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gayerthanevertbh · 1 month ago

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teacher's pet

chapter i: give me what i want

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you start your first day at university and meet the enigmatic professor romanoff in your russian literature class. instantly captivated by her presence, you can’t stop thinking about her—even during a phone call with mj, where you pretend everything’s normal. As you reread anna karenina and scramble to finish the essay she assigned, you realize something’s already shifting inside you: you want her to notice you. maybe even like you.

pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings: nothing much, but you could feel the tension between them from this chapter.

author's note: yes i had this drafted a long time ago, i'd say a few weeks? so i hope you guys like it. x

It didn’t always feel like this.

You used to know who you were. Sharp. Focused. Always top of your class — the kind of student who didn’t just chase grades, but conquered them. So when you told your mother you got into NYU, she lit up like she’d been holding her breath. Your best friend barely blinked.

“Of course you got in,” she said. “You’re smart.”

Like it wasn’t a compliment. Like it was just a fact.

Still, you were proud. You are proud. Even if you don’t know what exactly possessed you to enroll in Russian Literature of all things. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the part of you that couldn’t stand to do the expected. You’ve always been good at learning fast — you figured this wouldn’t be any different.

And then there was her.

Professor Romanoff. Students called her a legend. Cold but brilliant. The kind of woman who could quote Chekhov like scripture and cut your argument in half with a single glance. You looked her up, obviously. Found articles. Interviews. Even a guest lecture she gave with Professor Stark — the engineering icon — who seemed almost cautious around her. That only made you more curious.

You push the door open on the first day and there she is, already seated behind her desk. A paper in hand. She doesn’t look up, not fully — just a flick of her eyes in your direction.

“Take a seat,” she says, voice low. “We’ll begin shortly.”

Okay. So she’s not warm. But she’s not a monster.

She’s wearing a deep plum coat, the fabric tailored to her form like it was made for no one else, and a black pencil skirt that hugs her hips and cuts neatly at the knee, revealing just enough of her legs to look powerful without seeming like she’s trying. Her heels are quiet on the floor, but commanding. Her hair is red — real red — the kind that doesn’t need lighting tricks or filters to stand out. It falls in soft, deliberate waves that frame her face like a painting, too polished to be accidental. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she occupies space without asking permission, that makes it impossible to look away. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t need to. She has presence, the kind that demands attention without raising her voice. You don’t know if what you’re feeling is admiration or something more dangerous, but somewhere beneath all your logic and perfectly built ambition, there’s a part of you — quiet, curious, pulsing — that wants to get closer. Maybe it’s attraction. Maybe it’s awe. Maybe it’s both.

You settle into a seat near the back of the room, close enough to catch every word the professor might say, but far enough that if she were to call on you, you wouldn’t be front and center—exposed. It’s a safety net, this distance. A silent prayer that you won’t be noticed until you’re ready. The classroom itself doesn’t offer much comfort. The hardwood floors echo every step, amplifying your uncertainty. The windows are tall and narrow, letting in thin streams of light that do nothing to warm the space. At the back wall, shelves sag under the weight of thick, old books—their spines faded, their titles barely legible—like relics from another lifetime. You shift in your seat, the wooden chair groaning beneath you, and begin to glance around at the others.

Your wandering gaze catches a pair of eyes already locked on you. A girl sits a few seats away, isolated. She’s striking—black eyeliner drawn with such precision it could slice, sleeves stretched past her fingers like armor. Her expression is unreadable, her stare unwavering. It isn’t exactly threatening, but it isn’t welcoming either. It’s the kind of look that evaluates rather than judges. She’s not smiling. She’s not blinking. You turn away, quickly. You don’t want to read into it, but your skin prickles anyway. Something tells you this semester will be more than just lectures and essays.

Then, the room goes still. Like it’s holding its breath.

Professor Romanoff rises from her seat at the head of the table, and the atmosphere shifts immediately. She doesn’t need to speak for the room to pay attention. Her presence commands it. She has a way of standing that feels… prepared. Like she’s fought battles no one in this classroom could imagine and walked away victorious, if scarred. You swallow hard as her eyes sweep the room. “Alright, let’s begin,” she announces, her voice low but firm, brushing over everyone—then landing squarely on you. You flinch, just slightly. “As you may know, I’m Professor Natasha Romanoff. I’ll be teaching Russian Literature this semester. I’m surprised to see so many of you here, honestly. Not many want to study Russian these days. But those who do… might gain something rare from it.”

You can’t look away from her. The way she moves across the room isn’t casual—it’s deliberate, as if every step, every glance is calculated. Her eyes catch yours again, briefly. And then she turns. Just like that. She looks away like it means nothing. But to you, it does. It stings. As if you were reaching for something and had your hand slapped back. You remind yourself it’s just the first day. You’re reading too much into everything. Still, you feel foolish for hoping she might see you—really see you.

Her voice slices through the silence again, heavier now. “Russian literature is not here to soothe you,” she states, her tone sharp but strangely elegant. “It doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reward. If you want happy endings, transfer to American Lit. I think they’re doing The Great Gatsby this semester.” A few students laugh—nervously, more at each other than at the joke. You don’t. You’re too busy watching her write something on the board. Her handwriting is clean, controlled.

PAIN IS THE PRICE OF TRUTH.

She faces the room again, and her eyes seem to flicker in the low light. “Russian writers gave us some of the greatest works of the human condition—and some of the darkest,” she continues. “This class won’t be about identifying metaphors or discussing plot. It’s about what these stories demand from you.” She lists names—Dostoevsky, Akhmatova, Chekhov, Bulgakov—each one pronounced like a sacred invocation. Her voice is smooth, but not soft. It carries something beneath the surface: reverence, maybe. Or a personal history.

Then she turns the question on you all.

“Has anyone here read Anna Karenina?”

Your heart stutters. You have. Mostly. Enough to discuss it, if needed. You lift your hand, slowly, half-wishing someone else will beat you to it. No one does. It’s just you. Eyes swing toward you—some surprised, some unreadable, some silently pleading what are you doing? But it’s too late to lower your hand. You’re exposed.

She notices you instantly. Her gaze lands like frost.

“You have?”

You clear your throat, trying not to sound too eager. “One of the greatest literary works of all time,” you reply, rehearsed and overly formal. You immediately regret how polished it sounds. It doesn’t feel like you.

One corner of her mouth lifts—not a smile. Something else. “Is that your opinion,” she asks, “or the internet’s?”

The room exhales. You feel it in your bones. Laughter without sound. A kind of collective shift of attention. You force out a quiet chuckle. “Maybe both,” you say. “It’s a beautiful, tragic love story. Very... human.”

Romanoff steps closer, her heels a quiet percussion against the floor. “So you sympathize with Anna, then?”

You nod. “She was trapped. Miserable. In a cold marriage. She falls in love, and she’s punished for it.”

Romanoff tilts her head slightly. “Interesting,” she murmurs. “And yet Tolstoy didn’t seem to think she was the hero.”

The words land hard.

“She abandoned her child,” she continues, her voice still perfectly calm. “She spiraled. She gave in to obsession. Paranoia. And eventually—she threw herself under a train. Is that the character you admire?”

You can’t answer. Your mouth opens, then closes. There’s no mockery in her voice—that’s what makes it worse. She’s not humiliating you. She’s making you realize you’ve only skimmed the surface. You feel stupid. Small. You look down.

“I—I thought that was the point,” you offer weakly. “That it was… tragic.”

Her eyes narrow. “It was,” she says quietly. “But whose tragedy?”

Silence again. The class feels like it’s vanishing around you, and you’re the only one left in the spotlight. You glance down at your desk, your hands clenching around your pen. When you look up, she’s still watching you—calculating.

“Be careful,” she says. Then she turns back to the board. “Sometimes, literature reveals more about the reader than the characters.”

You can’t breathe. It’s like the air has shifted. You can’t remember anything about Anna Karenina now. Not one scene. Your mind is blank.

She writes again.

Assignment: Three paragraphs. Choose a passage that unsettled you. Tell me why. Not what it means. Why it made you uncomfortable. Due next class. No exceptions.

No welcome. No syllabus. Just a demand for vulnerability.

The class remains quiet, even after she sets down the chalk. No one checks their phone. No one whispers. You glance around. Everyone’s still, like waiting to be dismissed from a spell. You’re not even sure if you want to leave.

You pack your notebook slowly, slipping it into your sling bag. You rise and begin walking toward the door—but then her voice cuts through the air like a command:

“Stay. I want to talk to you.”

You freeze. You curse under your breath. What did you do wrong?

You turn around slowly and meet her gaze. This time, her eyes are less ice—more fog. Still unreadable, but not as cold.

“Y-Yes?” you stammer.

She closes her book, leans back against her chair with a quiet sigh. “Where are you from?”

You blink, thrown by the question. “Queens,” you reply, tightening your grip on your bag. “Did I… do something?”

She gives a small laugh, waves her hand. “No. Not yet.”

Yet. That single word coils around your spine. What did she mean? Were you destined to fail? Or to surprise her?

You give a nervous smile. The kind that’s more instinct than confidence.

“What’s your name?” she asks, a little softer now.

You tell her. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

She nods. “You were the only student today who recognized a single Russian author. That’s rare. I was... surprised.”

Your gaze drifts to the worn copy of Anna Karenina resting on the corner of her desk, its spine creased like it's been opened a thousand times. The sight of it catches you off guard, tightening something deep in your chest. It’s not just a book—it’s a mirror, a quiet echo of longing and ruin. You feel a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or sorrow dressed as affection. A smile teeters on the edge of your lips, but you catch it before it escapes, swallowing it like a secret. Somehow, smiling feels too vulnerable, too honest. So instead, you look away, pretending it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always does.

“Do you like this book?” she asks.

You hesitate. “Yes. One of the greatest pieces of literature I’ve read.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Because of the scandal? The affair? The suicide?” Her voice teases, just a little. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

You’re not sure if she’s being sarcastic or sincere, but either way, you want to answer. You want to say it’s the desperation you admire, the unraveling of a woman who wanted too much. You see parts of yourself in Anna’s conflict. Her recklessness. But instead, you say: “I liked how conflicted she was. It felt... human.”

“Human,” she repeats, the word soft but weighted, like it carries more meaning than she’s letting on. Then she hums—a low, thoughtful sound that settles between you. You’re caught again in her stare, pinned there like something fragile in a glass case.

Your eyes drop, searching for escape, and land on her hands. They’re veined and delicate, elegant in their age, each line etched like a story half-told. She touches the book in front of her—Anna Karenina—with a reverence that feels intimate, almost holy. As if the pages hold confessions only she’s allowed to hear.

And then, for just a moment, something impossible flickers through you.

You wonder what it would be like to be held that way. To be seen not just for what you are, but for everything you’re trying not to be. To be looked at with quiet understanding, with restraint and reverence and that same aching softness. It terrifies you. It tempts you.

And just like that, the thought slips away—but not before it leaves something trembling behind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Y/L/N. Good luck with your next class.”

You nod and slip out the door, letting it close softly behind you.

Once outside, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath the entire time. Something about her unsettled you—but also, something about her pulled you in. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way she speaks. Maybe it’s what she hides. Maybe you’ve never felt this alive in a classroom before. You’re not sure what this is. But it’s already begun.

“How was your first day?”

“Not bad,” you say into the phone, your voice soft as your fingers flip open the book in your lap. Anna Karenina, again. You’ve read it before—more than once—but tonight it feels different, heavier somehow. “How was yours?”

“Y/n, you know I’m fine. I’ll always be fine,” MJ replies, her voice laced with that familiar teasing fondness. You can practically hear her smile. “But you? You get anxious. You overthink. You go into full-on spiral mode.”

“Not this time,” you say quickly, maybe too quickly. “No. I’m good. I met Professor Romanoff today.”

There’s a beat of silence before MJ responds, her voice suddenly sharper. “No shit?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching upward despite yourself. “She’s my Russian Literature professor.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I still don’t get why you picked that class. Makes me think you’re just indecisive.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe you are indecisive. But it wasn’t just curiosity about literature that made you choose it—it was something else. A feeling. An impulse you haven’t fully named. Something about her name on the faculty list drew your eye, and your gut twisted in that way it does when something is about to change.

Maybe you just wanted to see her. Observe her. Understand the chill behind her voice, the precision of her movements, the warmth she conceals under the weight of her intellect. But you can’t say that out loud. Not to MJ. She’d laugh, or worse—she’d see through you. See how your thoughts are already running too far, too fast, down roads you’re not supposed to go.

“I heard she’s pretty,” MJ says casually.

Pretty doesn’t begin to cover it.

“Yeah. You’re right,” you reply, forcing a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. “When I first saw her, my jaw dropped. I wish she hadn’t noticed.”

MJ snorts. “Well, I hope not. Anyway, I gotta go. Peter wants to study with me.”

You say goodbye, listen to the line go dead, and then sit there for a long moment, the book resting on your chest. You don’t move. Your eyes trace the ceiling, your thoughts distant. You wonder—quietly, cautiously—what Professor Romanoff would say if she knew you were rereading Anna Karenina the same night you met her. Would she be pleased? Would she smile at you like you mattered, like you intrigued her?

And more importantly: why does that matter so much to you?

You don’t know. But the need to be noticed, to be liked—no, not liked. To be seen by her—it swells inside you like something shameful and electric. You feel foolish, but also helpless to it.

You remember the essay. The one she assigned, due by morning. Panic pricks at the edge of your chest.

You scramble out of bed, the book falling shut on the mattress as you rush to your desk. You fumble through the drawer, pull out a blank sheet of paper, and grip your pen like it’s the only thing tethering you to solid ground.

All you know is this: you will not stop thinking about her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Probably not for a long time.

TAGLIST: @aru-son @ihartnat

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #dark!natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #black widow x fem reader #teachers pet series

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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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okay!! I've gotten a handful of requests that have me by the throat rn but here's my game plan/tentative timeline for my future Remmick fics!

1. Bloodbound (blood bride au)

summary: you’ve been chosen in a vampire-binding ritual as a blood bride, forced to tether to a vampire for your city’s protection. You never expected it to be Remmick—the most dangerous one. And when he marks you, you don’t expect it to feel so good.

I'm about 7k into this one, it's probably gonna be my longest one-shot, I'm estimating it'll be around 20k

2. Hallowed Be Thy Hunger (Louis x Lestat adjacent au, toxic vampire romance)

summary: In a house where the roses rot on the vine and the mirrors stay veiled, you sleep beside the man who damned you. Remmick—beautiful as sin, cruel as scripture—made you eternal, then made you his. What festers between you is not love. It’s legacy. A vicious, sacred hunger. Each time you try and leave, he draws you deeper into his bed. Each time you try to forget, he kisses the memory back into your throat and like a marionette, you come back every time he pulls the strings.

I'm gonna turn this into a three chapter fic. might end up releasing the first chapter before Bloodbound. I've made Remmick tender/romantic in my other aus thus far so I'm gonna write something a fair bit darker! anyone who's seen Interview With A Vampire will know what I mean!

3. Our Rapture, Their Retribution (Irish immigrant reader/Salem witch trials au)

summary: In the salt-stained wilds of the New World, you arrive wanting to escape famine and religious persecution, seeking grace, but America has none to spare. Instead you meet a man older than the trees and crueler than any Puritan God and when the village calls for your death, he answers with a slaughter that leaves no soul untouched. You were never meant to be saved. You were meant to be claimed.

this one I'm debating on making it a long one shot or a mini series like the above fic but Remmick massacring an entire village for trying to burn you at the stake 😩 this is also a working title bc idk if it has the same punch as some of my other titles but I'm super excited for this idea!!

#I'm also still taking requests!!#short requests will be written between these longer pieces #the idea is I'll work on requests if i run into writer's block #to be written #sinners 2025 #sinners fic #sinners au #sinners remmick #remmick x reader #jack o'connell

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thatdeadaquarius · 2 years ago

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About your language brainrot. I see your "Reader's writing can't match tyvat's long and flowery writing" and bring you "Tyvat isn't used to books over 50 pages long so a short story to the Reader is a whole dictionary to tyvat readers".

Seriously, have you seen how thin the books are? They don't wrote novels, they write short chapters formatted in the way really old stories are. As in, summarizing all the events down into one smooth story then adding a few quotes. Fanfiction writers are insane. They will willingly sit down and write hundreds of words at a time. To them, a proper modern day story of maybe, oh 10k words or so, would probably be like the Oddessy itself.

If we were to combine the two headcanons. It would end up as many historians being intimidated by this insanely long written scripture in the language of the forgotten.

I'm going to take this a step further and say that if the creator asked some people to proofread their things, it would establish a hiarchy of who is able to actually finish the book the creator read and who isn't.

NOW THIS, THIS IS MY FUCKING JAMMMM

I'm so sorry this is so old!! u probably all know this by this point that I've really slowed down as the year has gone on, but I graduated university and then got my first job so its been pretty crazy!

Sun: Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: dash of all the book/nerds of Genshin, heavy on Sumeru?

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: Cussing, 16+ Mature Audiences, Spoliers for Sumeru Archon Quests/Scaramouche, & Trigger Warnings: mention of shipping/characters shipping themselves with you.

Comment if any missed, please.

☆

FULL STOP.

THE AKADEMIYA, FONTAINE RESEARCH INSTITUTE, HAVE BEEN WAITTTINNGGGG ON YOUR ASS LMAO

You fall from the fucking sky like a 5 star, or pop out of the Irminsul or whatever

and immediately are mobbed by scholars. LMAO jkjk (not really, bc that's what it’d feel like)

can you even imagine the dread older stories(”the classics” to them), that was instilled in the poor students around Teyvat??

id like to think ur works are the most preserved over the thousands of years of Teyvat archeologists excavating them, in comparison to other authors (teyvat just likes you more, suck it William Shakespeare)

also, bc I cant resist language differences/world building I'm sorryyyy 😭 😭

the vocab of Genshin lang vs. ours, has significantly less vocabulary like their actual dictionary is 1/3 the size of ours type of energy

(Omfg all ur fanfics being considered like insanely long realistic romantic classics or tragedies like Jane Austen-level, and only the richest and biggest play companies put on plays about ur stories bc the script goes on for hours)

(ur plays only get put on for rlly big events bc of this, like Lantern Rite or like a Summer/Winter festival/your birthday, which is, yes, an international holiday)

dude the sheer power move of anything you’ve written being essentially “Journey of the West” to them, like Damnnn.

endless like adaptations, plays, Teyvat-short stories condensing it, (THEIR OWN FANFICTION ABOUT UR STORIES)

the power is, in fact, going to your head every time another scholar both deflates at how long ur stuff is, but also lights up bc they get to read it

speaking of scholars… you know who snatched you up first. you know. you don’t even need to read the next line.

Alhaitham.

sneaky bastard he is, absolutely manipulated, mansplained (and manwhored bc he knows he’s handsome, cheeky little shit) his way into getting you to sit down with him and interview you about both translating other classics, your own, giving your own analysis of others works and ur own, and picking ur brain apart of how/why you wrote urs, etc. its fucking endless,

Kaveh had to come rescue you bc u were starving to death after getting stuck with the Haravatat scholar in his office for nearly 7 hours of interrogation discussion about literature

and Alhaitham wasn't even nearly done, he’d informed you as you left that he already had another appointment for later conversation scheduled (how?? you don't even know ur own schedule??? you have a schedule???) and was looking forward to more of your “creative and enlightening input” :)))

(you’re never going to escape him, not even Nahida herself can save you from his stubborn ass)

On another note, Xingqiu is quaking when you agree to autograph his copy of your stories (of which he has all hard covers of the first edition translations)

Zhongli/Rex Lapis is known for having a near-lifelong passion for searching for your works specifically, and learning how to translate them better into Teyvatian vernacular

like the same way he can absolutely speak on Rex Lapis facts/rocks/adepti info, is the same confidence he speaks about knowing ur work lol

(yes he did also ask for several autographs and another sit-down talk about the works, tho a lot more sneaky then Alhaitham bc he just casually gets u guys into it during dinner)

Barbatos/Venti has written some of the most famous songs based on your stuff, he has his favorites too,

but he always claims the best songs are any that have been written in the story, like either when a character sings something, or there are like quotes from songs ur fanfics are based on lol

(he also demanded to hear what they actually sound like from you, yes, you have to sing them for him lol)

Venti also can surprisingly drunkenly ramble the entirety of at least one of ur stories, like, word for word lmao

(Diluc gave in and did give him a drink on the house for that one, just once, Venti doesn’t remember it lol)

(I forgot to mention, u guys still speak the same language, just like, different versions of it)

ur works being one of the few things all the Archons can freely talk about with each other, like it’s neutral ground bc they’re all fangirling about it lmao

Furina and Neuvillette have had like,, fierce debates over the decades about character dynamics and the general drama of ur stories, they’ve gotten into it enough they’ve stopped talking to each other for a couple days a few times lol

Albedo, Sucrose, Kokomi, Yae Miko, Ei, Raiden, have read every single work they’re gotten their hands on in Teyvat (it took them like a literal year or longer)

Albedo drew you fanart for every single story, bc he’s hyperfixated on everything related to you ngl,

Kokomi had commissioned smaller pocket versions of ur works (which later got popular thanks to Yae Miko) both the OG and the Teyvat shortened versions

THE HARBINGERS ARE THE MOST DOWN BAD LMAO

Childe has literally tried to recreate battle scenes from ur works lmao

and gets especially riled up about fighting someone who resembles any characters from them (esp villains, what a cutie)

You cannot fathom the amount of research throughout Teyvat that has been secretly or indirectly funded by Pantalone/Tsaritsa

from the experts to analyze them, to funding play companies to act them out, to actually excavating places to get more of ur stuff unearthed

(the Harbingers absolutely are the first group of people that got to read several of ur stories first bc of this, like the world’s most exclusive secret book club lol)

Scaramouche used to clown on Childe all the time about how he was too impatient to even “sit down and read the King’s classics”, and he was downright insufferable when he found out about Tartaglia’s habit of recreating battle scenes/that being what motivated him to fight sometimes lol

that being said, Wanderer surprisingly never forgot ur stories.

Even when his memories were wiped for a bit, he found comfort in these fantastical epics still sticking around, even when his old names did not

(he mayyyy or mayyy nottt have secretly namedhimselfafteroneofthetragicprotagonistsherelatesto- )

oh btw, Nahida also found joy and comfort in ur stories when she was trapped, they also helped her literally grow as a person bc she had ur stories to help her sort of process the world/what life was like outside of her dreaming prison 🥺💔❤️‍🩹

◇

OMFG

ANYWAY FULL TONE SHIFT LMFAO-

the ABSOLUTE SPIRAL-RED-STRING-CONSPIRACY-THEORY-BOARD ENERGY IF THIS WAS A BLUNT LANGUAGE AU LMAOOOO

like specifically how Teyvatians like to give all the context ever thru their words, but older deities/beings like you just do simple phrases that can have deeper meanings (whereas teyvat just explains all the meanings behind their words)

STOP there’s like an official display at the Akademiya and Fontaine Institute of red string theory boards 😭😭 (look what you’ve done to themmm LMAO)

for like every story of urs, INCLUDING THE FANFICS STOP

IMAGINE THE SHIPPING WARS IF U EVER WROTE ONE THAT WASNT EXPLICIT OR LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN ROMANTIC INTERESTS HAD CHEMISTRY WITH OTHER CHARACTERS HAHAHAHAA

that's actually what Akademiya scholars argue about the most viciously, it’s like politics you can’t just bring up ships from ur stories casually in regular convos 💀

(poor Cyno has to deal with a shipping war once a year bc someone always makes the mistake of reading ur work for the first time (without being told to not talk to others abt ships lol) and it starts an all out brawl in the cafeteria every time LMAO)

Also yes.

Cyno is a fanboy.

(he has read Creator x Reader-insert fanfiction.)

(As have most of the characters mentioned, and those not lol)

…

(I'm gonna make a whole Creator x reader fanfic post one day i stg lmao)

☆

an iced coffee? for me?? :0

ok but real talk…

wtf do you guys wanna see for new years!!

i didn't do a inktober/october days thingy bc i felt too unprepared (and bc id wanted to post that 1000+ followers eldritch au for Halloween)

but now i kinda wanna, at least for a few days :o

ill post a poll in a minute, so check it out!! but still, please feel free to comment some ideas here! :)

Safe Travels Deafening Dreamer,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657 / @esthelily

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lizardho · 2 months ago

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Another instance of me just grossly misinterpreting things was when I was 12 and I had my first Worthiness Interview (my inner Rogerian therapist is crying in utter despair at that name btw) and because Mormons are fucking juvenile slopfarts who can never just say things clearly, I totally did not realize that when the guy giving me the fucking interview asked “Do you…um, haha, I mean, do you, ya know?...Um, like, ya know, engage in self-gratification?” that he meant “Hey, you jorkin’ it?” and I interpreted that as “Do you do things that make you feel good?” And I was like “Yeah, all the time!” Because of course I do! I eat food I like, I play fun video games, I spend time with my siblings, I watch T.V., I have friends I talk to at school, I am near-constantly self-gratifying. And because this little nut weasel was too chickeshit to just Say The Fucking Thing he thought that I had just confessed to The Sin Second to Murder and immediately says “Hahah, hey, that’s OK, a lot of people do that! But God doesn’t want us to, because it’s wrong to do that, so you need to stop to be temple worthy.” And my gender dysphoric ass did NOT know what masturbating was and so I fully thought he was saying “Don’t do things that are fun!” and I believed him, because a) Why would he lie? And b) The scriptures SAY that the natural man is an enemy to God, AND and c) I kept getting told that when shit was hard and unpleasant because of my faith that it was good. That God was happy when I stayed faithful and suffered immensely, because that was The Right Thing To Do. So I went from 12-15 years old feeling guilty any time I did ANYTHING I liked before we got a new guy doing the interviews who wasn’t a coward and could ask the question directly and I was like “No” and he was like “Cool, any questions for me?” and I said, “Yeah, what happened to the self-gratification question?” and he said “Oh, that means masturbating.” And internally I was screaming and crying and pissing and shitting and throwing up because NO THE FUCK IT DOES NOT mean that. And I had been saying “yes” to that for years when I didn’t even know what masturbating was because I thought Jesus hated it when I was happy.

#tgirl swag #mormon #ex mormon #exmormon #trans pride #trans stuff #lds church #carl rogers #rogerian

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vampire-scripture · 2 days ago

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Art in the subterranean room of the Théâtre des Vampires

It was the terrible ‘Triumph of Death’ by Breughel, painted on such a massive scale that all the multitude of ghastly figures towered over us in the gloom. Those ruthless skeletons ferrying the helpless dead in a fetid moat or pulling a cart of human skulls,

beheading an outstretched corpse or hanging humans from the gallows.

A bell tolled over the endless hell of scorched and smoking land, towards which great armies of men came with the hideous, mindless march of soldiers to a massacre.

I turned away, but the auburn-haired one touched my hand and led me further along the wall to see ‘The Fall of the Angels’ slowly materializing, with the damned being driven from the celestial heights into a lurid chaos of feasting monsters (...) above to the very height of the mural, where I could make out of the shadows two beautiful angels with trumpets to their lips. And for a second the spell was broken.

The candle rose. And horrors rose all around me: the dumbly passive and degraded damned of Bosch, the bloated, coffined corpses of Traini, the monstrous horsemen of Dürer

The very ceiling writhed with skeletons and moldering dead, with demons and the instruments of pain, as if this were the cathedral of death itself. - Interview with the Vampire

Anne Rice, in the Vampire Companion:

I was very interested in the Northern European artists at that time - Brueguel, Dürer, Bosch - painters who I felt were absolutely grotesque in many regards.

#anne rice #the vampire chronicles #interview with the vampire #iwtv #theatre des vampires #vampire scripture #art #cw: violence #cw: gore #dürer #bosch #brueghel #traini #my headcanon is that all of this was Nicki's idea

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hoe4hotchner · 8 months ago

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hi! could I request singer reader dating Aaron and the BAU doesn't KNOW but founds out after she drops her album/song about him (I'm thinking juno, bed chem by Sabrina etc).

Valkyrie | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x singer fem!reader | WC: 0.9k | CW: No use of Y/N, but reader's stage name is Valkyrie in this, Fluff, relationship

The team had scattered across the bullpen, taking a rare break between interviews and paperwork. Penelope, however, was anything but quiet. She was vibrating with excitement as she stormed into the room, tablet in hand and an undeniable spark in her eyes.

“Okay, stop everything you’re doing,” she announced dramatically, catching everyone’s attention. “Have you heard this new album?”

Emily, sitting at her desk, glanced up with a smirk. “What album?”

She held up her tablet like it was a piece of holy scripture. “Valkyrie’s new album just dropped. I’m telling you, it is life-changing, soul-touching, cry-your-eyes-out amazing.”

You were Valkyrie - the pop sensation who had taken the world by storm over the last couple of months. Known for your breathtaking voice, and your way of writing lyrics that felt personal even to the audience, like you were pulling the words straight from your soul. What the team didn’t know was that Valkyrie, the woman with chart-topping hits, was Hotch’s girlfriend - and the subject of your latest songs? Well, that was him.

"Valkyrie? Isn’t she that singer you’ve been obsessed over lately?" Derek asked, teasing.

“First of all, it’s not an obsession; it’s an appreciation of an amazing artist. And second,” Garcia held her finger up for dramatic effect, “her new album, Into You, is… well, I’m not saying it’s about someone in her life, but these lyrics, guys… they’re personal.”

Spencer, ever the analyst, raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think it’s about someone specific?”

“Oh, Spence,” Garcia sighed dramatically, tapping her tablet to pull up the lyrics. “Just listen to this - ‘Your steady presence holds me still when the world spins too fast. In your arms, I finally find my way home.’ Does that not sound like she’s writing about someone she loves?”

JJ tilted her head, intrigued. “It does sound pretty intimate.”

Derek grinned. “Sounds like someone’s in love.”

Emily leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I wonder who it’s about.”

Meanwhile, Hotch had been quietly observing the conversation from his office, a small, secretive smile playing on his lips. The lyrics they were quoting were all too familiar to him. He’d heard them months ago when Valkyrie - well, you - had played the demo for him late one night, curled up together in his living room. You’d been nervous, watching him for a reaction as your voice filled the room. But there had been nothing but pride in his chest, knowing how deeply you felt for him.

"Hotch!" Derek’s voice called as he stepped out of his office. “You ever listen to this stuff?”

Hotch looked up, his calm mask firmly in place. “Occasionally.”

“Occasionally?” Garcia gasped, horrified at his indifference. “Aaron Hotchner, how can you be so nonchalant about THE Valkyrie?”

He merely raised an eyebrow, his expression neutral. “I’m aware of her work.”

Spencer, still analyzing, added, “There’s been a lot of speculation about who her songs are about. She’s private, so no one really knows who she’s dating.”

Derek chuckled. “She’s probably dating some regular guy, someone outside the spotlight.”

At that, Hotch couldn’t help but suppress a grin. He supposed, in a way, he was that regular guy - well, as regular as the head of the BAU could be.

Just then, Garcia pressed play on the song, and your voice flowed through the speakers, soft and intimate. It was the song you’d written just for him, though no one else knew that. The one that talked about finding calm in the chaos, about love that was steady and unwavering.

JJ’s brow furrowed as she listened closely, some of the lyrics sounding a little too familiar, her eyes drifting toward Hotch, catching the subtle change in his expression. “Wait… Hotch, you wouldn’t happen to know something about this, would you?”

The team went quiet as all eyes turned to him. Hotch met JJ’s gaze, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He debated for a moment how much he should reveal. You had both agreed to keep things quiet after all, your lives were public enough without everyone knowing about your relationship. But as he looked at his team, he realized it was time.

“I do,” Hotch finally said, his voice steady.

Garcia’s eyes went wide, her tablet nearly slipping from her hands. “WAIT… WHAT?”

Derek blinked in disbelief. “No way.”

“You and Valkyrie?” Emily asked her tone somewhere between astonishment and amusement.

Hotch’s small smile grew a little. “We’ve been together for a while now.”

The bullpen exploded into noise - questions, laughter, disbelief. Garcia was beside herself. “YOU’VE BEEN DATING VALKYRIE AND DIDN’T TELL US?”

Hotch shrugged slightly. “It wasn’t relevant to the job.”

Emily shook her head, grinning. “I can’t believe you kept this a secret.”

“Believe it,” Hotch replied, his tone light but still full of pride.

Penelope, still in shock, glanced at the tablet, then back at Hotch. “That song - this whole album - it’s about you, isn’t it?”

Hotch didn’t need to answer, but the look in his eyes was enough confirmation. Spencer, still processing, muttered, “Well, that certainly explains the lyrics.”

As the team bombarded him with questions, Hotch’s mind wandered back to you. Despite the craziness of your life in the public eye and his demanding career, you had found something rare and beautiful together. And now, it seemed, the secret was out - but somehow, he didn’t mind.

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mirrorcatcreditcard · 7 months ago

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Take I haven't seen in the fandom yet:

Luka doesn't want to be freed.

"Now, MirrorCatCreditcard," you may say, "that's nonsense. Any human would want freedom from that system."

If you're thinking I'm gonna convince you that Luka doesn't know he wants freedom yet, you're wrong. I'm here to talk about indoctrination/conditioning, grooming/emotional manipulation, my own experience with those topics, and how all of the above connects with Luka as a character. If a deep dive like this is too much for you, please tap out for your own sake.

Luka's life was planned before he even existed. There has never ever been an alternative option. There is no life for Luka as anything but what Herperu chose. Everything in his life has been planned to have him be the perfect pet human idol. That is what he must be.

Fandom, I don't think most of you actually understand this and have dissected what this means (shout-out to the Luka stans who are getting there/have guessed similar things). These words we know have alternatives and are not set in stone are Luka's "gravity makes rain fall to the earth" and "water makes things wet." They are facts so deeply ingrained within him that even if shown the contrary he remarks that the person showing them is just disillusioned.

Take his commentary on Mizi and Hyun-A in the art book. He looks down on Mizi for not being able to control any of her emotions. How does he talk about Hyun-A? He has her at 70% affection yet shows a patronizing attitude—she's the one in denial at reality.

Now, how did we get here? How is a human so "delusional" and set in the control?

He's been conditioned.

Some of you don't know what I mean by this from experience and/or research, and count yourself fortunate that you don't. I pray you never experience such things firsthand. Don't worry about ignorance. Familiar or not, I will explain.

When you are surrounded by only one truth and reality, that is the way you interpret life. If a parent tells a child "the moon goes to sleep during the day," until the child learns otherwise, that's what they believe. Now take that child-like belief and add some toxic environments to the mix. With time, any other kid would learn that the earth rotates from their peers or adults around them. But if the creatures around them all say and believe the same thing "the moon goes to sleep during the day," then that is what the child continues to believe. Years of that same thing being the only truth make that false knowledge into a fact in the person's head, and everything that supports that fact is taken as truth or on the right path to truth.

"This is kinda silly though," you guys are no doubt murmuring, "All of this is a hypothetical. Give us something that makes sense or that someone could actually see happen in our society."

I'll give you my own experience then. My parents taught me that God is real. My parents taught me that I will be damned I do not follow the commandments of the scriptures. I didn't need to worry though. As long as I was obedient to the God who loved me and wanted what was best, I would be saved despite being born an awful sinful human. I was homeschooled, only interacted with people of similar beliefs, and taught that people too different from me in ideology or with radical beliefs against my own were trying to harm me and my family. I believed the people who raised me because why would people who love me lie to me? My task was simple. I needed to obey God and love everyone, especially them. Love meant giving up my entire being and living only as servant and sacrifice. After all, being selfless to the utmost was the greatest form of love.

Let's go back to Luka. His guardian, Herperu, when questioned about any surprises while training Luka, stated not only that he was the one who endured the "tough moments" but also that "(Luka) owes his success to me, and naturally, he should be grateful." This sentiment is echoed by Luka in his interview (shown on Patreon). My god, it's giving parents with disabled kids who brag on social media about how much trouble their kid is and how much they do for them. Sickening. This shows exactly what environment Luka has lived in though.

When you are manipulated into having something as your reality, everything else is fiction and delusion.

Let's review what exactly is Luka's reality.

Heperu is the one suffering if Luka has any difficulties being obedient.

Gratitude is what Herperu is owed because he goes through so much trouble to make Luka a star.

Love/care is shown by owning another's autonomy.

Emotions and bodily reactions exist, sure, but someone should be able to control them; and if they can't, someone should control those reactions for them.

Segyein are superior and the good ones for dealing with humans. Humans must be disciplined and shaped to how an segyein wants it to act to be considered deserving of this goodness.

(Luka)'s perfection is defined by his guardian.

Luka's life is directly connected to being the perfect performer. His guardian praises his abilities with the statement that no other pet human will ever be as perfect as him yet leaves an underlying threat saying that it will be no good if a pet is not trained properly. This has probably been mentally (if not physically) beaten into Luka's mind: his greatness doesn't stop him from being able to be disposed of. The human instinct to want to live has been explained to him as Heperu's wish for him to live and that has been further distorted as a duty to live for the stage he has been placed on.

Luka believes fully that there is a debt in play here. In his interview, he mentions repaying love. He thinks the relationship between fan and idol is completely normal, encouraged, and healthy. Performance is the most important thing. Being where he is is a privilege.

There's a chain here:

Heperu indoctrinated Luka into believing what he says is all true.

The guardian manipulated him easily to do what he wanted with his body and mind.

The years have been spent constantly conditioning Luka to be the god who encapsulated fantasies for the audience.

He is continually being groomed to exist for the entertainment and enjoyment of segyein.

Circle back to my first point of this post. Luka does not want to be freed. He doesn't know what freedom actually is. He sees freedom as either foolish denials of reality (and doesn't consider that actual freedom) or as controlling the song and stage when he performs (something he learned from Hyuna). He cannot want something he cannot understand. He cannot want freedom in the sense the fandom keeps speaking about.

It's funny. From the moment Luka was revealed to be hated by the fandom, I wanted to know why. Instead of digging and finding horrific deeds, I instead found a character who portrayed my own traumas and experiences. I instantly attached and delved deeply into learning about this thirty year old singer. Why does he express himself in a certain way? Where do we first see mention of him? Who does he have emotions towards? How was he trained? What makes Luka himself? I have past essays/replies to other's theories if you're interested, but in this one I got personal and didn't sugarcoat the facts. If the fandom can't handle deep thought, we shouldn't be discussing this incredibly profound and depth-filled web series.

As always, thank you for your time, and I hope my thoughts allowed you to open your mind to new things. Mostly, I hope you enjoyed them 🫶

#alnst #alien stage #alnst luka #alien stage luka #luka alnst #luka alien stage #alien stage analysis #alien stage theory #alnst analysis #alnst theory #tw trauma #tw conditioning #tw manipulation #tw abuse #we're dissecting the following triggers btw #in cass you're wondering #take care #mirr's rambles #lukaposting

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er1nne · 1 month ago

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…INTRODUCING INTERVIEWER!READER

ᝰ.ᐟ⋆°•☁︎

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER is all soft sweaters, warm skin, and a brain that never stops observing. she’s always got her headphones half-on and her mind half-somewhere else—looping film scores like prayers. her mornings start with crossword puzzles and the perfect cup of coffee (extra cinnamon, no sugar, just right), and if she doesn’t get either, the day feels wrong. ⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER who actually has a fear of too much attention.⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER she’s not a romantic—she thinks love is messy and a little inefficient—but that doesn’t stop people from falling for her anyway. it doesn't help that she's a bit flirty too. oh well. she gives off the girl-next-door energy that lingers in rooms long after she leaves. she’s calm, until she isn’t. she’ll fight you if she has to, and she won’t miss. maybe because she’s so pretty it doesn’t feel fair. so pretty it hurts.⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER her ADHD is through the roof—she’s forgetful, scattered, talks with her hands, and loses everything except her passion. she jumps from idea to idea like it’s a game of hopscotch, and somehow she still lands on her feet. hyperfocuses for seven hours straight without blinking, then forgets to eat. reads movie scripts like scripture, leaves voice memos in the middle of the night about film ideas, quotes dialogue during arguments by accident. (“it’s not personal, it’s just structure.⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER who loves crossword puzzles because they give her just enough chaos and just enough control. she wears oversized headphones in public even when they’re off even though secretly she's listening to Summer Walker. keeps Polaroids in her back pocket like receipts. her signature scent is cinnamon, caramel macchiato, and clean laundry warm from the dryer. soft. toasty. unforgettable. ⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER who never meant to end up on red carpets, but found herself there anyway. interviewing people when she wanted to be the people. making a career from the sidelines while secretly storyboarding her own future in the margins of every press pass she’s ever worn. she’ll lose her keys, forget what day it is, talk through a scene while pacing the room barefoot. but she feels everything deeply. knows when a shot is right just by instinct. and when it’s time to show up, she does—sharp, on time, and locked in. ⌝

—

INTERVIEWER!READER WORKS

interviewing drew for queer the interview with drew goes viral unexpected encounters

inspired by @rafesangelita

comment if you’d like to be tagged for this series

last updates, May 10th, 2025

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all444glo · 1 month ago

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HAB!JARED X WAG!READER HEADCANONS

Y’all met at Duke—two standout athletes, both gaining internet success. The chemistry was instant, but it wasn’t rushed.

He respected your discipline before anything else. You weren’t caught up in campus popularity , and that made him lean in harder.

He lets you lead. He doesn’t feel threatened by your success—he stands beside you proudly.

He showed up for you in the smallest ways—study snacks during finals, warm-ups before games, quiet pep talks when you felt like quitting

“I’m an honors student, I should just keep going with school, I could be a successful teacher!”

“Y/N please don’t piss me off…”

Your relationship wasn’t performative. Even though y’all were “entertainment” to everyone watching, it was always deeper than content.

Y’all didn’t perform for the world. Your intimacy shows in care, which is why one day you all decided to keep you alls relationship off the internet. No more vlogs, no more story times. You all let everyone assume what they wanted.

After tough games, y’all try to decompress together. Showers, candles, stretching each other out on the floor while music plays low. Sometimes no words—just breath, hands, intimacy.

Draft night night came and you were in the crowd acting like you weren’t about to cry before his name even got called. Your makeup was amazing before you all sat down. But the proud look on his families face as long with his made you weak, your eyes stayed glossy and you teared up constantly during the entire ceremony.

Jared kept looking at you between interview questions, mouthing “You good?” and all you could do was nod and squeeze his hand under the table. You’d seen how hard he worked, how many nights he sat icing his knees while editing watching film. You knew he had doubts, and as tonight was the biggest reassurance you could ever give him.

When “For the 16th pick the Philadelphia 76ers select…Jared McCain…” echoed through the Barclays Center, you stood before he did. Screamed like you got drafted yourself. Jumped on him, damn near straddled him in that suit, tears everywhere.

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, and whispered, “We made it, baby, we did it!”

Because it wasn’t just his moment—it was both of yours, and you already knew your time was coming just as big.

He brings your Duke jersey to his games and keeps it with his things. You didn’t even know until the cameras caught him waving it around after he dropped his first 30.

After your last collegiate triple-double, he flew out same night just to surprise you. When you came out the locker room , he didn’t say much—just hugged you tight and whispered, “You’re still not beating me.”

You hoop together in his off-time, but it’s never about who’s better. It’s about sharpening each others skills.

He knows your game like his own. “Watch that spin—she’s baitin’ your left,” he’ll tell your teammates during your practice.

When y’all train, it’s quiet—focused. And then later that night, he’ll joke, “You lucky I love you, ‘cause I would’ve blocked that weak ass step-through.” And you’ll smirk, “Shoulda coulda woulda, do it next time.”

He knows how to ground you. When the media’s loud or the pressure’s up, he brings you back down. “Don’t let them get you out of character,” he always says “They want you to act like that” And it always works.

You write notes in his duffle. He keeps them in his locker like scripture.

This man showed up in a custom tapestry hoodie with different pictures of you your face printed on it. Your college number and #1 was embroidered on it, it was tiny but it was cute.

He was pacing in his Asics like he was about to get drafted again

When they said, “With the #1 pick, the New York Liberty select…” and your name dropped, he jumped before you did. Grabbed you, spun you around, crying in a way that made the whole room stop.

Y’all hugged forever. Cameras catching him whispering, “I told you. Number one, how could you doubt it?.” And your tears didn’t stop ‘til you hit the stage, looking back and seeing him holding his composure like he’d never been prouder.

Afterward, y’all took photos like a prom couple—you wore his draft day hat and you wore his both of y’all cheesin’ like first day of school.

From that night on, Jared always snuck seafoam somewhere in his game day fits: a beanie, a lace trim, socks, even a matching mani once.

You? Toooo annoying. Wore a throwback Allen Iverson tee under your warmup just to “accidentally” flash it when you pulled off your top. Philly earrings, Sixers hat at postgames.

Nobody hears the end of it. Constant story reposts of each other’s stats. “Filled stat sheet, my baby helped me hit my parlay 🥹”

Every holiday, every break, y’all host a charity skills clinic for city kids between Brooklyn and Philly, always making it about community. But then still arguing over who’s “the new face” of their respective franchise.

In y’all’s private moments, it’s still quiet prayer, forehead kisses, and him warming your shooting hand in his lap before games. All that noise, all that extra was fun, but nothing compared to when it was just yall.

You knew something was wrong before it even happened, you blamed it on nerves but you knew something bad was happening that day.

You flew to Philly the same day he got injured. Didn’t even wait for clearance or a break in your schedule. Your agent tried to talk you out of it, and you just hit them with a flat, “He would’ve done it for me.”

The first time you walked into his hospital room, he tried to hit you with a smile. “Don’t you have a game today?” he joked with his knee propped and wrapped. You kissed his forehead and whispered, “I could care less about the wnba right now”

Recovery was slow. The kind that eats at a man who lives to move. Jared was an athlete on top of probably having some form of undiagnosed of ADHD. His stagnancy killed him from the inside out.

You stayed on him— overnight shipping meal preps, mental health check-ins, making him put his phone down when he started spiraling into stats and trade rumors.

One night, he broke down. “I feel better— why do I have to be out for the whole season?” He sobbed “What if I’m not the same after this and they trade me?” And you just held him. Quiet, firm. “Then we adjust. You are worth more than your abilities Jared, you need to heal inside and out first”

When you went back to New York he started facetiming you from the recovery gym—him on the bike, you lifting after practice. Y’all turned rehab into ritual, and made it something much more intimate. Something in you healed watching him heal.

He was still rehabbing when the Liberty went on their run. Minimal travel, but was glued to every game—jersey on, seafoam towel in hand, pacing like a coach in his living room.

After every round, he facetimed you crying like you weren’t the one playing. “They not touching you, babe. That lynx whistle is sick, I would have crashed out too”

When y’all made it to the Finals, he begged the training staff to let him fly out for the last game. The Sixers’ media team told him, “You can fly to the Finals if you give us at least one vlog and a tiktok post.”

So this man packed his ring light, a mic, and his best media-friendly tunnel outfit. His vlog started with: “POV: Your girl’s about to win a chip and you’re just here to be loud and emotional.”

He inserts a clip of him heckling a heckler.

In the vlog, he filmed himself shopping in New York “Need a seafoam ‘fit, unfortunately that appears to be a niche color?” He tried on three outfits before choosing one with subtle Liberty colors. “New York do better, why are yall not supporting the only good basketball team yall have?”

He filmed a lil’ “Day in My Life as a Supportive Boyfriend at the WNBA Finals” TikTok: coffee run, holding your duffle bag, screaming from courtside, taking videos of you on the low while mouthing various compliments. The comments were unhinged. “The way he’s acting like he too isn’t a professional basketball player”

They had him mic’d up courtside, and the moment you hit a jumper, he stood up so fast his chair nearly flipped. “My lady a bucket!”He was yelling stats mid-possession like he was on commentary: “That’s her tenth, TEN. You see the left hand finish? That’s not even her dominant hand, she does this.”

During a timeout, the camera panned to him and he threw up a heart with his hands—but when you glanced over and did the same, he dramatically clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Oh my god, we just flirted on national TV. I can’t go back to my seat, I gotta propose or something.”

The Liberty staff had to pull him back into his seat 'cause he was standing on the sideline giving you coaching tips through gritted teeth like he was part of the staff.

Jared stepped a little too close when y’all broke from the bench, hands on his hips like he was just observing. He stood there quiet, eyes locked in like he was studying film, then when y’all brought it in for the huddle clap, he subtly slid his arm in too. Didn’t look at anybody. Didn’t smirk. Just stood there like it was his timeout too.

The clip hit Twitter before the quarter ended, the official 76ers account posting it saying:“Bro thinks he’s part of the team” and a quote tweet from the Libs said: “If we win, he’s taking home a ring too 🤷‍♀️”

You saw him in the locker room after the final buzzer—mascara streaked from crying, champagne in your braids, and he was already crying again.

He met you at center court, kissed your forehead, and whispered sweet nothings to you. You pulled him into the biggest hug, both of you shaking from the weight of it all.

They saved the announcement for post-game, while y’all were still riding the high of the championship confetti. The arena still buzzing, streamers falling, and suddenly the arena voice cuts through:

“And to top it all off… this season’s Rookie of the Year…”

Jared turned to you before they even said your name. He already knew.

When they said it—your name, echoing through the mic—you froze. Trophy in one arm, now another being walked toward you. Your teammates screaming, pushing you forward.

Jared’s voice cracked as he yelled, “That’s my fucking girlfriend!” He yelled excitedly forgetting he was mic’d up.

You didn’t even hold the ROY award at first. Just pointed at it, tears in your lashes, chest rising. “To think I was gonna give up playing and just be a teacher?,” you said in the postgame interview. And Jared behind you? Clapping, lips pressed together to hold in how proud he really was.

Back in the locker room, the team popped bottle after bottle, but Jared found you tucked in a corner drying off. He kissed your temple and whispered, “Rookie of the Year, Champion, and still my beautiful girlfriend. I’m so lucky”

The photos? Idiotic, both of y’all were beyond drunk.. Him in your goggles with the trophy, you holding his waist from the side, holding up your jersey.

Later, when y’all got back to the hotel? You made him hold both trophies while you changed into your victory outfit. He took pictures like a proud AAU dad, cheesin’ hard. “You want ‘em in the crib or your mama’s house?” he asked. You grinned. “Keep ‘em close. I’m not done collecting.”

After the win, he posted: “She won the ‘chip. I won in general.” Every picture had you in the background or on his shirt. Slide 3 was just him crying in the hallway,slide 5 was a zoom in of your name embroidered on his sleeve, slide 10 was you with your championship ring with a heavy engagement ring stacked on top of it.

And the internet couldn’t wait to hate when he showed up the next week in a full Liberty warmup at a Sixers press conference. “I’m just a supportive man in his WAG era,” he said with a grin. “What can I say?”

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