social anxiety. Maybe he speaks French while everyone else speaks English. Maybe he just needs to figure himself out a bit better, maybe he needs to work with this - face his social anxiety, whatever else there could be, and maybe it could also offer an explanation to why he sleep-walks and why he oftentimes seems to just... wake up at random places, doesn't remember what had happened before, experiencing blackouts.

Maybe he also just needs to find the right people to connect with - others that speak French rather than English. ...Maybe Marc could be one of them. Maybe he is speaking a bit of French, at least?

A hum, a dark gaze flicking over to that little succulent as well, taking in the sight of it. A few moments pass in which he doesn't say anything; A lot of thoughts race inside Steven's mind, ping-ponging from one side to the other, and it's a little overwhelming, really. But it's also very... eye-opening. Causes him to feel a bit in awe, almost, about... everything.

"!---Y'know, doctor Harrow..." A breath is being taken before Steven's gaze trails back to meet the other's own, expression still very open and vulnerable, anxious, but also... a bit more at ease. "I think... I think I've never... talked to anyone like this. Like, ever. I think no one has said so many things to me, and... gave me so much to think about. I never considered anything of that to be the case - or to even exist - and... it feels... it feels--- good, really, to... to know that someone understands what I feel. Why I might be doing things the way I do."

A swallow, with Steven smiling after another second passes - not as bubbly and giggly as usual, much more soft, but nevertheless sincere and heartfelt.

"Maybe... Maybe I can actually connect to Marc. Y'know, his reply was... nice. A little short, but... I think it read very friendly, and... as if he's looking forward to hearing from me again!" A nod, with that smile widening a bit, hands folding on Steven's chest as he sits a bit more upright. "---I was already worrying about being too much, or... to mess it up. But... maybe that's just a feeling and not a fact? Y-you said that, yes, that... that feelings aren't necessarily facts. And... well, if I try to see this from a very, uhm, not-feeling-perspective, I... I don't think Marc has written anything that would indicate that he's annoyed by me. Which means I'm just afraid that it could possibly happen, but there's no proof of it having happened!"

Whether Steven will be able to always decipher his feelings from an actual fact, he doesn't know. But having Marc as an example here helps him to use his newly gained knowledge - the advice he's been given - and put it into action, so to speak. Maybe he can hold onto it a bit better from now on, also do the same when he's in the community room doing puzzles.

"---Thank you." Another inhale, a series of tiny nods, dark eyes on that succulent again. "I'm... not sure I'd be able to see all of this, hadn't I... ended up in here. Maybe... maybe I need the help, yeah. Like, more help than just... for the sleep-walking thing." A hum, a shrug. "Maybe it's all connected, in a way. Maybe I'm not, like, dense or something - maybe there's just more going on. Anxiety. French. Yeah."

...

---A sudden chuckle, amused, with Steven's brows rising as his attention is back on Harrow, accompanied by a finger pointing at himself.

"I speak French, by the way. Like, fluently. ---Je ne l'ai pas parlé depuis un certain temps, mais je pense que je m'en sors plutôt bien quand il s'agit de ça, non ? ...Oh gosh, that feels odd! No one ever wants me to speak French; I do own a collection of French poems, so... there's that, at least. Read them all."

Arthur nodded as Steven spoke, just enough to let the man know he was truly listening to him. He wanted the silence to be warm, comforting; it was something that was a necessity. Listening was always a necessity. 

His fingers tapped against the edge of his notebook for a moment, before stilling again. “It’s very common for people who struggle with small talk to also feel like they’re… fundamentally incompatible with others. Like there’s something wrong with you, or something that’s ‘off’. Misaligned. But… Steven, I would like you to imagine this for me.” 

He shifted back just slightly, leaning comfortably in his chair. There was a reason to it, of course - leaning back gave Steven space, and made it feel less like Steven had to believe him without question. 

“Imagine that you speak French,” he offered. “Fluently. Beautifully. But almost everyone around you speaks English. You try to connect with them in French - and it is passionate, it is earnest - but they don’t understand. They decide not to respond. And eventually, sure, they’d drift away.” He stayed holding Steven’s gaze, gently. “It would be very easy for you to think that something is just wrong with you. Maybe that your voice is off-putting, or the sound of your words annoys people. But the truth is… you were just speaking in a different language. One that fewer people are fluent in.” 

He inhaled softly, leaning back in, hands folded gently on the desk. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how you try to connect. I think you’ve been surrounded by people who don’t know how to respond, or don’t really want to learn. And when that happens enough, you probably do feel unreachable. That it’s not the language, it’s the speaker. But that’s just a lie that you’re telling yourself. It’s a very convincing one - but it’s still just a lie.” 

He adjusted his seating just a bit, briefly letting his eyes flick to the little succulent as if it had something to say with that.

“You mentioned something else that I’d like to come back to,” he continued. “The idea that, even if people don’t initially dislike you, the lack of connection will eventually lead to disliking. That belief is something I hear often from people with social anxiety. It’s not about being afraid of rejection, it’s about anticipating it as inevitable. Like the clock is always ticking, and you have to stay ahead before you get rejected. I want to acknowledge how exhausting that has to be.” 

His tone didn’t waver. It was still calm, still professional; but there was an unmistakable note of sadness in his face. 

“I don’t want to sit here and lie to you, Steven. Not everyone will understand you. Not everyone will make an effort to learn your language. But the ones who do are going to be very lucky. They’re going to meet someone kind, thoughtful, deeply intelligent. They’ll find someone who listens, who cares, who wants to share his knowledge - they’re going to be very lucky to have that. I think Marc knows that he’s lucky to have a person like that talking to him - you’re going to be a very good friend for him.” 

He smiled just barely, genuine warmth in his face even as his eyes were still tired. “Over the next few days, as well, I’d like you to try something. Anytime you feel the urge to pull away, I want you to ask yourself if it’s fact - or feeling. If someone tells you that they don’t want to work on a puzzle with you, then that’s a fact. But if you’re just worrying about it, then it’s feeling. And even though feelings aren’t always wrong, they’re not always facts, either. 

“I want you to start testing your emotions. Start pushing them, do things that might lead to discomfort. And if it ever gets too heavy, then I want you to bring it to me. That’s what this space is here for - think of me as someone you can fall back on.” 

[hawkinsschoolcounselor]

The "why" of Byler doubt

I've been seeing a lot of doubt cropping up lately. To be honest, my initial reaction when I see it is to want to angrily reply to the posts, telling them to go away with such negativity. However, as a counselor, I have to remember to be mindful of such impulses. It says a lot about me and my history that I react in such a way. And it's not like I am immune to doubt, myself, anyway.

I wrote about my experiences with doubt in this post: Why I Stop Short of Hope.

If the folks around here experiencing doubt are anything like me, they feel this way because they've been conditioned to. Much like Will himself, they have a voice in their heads that yells, "no, don't get your hopes up" and "it can't happen, so just let it go." We are all but products of our environments, and those environments are often condescending to LGBT individuals, if not outright hostile. We've learned to not expect happy endings from the general public.

While it can be protective to an extent, lowered expectations can dull the sting of disappointment, it also has unintended long-term consequences. Such a worldview results in cynicism (indeed, the opposite of hope) that can result in lost opportunities. Why bother trying if you're just going to be let down? Just look at how Will is approaching his feelings for Mike if you want to know what that looks like.

It's a fully understandable reaction for people to have what we've come to call "Byler doubt." We've been brought up to see such a resolution as unrealistic. There's a litany of reasons to believe so. "It's the 80s." "It's too popular of a show to risk it." "It'd be unrealistic." "Mike has shown no signs of being gay." Remaining hopeful against such a bombardment is difficult.

However, we must be prepared to defend ourselves against such statements, not simply weather the storm. This doesn't necessarily mean getting into an all-out flame war with these people (though I can recognize the cathartic element of doing so). Simply taking in these comments and reflecting on them can be enough. These are defective bombs: scary, but lacking substance.

"It's the 80s": who gives a shit? There were gay people in the 80s, but they weren't open about it because of assholes like you, which is also why they got little media exposure that wasn't negative. STFU.

"It's too popular of a show to risk it": The Duffers are very vocal about championing the outcasts. They've continually shit on being popular for terrible reasons in this show. Lucas flat out called popular a "raging psychopath." They don't care about being popular if it means having to be an asshole.

"It'd be unrealistic": Again, there were gay people in the 80s, you just didn't see them because they knew you'd be a dick about it. The unrealistic thing is objecting more to a happy gay storyline than a supernatural monster killing children.

"Mike has shown no signs of being gay": First of all, we all know you're talking about the expected stereotypes. That's not how it works in real life. Secondly, Mike has honestly been more gay coded than Will throughout the show. You just need it spelled out for you in order for it to "count" in your mind. You kept denying Will was gay, too.

Don't let these assholes get you down. Challenge these thoughts when you have them. Build that resiliency! Hope with no basis is foolishness, yes, but hope because you thought seriously about an upsetting possibility is strength.

Yes, it's true that there is always the possibility that Byler does not end up being canon. However, I still hold firm that there is a >90% chance that it does. The only thing I worry about is the Duffers caving to pressure from execs from Netflix, but I honestly think the Duffers could write their own check with any distributor they want if it came down Netflix giving them an ultimatum.

[serqphites]

Vamp vicky neuman fic... I beg...

I GOT YOUUUU!!! the vamp brain rot needs to be studied like i literally cannot get it out of my head. first vicky req in what feels like years<3 in this i just got rid of her powers bc i just wanna focus on the vampire part:) also in my mind they live in somewhere like forks in this! sorry i'm a twilight girly at heart 🤷🏽‍♀️

18+, mdni, vic goes down on r while they are on their period, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions, blood mentions obviously, lmk if i missed anything!

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⋆.˚ okay now we’ve all heard of cocky vampire vic, but what about ashamed vamp vic? the woman who lays awake at night, watching you closely as you sleep. she is finally relaxed, chest unmoving as she no longer has to focus on 'breathing'. her gaze is fixated on your peaceful expression, while in her mind she contemplates your future together, almost arguing back and forth with herself. it's something she wants more than anything, more than she wants her humanity to belong to her for even a second longer, but is it even a possibility? is she even allowed to dream for a moment of spending the rest of her your life with you? could she go through with that, watching you grow old and eventually pass on, all while she doesn't look a day older than when you met?

⋆.˚ the time you found out is something she will never forget. how could she have been so stupid, so careless?

midnight cravings when she hasn't hunted in weeks are always disastrous for her, the thought of sinking her fangs into an unsuspecting deer keeping her mind more distracted than she'd ever like to admit. she remembers turning over to check her alarm clock, the neon red beams bouncing off of the walls surrounding her. 2:34am. she could be gone and back in half an hour, and you wouldn't know a thing, right? she couldn't have been more wrong if she tried, and the moment she realised this was when she snook back through the front door to your shared home, only to come face to face with you stood at the foot of the stairs, the blinding light of the torch from your phone causing her to flinch, "jesus baby, you tryin' to blind me?" she chuckles nervously, looking up once you've lowered your phone. your face says it all, mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide, face pale. it's in that moment that she remembers she is covered in blood, trickles of it still pouring from her mouth, staining the pajama shirt you'd bought her a few birthdays ago. it takes a lot of convincing for you to stop freaking out and just sit down with her so she can explain herself, and so she makes you promise to her you won't do anything until she's cleaned up and changed her shirt. your mind is on autopilot at this point, and you're not even sure what exactly you've just promised you won't do as victoria scurries off upstairs. thoughts race through your mind a million miles a second: is my girlfriend a murderer? is she a psychopath? is she a fucking cannibal!? after what feels like hours (realistically it was under 7 minutes) victoria makes me way, slowly, into the living room where she left you. she takes a hesitant seat beside you, eyes glued to your oak coffee table, "thank you... for staying." "why were you covered in blood, vic? why? are- are you some kind of murderer or something!?" you jump straight to the point, tone harsh and confused, partly scared. "no baby no!," victoria turns to you with furrowed brows, reaching out to take your hands into her own. you let her. "it's something i should have told you way too long ago, i was just, hell i don't know. i was scared." "vicky, i'm scared. you have to tell me what it is, please." you're begging at this point, pleading with her to just open up and quiet the theories circling your mind. surely there's some reasonable explanation to this whole ordeal. "i'm... i'm a vampire." (and now i'm cutting it short here because at this rate it'll end up just being a one-shot LMAO)

⋆.˚ as you get more and more used to the fact your girlfriend is a vampire, you can't help the drizzle of intrigue that comes along with it. you have so many questions to ask! i can picture it perfectly, being out on a walk through the woods with her, your lukewarm hand tensing in the grasp of her ice cold one.

"wait- how have you eaten breakfast and dinner with me everyday if you're a-" "i'm not just limited to blood, you know? just because i don't need food, doesn't mean i can't have food." she cuts you off, perfectly stopping you before you can blurt out exactly what she is. nodding, your eyes scan your surroundings, and you catch a glimpse of a squirrel climbing it's way up a tree. "hey! can you eat those?" you turn to her before whipping back to face the direction you spotted the squirrel in, arm extending to point over at it. "i could, but i wouldn't." "why's that?" "not good enough, they hold barely enough blood to keep me full for an hour, they're a light snack at best." she looks to you with a gentle smile, honestly enjoying how your interest has peaked in her... lifestyle.

⋆.˚ now it's time for the nsfw part... and shoot me but i cannot stop thinking about vamp!vicky eating you out on your period. also going with a sinners vibe, imagine the glowing eyes in the dark... anyone else soaked ahahaha what

imagine your hands in her hair, her face buried so deep in your blood soaked pussy you're surprised she can even breathe. well, until you remember she doesn't actually need to breathe (easily the best part about her vampirism, she never needs to come up for air). you roll your hips into her face as her tongue works wonders on your swollen clit, your head rolling back with a spew of curses following. "fuck babe- right there- yeah right there- so fucking good!" the words leave your mouth without you even trying to speak, and from the finger vicky adds to your tight as anything vagina, she clearly fucking liked it. you manage to lift your head long enough to look down at her, her arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping them in an unnaturally firm hold. glowing eyes meet your own in the darkness of your bedroom, and for just a moment she pulls away to smirk up at you, a mixture of blood and slick coating her lips and all the way down to her chin. the sight alone makes you feel like climaxing.

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[thelovelywriteress]

FACE THAT WON'T LEAVE MY MIND𓂃 ࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ

─ Nero x Reader

Nero, was a boy of lesser words especially when he was in Fortuna. He usually prefer to be alone or least to least just talk to Kyrie and Credo.

"Good morning Nero!" You passed him a smile as he frowned. Last time he remembered─he wasn't being any friendly towards you.

His lack of you response didn't hurt you as he was silent not ignorant, he did give you a nodded.

Kyrie soon joined you both as you greet her with same enthusiasm which she matched and then enquired Nero if he did the same, as she knew his tendencies to get more than usual anti-social around you, to which you simply laughed and told her atleast he acknowledged your greet.

Hours passed from that interaction yet Nero wouldn't forgot it. Nero clenched his gloved fist tighter, trying to shut out the echo of your laugh from earlier. It had caught him off-guard—light, carefree, like it belonged in some other world, not this one littered with demons and memories that wouldn’t die.

He would shake his head off, trying make these weird thoughts related to your ago away. Hell why were you in his mind so much these days? He wondered. And what was the weird feeling in his stomach whenever he thought about you.

Like bro was in the middle of cleaning Blue Rose, minding his own business, when he suddenly thought about the way you scrunched your nose when trying to understand something about demon related . The memory hit him out of nowhere, and then—boom. Stomach swirl. Head heat. Complete glitch in system.

"God—what the—" He rubbed his forehead like the dumb memory gave him a migraine. "The hell is wrong with me?"

"Are you fine?"

Where the hell problem i.e you, itself appear out of?

Was his reflexes getting weaker? Cause how the hell he didn't heard you approaching and now he was faced with your lean in face when he opened his eyes after rubbing forehead.

"The hell you doing here?" He asked, masking his flustered red face as angry.

He sits a couch as to create some distance between both of you but it is in vain as you popped besides him like it was most natural thing in world.

You had brought him coffee. Again.

“Looked like you needed something warm. Besides that scowl,” you teased him through despite his annoyance he did accept your coffee as start speaking about some funny scenes you witnessed today.

He didn't responded.

He never responded.

And still, you came back.

Every damn day.

And every time, he told himself it was just annoying. That your kindness was a trick of pity. That you couldn’t possibly see past the jagged edges and mess that made him who he was.

But then—why did he notice the way your fingers curled around the mug? Why did he keep the empty cups you left behind on his desk for just a little longer before throwing them out? Why did his heart skip every time your shadow stretched around the corner before you even said a word?

He was just so close to just see a doctor and get checked if anything was wrong with his system.

"I think the problem you have Nero, can't be cured by doctor."

Kyrie told Nero who confessed his concern to her and now frown at her reply. Now what was that supposed to mean?

"I think you like (name)." What?

"Like you said yourself that (name) is always in your mind." Yeah cause you always greet him with your stupid smile and just always pop out of nowhere near him.

"Oh Nero don't be stubborn now, you are into her and that's a fact."

No. He was not into you. He couldn’t be. You were... sunshine and laughter and good coffee. He was sarcasm, trauma, and barely contained rage. You both were in different ends of rope so you guys can't be connected, he told himself something like that but when have heart ever listened to someone's word anyways. It loves whom it wants to love.

More and more Nero tried to suppressed his growing feelings towards you, more they were shown on surface and it pissed Nero because now every time you were near, his stomach turned into some kind of punk rock concert. Even at the night, his mind now started to create various scenarios─where you were getting saved by him or you confessed that you can't live without him. He growled, smacking himself, hoping it will stop next day.

Next day when you spotted him around the town─alone, you decided to accompany him. It was casual, comfortable.

Well—you were comfortable.

Nero was a nervous wreck pretending to be a person.

He kept his eyes forward, hyper-aware of every single move you made. Every laugh. Every step. Every time your shoulder brushed his. He counted each one like they were time bombs.

Then you take a rest on a bench, it was silent but it didn't feel awkward.

"Nero do you hate me?"

You questioned him as his emotions turn wild─he didn't hate you but wouldn't that mean he like you but he don't likes you─okay maybe he does a little but he is not ready to accept it.

"What makes you think so?" He let out, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well you always have being anti-social but now days it you looked super awkward around me." His breath almost stop. Were you playing with him or you truly don't understand the situation despite literally saying it.

"I like being around you so I always seek ways to get that but if it is bother to you then I can back down."

From all of your genuine confession 'I like being around you' was the only one his ears transmit to his brain and it keep on repeating it.

You frowned at his lack of reply. So were you right?

Nero hadn’t been cold exactly. Just... distant. Quieter than usual. More grunts than words. More brooding silences that stretched a bit too long. And you’d noticed the way he sometimes looked away when you walked into a room, like he didn’t know what to do with your presence anymore.

"I will give you some space," you said quietly. Maybe he was still feeling awkward to agree with you. Cause you know deep down he sure do have a humble heart.

You stand as Nero looked in your direction, panicking. Shouldn't be be happy? Maybe now that weird feeling in his stomach can finally go. He would be able to close his eyes at night without seeing your face. If he wanted these things to happened then why his hand grabbed yours.

You looked back. He looked panicked. Like a kicked puppy". . . Don't," he mumbled, eyes locked on yours.

You tilted your head. "Don't what?" Nero turn his gaze on the ground─unable to hold eye contact. He felt so vulnerable and he hated it.

"I don't hate you. . ." You didn't comment anything yet because he felt there was more to come which Nero after internal war with himself let out,"I just—" He exhaled. "I am not used to. . . people. You. Being so—close. Most of time they just left but you didn't." He took breath once again before saying,"And I didn't knew how to handle the feelings you brought with your presence."

Your eyes widened on his words,"What kind of feelings Nero?" You questioned through you already realised it. Oh how dumb of you, to be so obvious to something which was literally in front of you. Now Kyrie's conversation regarding what you think of Nero, made sense.

He glanced at you, eyes sharp and vulnerable all at once. "The kind that makes me wanna pull you closer but also punch a wall cause I don't know why."

Silence.

You blinked. Slowly.

He realized what he just said and before he could defend his words, you blurted out something which made his face went white and cheeks go red!

"You have feelings for me Nero."

It wasn't a question, it was a pure statement. You catch him and now he can't even defend himself. He can deny all he want but he knows you are not believing him.

"That's so cute. So that awkwardness was just you crus─" Nero screamed you to not continue as he felt so humiliating. Not even his feelings but his past actions were getting exposed to.

You laugh, not at Nero technically but rather the humourous situation as Nero turn away with a scoffed.

"For what matters, I like you too and won't mind a getting all lovely-dovely with you." You confessed with mischievous sly.

"Then did you guys start going out?" Nico asked getting bored of this whole story, she just wanted to hear the main part.

"(name) just told you this whole ass story with me sitting beside. Take a wild guess?" Nero replied with sarcasm.

Nico rolled her eyes at Nero's reply and whined about wanting to hear excited,"I don't want to take guesses! Tell me the real part─did you guys kissed? Who kiss whom first? Bet it definitely wasn't him!" She mocked Nero who looked ready to hit her as you laughed at her words

"Well that's story for another day now."

[osarina]

Terribly sorry, minor continuation with Reader ending up with the family instead of the Port Mafia, would she still be called Hime? Or would she have a new alias? It's kind of crazy because she herself has so much lore tied to the Port Mafia and I'm so interested to see how that would change in a different environment with different people

"terribly sorry" you say as if i dont take every possible opportunity to ramble DUFHASIUDFAHS HAHAHAHAHA

but omg ok so this is what i'm thinking. i think maybe the italian army would get to her village first, and from there, she would end up in an orphanage run by the catholic church. after around 2 years there, she ends up getting exposed as an ability user, and the CCA (another faction, specific to italy, commission of counter abilities, because remember, the way i set up mainland europe/asia is that there's a HEAVY anti-ability user sentiment) ends up coming after her and plans to have her imprisoned for illegal use of an ability & failure to timely register the emergence of an ability.

she doesn't end up getting imprisoned because carlo goldoni (current father of the family) intervenes and takes her in. while she's with him, he puts her through a very strict training regiment to hone in/fine tune her ability usage. in that time, it becomes pretty clear he's setting her up to become the next "father" after him. so i think that time period she would have a similar title—not hime obviously because they're not in japan, principessa maybe, but it would definitely only be used in a mocking manner, wheras hime was used both mockingly and respectfully.

THAT BEING SAID, i don't know if she'll still be in that time period by the start of the story. carlo goldoni is not mori, and he didn't "save her" from her village (we'll find out more about reader and mori's relationship in civzai2 soon). she was in an orphange for 2-3 years before the family took her in & goldoni began helping her. so there would be a huge difference in her relationship with mori vs goldoni, and there's a HUGE chance that she might've pulled a civzai1 (killing to take over) much earlier and with much less motive if she decides she thinks she would be better off leading the family.

on a different note, i am also considering giving her a different type of title/moniker because if u remember, the way i've built up bsd universe, the clocktower & the family are constantly at odds with each other, and i do want her "claim to fame" besides her political abilities, being that she pushed the clocktower out of western europe and back into the uk. and i think maybe the moniker would stem from an incident that took place between the two organizations that she was overseeing.

that's all not set in stone yet, im still going back and forth with it, BUT as i said i like rambling so u get my rambles HAHAHAHAH

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 2

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

You stare at Chan's dimpled smile across the dinner table, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on his face. Your heart aches with unspoken questions, but your throat constricts each time you try to voice them.

"How was work today?" you ask instead, reaching for your wine glass.

Chan's eyes meet yours briefly before darting away. "Busy. The Johnson case is taking up all my time." He takes a large bite of pasta, chewing slowly.

You nod, trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach. It's the third time this week he's mentioned work keeping him occupied. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass as you recall Liz's words from earlier: You need to talk to him about where this is going.

But you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet.

Instead, you watch Chan closely as he eats, searching for clues in the way his shoulders tense slightly when you lean closer, how he checks his phone more frequently than usual.

"I was thinking we could go away this weekend," you venture. "That little B&B we loved last year has an opening."

Chan's fork pauses midway to his mouth. "This weekend? I don't know if I can get away with this case..."

"Oh." You force a smile. "No worries. It was just an idea." You take a slow slip of your wine and look away.

He reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, his touch warm and familiar. "Maybe next month when things calm down a bit."

You nod, clinging to the feeling of his skin against yours. See? He still cares. It's just work stress. Everything's fine.

But as Chan pulls his hand away to reach for his buzzing phone, you can't shake the chill that settles over you when the realization hits you. Next month, there’s a possibility he won’t even be here. You push the thought away and take another sip of wine, remembering how he held you close a couple days ago, whispering, "Love you," against your skin.

It has to be fine. It has to be.

****

The water runs in the bathroom as Chan showers. You're sprawled on the bed, idly flipping through a magazine, when a sudden vibration catches your attention. Chan's phone lights up on the bed, a few inches away from you, and your heart skips a beat as you glimpse the preview of the incoming text.

A photo. A woman. Skin.

The woman, wearing sexy black lingerie, his favorite color, and posed on her hands and knees with her large boobs prominently on display, catches your attention.

You know her. Claire. She’s a paralegal in his department.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the device. You shouldn't. You know you shouldn't. But the gnawing doubt that's been eating at you for weeks propels you forward. The phone vibrates again. This time a message. The preview reads:

Claire: Hi Daddy.

You unlock the phone with a swipe. His pin has been the same for the past 5 years. You’ve never had the need to use it when he wasn’t around; trust has never been an issue between you. Your breath catches as you open the message thread and finish reading the most recent one.

Claire: Thinking about you. Hope you like the view.

"Oh, God," you whisper. Your vision blurs as you scroll through a cascade of intimate photos and flirtatious messages. "No, no, no..."

Your mind reels, unable to process the betrayal unfolding before your eyes. Chan's replies are just as explicit, filled with promises and plans for future encounters and what he’ll do to her.

"This can't be happening," you mutter, your voice raw. "How could he do this?"

Your fingers shake as you keep scrolling, each message a dagger to your heart. It's not just once. Not just a moment of weakness. This has been going on for weeks. It’s clear that they’ve met up several times outside of work and that they’ve had intimate encounters. More than that; they’ve fucked.

The sound of the shower stops, and panic grips you. You place the phone back exactly where it was, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Anger. Betrayal. Heartbreak. They crash over you in waves as you struggle to breathe.

What do I do now? you think to yourself as you look around the empty room, your world crumbling around you. You wasted five years of your life on someone you thought loved you more than anything. But now it all makes sense… the delays, his hesitations.

And you’re pissed.

Your heart pounds and you take a deep breath as you hear the bathroom door open, bracing yourself for the confrontation ahead.

Chan emerges, his hair damp and curly, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Any other time, the sight of his muscles and his skin glistening would have made your breath catch. Now, it only fuels your rage. He smiles when he sees you, oblivious to the emotions boiling inside you.

“Hey babe. You planning to shower? I didn’t use all the hot water this time,” he says casually with a grin as he grabs a t-shirt from his drawer in your dresser.

You stare at him, this man you thought you knew so well, now revealed as someone else entirely.

"Are you cheating on me?" The words burst from your lips, sharp and accusatory. Fuck sugarcoating; you need to get to the bottom of this immediately.

Chan freezes. He turns towards you, shirt half-pulled over his head. His warm brown eyes widen in shock. "What?” he asks incredulously, his voice laced with confusion and disbelief. "I... What are you talking about?"

You can see the panic flickering across his face, the way his muscles tense beneath his skin. It makes you sick.

Your eyes bore into his, flashing with anger and pain.

"Don't lie to me," you spit out, your voice quivering. "I saw the messages, Chan. The pictures. How long have you been fucking Claire behind my back?" you ask with gritted teeth.

You watch the color drain from his face. His mouth opens but no words come out.

He takes a step back, then tries to regain his composure. He pulls his shirt the rest of the way on. "I-I don't know what you're…"

"Stop!" You're shouting now. "Don't fucking lie to me!" you yell, hurling his phone at him. He catches it easily, clutching it against his stomach. “I deserve the truth. Why? Why would you do this to me? To us?"

Chan's shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. "I... I'm sorry," he whispers as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and the admission shatters something inside you.

"Sorry isn't good enough," you say, your voice breaking. "How could you? I trusted you," you choke out. "I gave you everything. I thought we were happy. I thought we had a future."

Chan runs a hand through his hair, his expression torn between guilt and frustration. "That's just it," he says, his voice low. "The future. It's always looming, isn't it? The expectations, the pressure…"

You cut him off, incredulous. "Pressure? What pressure?” You finally stand up and point at him. “I've never pushed you for anything!"

"Not explicitly, no," Chan responds, his voice rising. "But it's always there, no? The talk of settling down, of marriage, of kids, of building a life together. It's suffocating!"

His words hit you like a physical blow. You stumble back, your mind reeling. "So this is my fault? Because I dared to imagine a future with the man I love and have been committed to for five fucking years of my life?!" You’re fuming now, the anger rolling off your body in waves.

Chan's face contorts with regret. "No, that's not what I meant. I just... I don't know if I'm ready for all that. I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

The realization dawns on you, cold and cruel. His distance. The job offer he’s considering that he didn’t bother to talk to you about. You bring your palm to cover your face.

"You never saw a future with me, did you?" you whisper, your heart breaking all over again. You turn your back to him. "What did you think came next? All this time, I've been dreaming for both of us." He remains quiet. “You think you’re the only one who’s been offered promotions somewhere else?” You shake your head as you face him again. “Rich that I always considered the impact to you but I never even registered as a concern when you had the same options.” You chuckle, but it’s devoid of any humor.

You stare at Chan, truly seeing him for the first time. The warm brown eyes that once held such promise now seem hollow, the dimpled smile that used to melt your heart now a mask of deception. His muscular frame, usually so comforting, now feels like a threat, trapping you in this nightmare.

"You know what? Fuck you Chan,” you say calmly. “You're not the man I thought you were." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't even know who you are anymore. Your mother would be fucking ashamed of the son she raised." That last one is a petty shot because you know how much of a mama's boy he is, but you don't care at this point.

Chan starts moving towards you with urgency, his hand outstretched and trembling as he reaches for you. His voice quivers as he speaks. "Please, let me explain…"

You recoil from his touch, a surge of anger replacing your shock. "Explain what? How you've been lying to me? How you’ve been planning your escape from me? How you've been fucking some other bitch while telling me you love me every night?"

"I do love you," Chan insists, his eyes pleading. "This doesn't change that."

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. "Love? You don't even know the meaning of the word." You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what comes next. "Yeah… we're done, Chan. This relationship is over."

His face crumples, the reality of your words sinking in. "No. Please! We can work this out. I'll do better, I promise."

"There's nothing to work out," you say, your voice gaining strength. "You've made your choice, and now I'm making mine. I deserve better than this shit. Better than you."

Chan's desperation turns to anger. "So that's it? You're just throwing away everything we've built?"

"You threw it away the moment you decided to stick your dick in someone else. And you just confirmed we have nothing, no future. So what is there to save???" you spit back. "Get the fuck out of my house."

He stands there, frozen, as if he can't believe this is happening. "You don't mean that. You can't…"

The rage bubbles up inside you, threatening to consume you whole. "I said GET OUT!" you scream, your composure finally shattering like a glass vase hitting the floor. You grab his bag, haphazardly tossed on the foot of your bed, and shove it into his arms with all your strength. As he stumbles back slightly, shocked, you stride over to his open drawer and yank out a pair of his sweatpants. Without hesitation, you fling them at him as hard as you can into his face. "Leave! Now!"

Chan flinches at your outburst, then slowly turns and walks out of the bedroom, his head hanging low. He pauses at the front door to pull on the sweatpants and his sneakers, tossing the towel he had wrapped around himself onto the back of the couch. He opens the door and exits, but glances back at you one last time. His eyes are filled with sorrow and apology. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. "You sure are," you reply, and slam the door in his face.

The sound of the door hitting the frame echoes through your body, reverberating in your chest like a hollow drum. You press your back against the cool wood, sliding down until you're sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to your chest. The silence of the house is deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.

Your eyes dart around the room, taking in the remnants of your life with Chan. His leather jacket draped over the armchair, his half-empty coffee mug on the side table, his 50 lb dumbbells in the corner, a small collection of his shoes lined up neatly to the right of you; all relics of a relationship now shattered.

"What now?" you whisper to the empty space, your voice trembling.

Your fingers brush against your collarbone, tracing the spot where Chan's lips had been just an hour ago. The memory of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, a bittersweet reminder of what you've lost.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. The faint scent of Chan's cologne still lingers in the air, mixing with the acrid taste of betrayal on your tongue.

"I should have known," you mutter, anger and self-doubt warring within you. "How could I have been so blind?"

Your mind races, replaying every moment of your relationship, searching for clues you might have missed. The late nights at work, the guarded phone calls, the subtle distance that had grown between you; it all seems so obvious now.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms. Was I not enough? Not pretty enough, not smart enough, not...? you think to yourself.

The questions tumble out, each one a dagger to your self-esteem. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room. You look tired and distraught; your eyes are watery with tears that you’ve been holding back, the drops threatening to spill. For a moment, you barely recognize the woman staring back at you.

"No," you say firmly out loud to the empty room, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. "This isn't about me. This is about him. His weakness. His betrayal. FUCK. HIM."

You stand up slowly, legs shaky but resolve strengthening. Walking to the bedroom, you begin pulling Chan's things from the closet, tossing them onto the bed.

"I deserve better," you say aloud, your voice growing stronger with each word. "I will be better."

As you work, the adrenaline that's been fueling you begins to ebb. The weight of what's happened settles on your shoulders, and suddenly, it's too much to bear.

You sink onto the bed, surrounded by the debris of your relationship, and finally let the tears come.