#while confronting hard truths about themselves or whatever

[leupagus]

Please enjoy this section of "A Song of Darkness and Dawn" that's at least three fics into the future (somewhere around season 8?) that I've had in my drafts for literally a year

Happy anniversary?

"Father never talked about the Rebellion," said Lady Stark after a long moment. "At least not with me. Our septa taught us about it, a bit. How King Robert made his claim to the Iron Throne in part through his grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen. She was the younger sister to King Jaehaerys and Queen Shaera."

"You believe Daenerys's claim to be stronger than mine?" He took a breath, wondering at himself even as he said, "It may well be."

Lady Stark gaped at him. "'It may well be'?" she echoed, incredulous. "Whatever happened to 'the Iron Throne is mine by right' and 'all those who deny my claim are my enemy' and 'I alone can unite the realm'?"

"I don't sound like that," he snapped, ignoring her badly-suppressed snort. "Robert won by right of conquest more than birth, and three dragons gives Daenerys Stormborn a better claim than any bloodline. But the more I think on it..." He sighed. "I suspect that there is no such thing as king — or queen — by right. It's simply a pretty phrase for those in power to pursue what they want, at the expense of their duty to their people." He glanced at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, though her expression was odd. "I just never expected to hear such things from you."

"It's your fault, if it's anyone's."

"Really." This expression was more familiar: a glower. "I'm sure this will be interesting."

"You took Winterfell back, despite having no real claim other than the..." He cast about for the right word, "sentiment, I suppose, of the Northern lords."

It wasn't the right word, he soon discovered. "I'm a Stark," she replied hotly. "My family's held the North for thousands of years!"

"But you're not the heir to Winterfell," he pointed out. ". Daughters can inherit — but they usualy don't, not if there's a son living. And your father had three."

"None of whom want to be Warden of the North!" She looked ready to kick him. "And you yourself granted Winterfell to me—"

"And I meant it," he said, stepping back a judicious pace. "You've rebuilt the Keep and brought order back to the North, made it safe for your people. Now you're preparing them for the Great War, and I'd ask for no one better. You're doing your duty. But it was a duty you sought, and a duty that rightly belongs to someone else."

"It's a duty I'm suited to," she countered. "Just as you were suited better to be Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships than to be Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

Stannis jabbed a finger at her. "That was completely different!"

"Only because King Robert gave Storm's End to Renly outright," she said, raising a finger in turn. "You're the one who considered it a slight, even though Dragonstone was the holdfast given to the heir to the Iron Throne, which you were, until Joffrey was born. Not only that, you were the only man Robert could have trusted to rebuild his fleet. And," she added, pushing his hand down when he tried to interject, "You would have hated being Lord of the Stormlands."

She said it with such triumphant confidence that he was left gaping at her for a moment, before hurredly pulling his hand away from hers. "I admire your confidence, my lady," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "But bear in mind that I am Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

"Yes, and if you were there, you'd hate it," she said blithely. "You'd have to deal with people, throughout the day and every day — and not just people who do as you tell them. You'd have to listen to the complaints of smallfolk about their taxed grains, hear out disputes between two holdings that have been fighting over the same half-acre for three generations; you'd have to listen all the wheedling lords and the irascable septons and blustering tradesmen. You'd have to offer comfort to the sickly who come to you for the healing touch of their lord, attend feast days and wave and smile at the crowds, accept the flower crowns the children weave for you at the tourneys. You can't just shout. You have to care, and be shown to care. You—" Suddenly she stopped and laughed. "I wish I had a mirror right now, to show you your face."

"Flower crowns?" he asked, wincing. Shireen would look well in them, at least.

"Good thing I didn't bend the knee, Your Grace," she said, "if the mere thought of daisies wrapped around your head makes you rethink the entire enterprise. What did you think being king meant?"

[augustjoy]

I’m Sorry…What?

Based on the following ask: Established relationship but it’s secret from the team. The team think they don’t like each other but in truth they are deeply in love with each other but the team don’t let them always be alone together out of worry so there have been a few close calls where they almost get caught until reader and Aaron room together and finally talk about maybe telling the team only the way they tell them is threw wedding invites and that’s shocks the team and they all have questions to which reader and Aaron only smile thinking how funny it is that a team of profilers never found them out. Love this idea! In this, Derek kind of looks out for the reader – very “big brother” behavior from him in this.

Aaron Hotchner x Fiance BAU! Fem Reader

Fluff

Word count: 1617

Not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, some explicit language, meddling profilers, canon typical violence, mention of stabbing and hospitals, mention of wedding related activities, let me know if I missed anything!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

You stood from your desk, just about to head up to Hotch’s office with a file when Emily stopped you. Her hand resting on your forearm gently, her eyes meeting your own.

“I have to go drop this file off, let me take yours.”

“Oh, Emily it’s okay. I can take them.” You moved to grab her file.

“Girl, it’s okay…I know how hard he is on you.” Emily stood, patted your shoulder and took the files to Hotch’s office.

--

Things had been like this pretty much since the moment you’d joined the BAU. For whatever reason, everyone on the team had just assumed that you and Hotch hated each other…that you two couldn’t even be in the same room as one another without fighting. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

See, what the team didn’t know was that Aaron and you were engaged. The two of you were dating even before you had joined the BAU. You had been working with a different team within the FBI, having a background in behavior analysis…moving to the BAU when a spot opened up, that just made sense.

Aaron and you had agreed to keep things strictly professional at work to avoid any discomfort within the workplace. Apparently that choice was now biting you in the ass.

Working with profilers, you’d think the secret of your relationship would have come out a long time ago, that being said, doesn’t mean there haven’t been some close calls.

--

This had started early on in you career with the BAU. Aaron had avoided pairing the two of you together, simply to avoid any suspicion of your relationship. The team, however, took this as him not warming up to your presence on the team.

Then it was him “benching” you. Aaron for a period of time had kept you in the local precincts on cases, you knew this was because he was worried about you getting hurt, but the team saw this as him questioning your abilities. They all reassured you that you were an asset to the team, more than capable in the field. Morgan had gone as far as confronting Aaron about the way he was mistreating you.

What really sealed this theory in your teammate’s heads was the way Aaron and you sparred. During debriefings the two of you would go back and forth through numerous theories, jabbing at one another for how “ridiculous” the other one was being. While to the team this looked argumentative…it really was how the two of you were, always pushing one another, wanting them to be the best they can be. Unafraid to challenge one another.

Everything was different after that. The team worked overtime to keep things light when the two of you were around one another. They would step into conversations, inserting themselves when it wasn’t necessary. They would jump in and offer to pair with one of you, so you’d never be stuck one-on-one.

At first you found it kind of funny, laughing internally at their crazy antics, but now that you were engaged, it was getting increasingly annoying. You’d just wanted some alone time with your fiancé and they were making it impossible.

--

You had gone to get a fresh cup of coffee to help you get through the remainder of your paperwork. Upon entering the kitchenette, you came face to face with your fiancé.

“Hey sweetheart.” He quietly greeted.

“Hi hon.” You smiled.

Aaron passed you a cup of coffee before moving to fill a second one for himself. He’d been this way since the beginning, always putting you first no matter what. You offered him thanks and stood with him for a moment, enjoying the proximity.

“I got a call earlier from the florist, she sent over the invoice. I also sent the deposit to the caterer this morning.” You informed.

“For the flowers, peonies right? Did you decide on pink or whi-”

“Everything okay in here?” Morgan bounded into the kitchenette. “You guys look tense…please tell me you weren’t fighting again.”

“Nope, everything is good! I was just heading back to my desk.” You said before making your exit.

--

The next slip up was while away on a case. You had been with Derek interviewing someone that happened to be the unsub, only you hadn’t been aware of that going in.

He had pulled a knife and moved quickly, leaving you with a nasty stab to the gut. You were lucky that it hadn’t hit anything major. You’d waved Derek off, telling him to go after the unsub.

After apprehending the guy, Derek made his way back to you to check in and make sure you were okay. He had called the team and for a medic, not leaving your side.

When Aaron showed up he was livid. The team took that as anger for your “mistake”, not realizing that his anger was directed toward himself – he was beating himself up for having sent you in there, putting you in this situation.

He rode with you in the ambulance to the hospital…giving the rest of the team time to talk about how he was probably reprimanding you. But once again, it couldn’t have been further from the truth. He had held you hand and reassured you the whole way to the hospital.

The team met him there and waited by his side as you were tended to. And when the doctor came out and called your name, asking for family, Aaron didn’t hesitate to rise to his feet, barely catching himself and mentally correcting fiancé to boss.

--

After that, the team did everything they could to keep the two of you separated or at least had someone with you to act as a buffer. It was becoming exhausting – you’d been trying to give Aaron an update about some stuff for the wedding and you just couldn’t get the chance.

The two of you would end up rapidly firing through topics once you arrived home for the evening, trying to catch one another up on wedding tasks, work tasks, and just everyday things.

 “Aaron…have you thought about how much easier things would be if we just told the team about us?”

“Yes I have. Why do you ask?” He admitted.

“Just, well…they’ve been annoying lately.” You huffed. “I don’t mean to sound rude, you know I love them. But they just won’t quit, I can’t get even a second alone with you at work and it is getting ridiculous.”

“You’re right. When you were in the hospital last month, I almost let it slip in front of them. If it’s what you want, let’s tell them.” Aaron agreed.

And thus began your planning of how you’d tell the most oblivious group of profilers that the two of you didn’t hate each other but were actually engaged to be married.

--

It took about a week and a half before you could officially tell the team your little secret. You had been waiting for your invitations to come in so you could hand deliver a few to your team…it would be the perfect announcement.

“Round table in five.” Aaron called out into the bullpen.

“Shit…he seems pissed.” Emily hissed.

You couldn’t help but giggle, knowing full well he was anything but pissed. Emily and you went and collected everyone, bringing them to the round table. There were hushed whispers about what this could be about, and when Penelope mentioned there wasn’t a new case, you could feel the anxiety filling the room.

--

Aaron made his way in, his hands holding a neat stack of pale pink envelopes. You couldn’t help but notice the way he commanded a room, his mere presence demanding the attention of those around him. This is what had initially drawn you to him all those years ago.

“I have something for each of you. I’d like you to wait to open them until everyone has one.” Aaron announced.

He passed them out one by one, the room remaining silent the entire time. It didn’t take long for everyone to notice that you were the only one who didn’t receive an envelope.

“Hotch man, if this is some kind of sick power move then I swear I will-” Derek began.

“Please, open them.” You spoke before standing up and making your way to Aaron’s side.

Confusion painted its way across everyone’s faces. Hands working quickly to open the envelopes they’d been handed. You were shaking with anticipation, and you couldn’t help the little smirk that made its way to your lips when the confusion was quickly replaced with shock.

“I’m sorry…what?” Penelope asked.

“What the hell is this?” Derek questioned.

Everyone began talking at once, talking about whether or not this was a joke. Asking if one another knew, and how long this had been going on.

“Guys!” You called. “Aaron and I have been together for a few years, well before I started with the BAU. We got engaged about seven months ago…and well, we’d love it if you all would be there for us.” You smiled.

“I KNEW IT!” Rossi laughed. “I told you all from the beginning that they didn’t hate one another, they love each other, and you all swore that they hated each other.”

--

Four months later, the BAU team stood by your sides as you said your vows and committed yourselves to one another.

And while the team dynamic shifted slightly with them knowing the two of you are together, and with there being two Agent Hotchners now, the one thing that didn’t change was that this team was family and you all were there for one another no matter what.

Taglist: @bernelflo@pastelpinkflowerlife@just-moondust

[voidofthevoidmv]

Bill Cipher, except he genuinely CANT LIE.

Like, at all. Legitimately he is incapable of telling a lie.

Like sure, he can certainly dodge questions, or maybe create a loophole or two- But if you were to ask him a question directly with no way of avoiding it- HE HAS NO CHOICE BUT TO BE HONEST. And this fudges him over on multiple accounts.

And when he’s trying to dodge questions to avoid giving away his secrets or intentions- I want you to envision the scene from Shrek 3, where Pinocchio is being interrogated by Prince Charming concerning Shreks whereabouts- See here and he’s just RAMBLING-

Now, despite everything, this doesn’t change much. He still has flattery tactics and is careful with his worlds- Despite all his smarts Ford can still be blinded by his own hubris. So the whole portal thing goes down similarly to canon… Untill the portal incident happens.

With Ford stuck in the portal, Bill had no way of rebuilding it seeing that nobody would be willing… Aside from STANLEY PINES who is at a loss at what to do. The perfect willing assistant in rebuilding the portal. And bill wouldn’t have to lie that much cuz their goals really do aline somewhat… So, the demon tries to strike a deal…

This is when shit hits the fan for Bill.

And hey, let’s even go as far as to exaggerate the whole “Must return his half of the deal no matter what” portion of Bill’s deal making abilities. With this in mind, let’s take a look at EX CON STANLEY PINES who can sniff out a bad deal in no time- Due to his years of experience on the streets. And being the con artist that he is, Stanley being confronted by another con artist who can only tell the truth and also is confined to whatever deals they make… Well, this can only go well for him.

So Stanley tricks Bill- As he would in most dimensions if you get my gist. While Bill is offering unlimited knowledge in exchange for Stan’s compliance or something- Stan can easily twist Bills words against themselves and long story short- Bill is now trapped in Stanley’s debt and is confined to… Hmmm…

Let’s say he’s stuck constantly possessing a little magic 8 ball. And whoever shakes him, he’s forced to admit information to. A seriously bad deal on his part, an extremely great one on Stan’s part. So, Bill must help Stan get on with the portal without any sort of escape…

What’s even worse is that as time goes on, sometimes Stan even uses Bill as one of his ATTRACTIONS. (Honestly, Bill is lucky. Stan had been seconds away from binding the demon to a Zoltar machine-)

And time passes just as it would in canon, that is, untill the little pines twins come around to stay for the summer. And while I haven’t thought too hard about what the episodes looks like as I imagine it all doesn’t change too much- However. One thing that inspired this whole thing is how the kids are first introduced to bill- Something like:

Stan: Here kids- Meet Bill. This guy will answer all your pesky little questions.

Dipper: …Grunkle Stan, you named your magic 8 ball Bill?

Stan: Huh? Nah, he was called that when I first got him. Also Bill is just this all-knowing demon thing that I trapped inside of that ball in like… What was it- Was it- 85? Bah whatever-

Dipper: A demon…

Mable: *Eyes sparkling* Can I shake it???

Stan: *Tosses the ball casually* Sure knock yourself out kid.

Mable: Woahhhh…

Dipper: What is that thing… Is that… A triangle?

Stan: Welp. I’ll let you kids have at it- OH YEAH. He can’t lie so there’s that.

Or something like that. Haven’t worked out the kinks yet, but I think in this scenario Stan lets the kids mess around with Bill sometimes in hopes that the knowledge he possesses can help prevent the kids from like- Getting themselves in danger or something. And once the kids realize that they can just twist their words in order to make Bill slip and give helpful information- Well I can only imagine their shithead grins as Bill curses to the heavens. Dipper and Bill will banter a lot, with Bill obviously doing his best to break this pre-pubescent boys self esteem but it only assists in Dippers character development. Meanwhile, Bill and Mable can be lowkey chaotic and he could even respect her antics- If not for her whole “empathy and emotions” thing. (Perhaps a teensy bit of character development in places… But if Bill is a master of anything in any dimension, it is DENIAL-)

I think weirdmaggedon might still happen and there will be this whole rift thing and stuff- it’s still relatively similar. Maybe a different ending? Or another deal? Who knows. But this was just a silly thought I had- I can only imagine the names if I decide to invest time into it.

Magic 8 Bill AU? Or something? I might make some art for it if I’m being completely honest- Just a funny thought yk?

[marinettesaltprompts]

Marinette Salt Prompts : Discordant Music and Unsettling Melodies

Prompt by @bloop24

The show portrays Luka as some kind of empath but with music. He says that Marinette is the clearest melody he’s ever heard or whatever, but if you really stuck with him being an empath he would have immediately felt something off with Marinette.

Instead of having a cute moment during their first meeting, Luka is friendly but distant. When he heard the song of her heart, he was left disturbed. At first there was nothing wrong with it, but the longer he listened the darker and more twisted it became. It was like it was trying to play a completely different melody, one he couldn’t make out. He was aware that Marinette was one of Juleka’s friends, so for now he kept quiet about her heart song but kept an eye on her. After everything settled down with his mom being akumatized another one of Juleka’s friends joined them. Adrien was nice and listening to his heart song he had a hidden wild side. When he turned to look at Marinette he noticed that her gaze intensely focused on not only Adrien but him as well, It was then he recognized the song that Marinette’s heart was trying to play. It was Adrien’s but a more warped version, it was like her heart song was desperately trying to match his. It didn’t take long to figure out that Marinette was infatuated with him.

Eventually Juleka noticed Luka’s wariness whenever Marinette came over. Luka was honest with his sister, and said that Marinette’s heart song was dark and twisted and how it tried to match Adrien’s. When he was done explaining his reasonings he noticed Juleka avoided looking at him and looked almost ashamed. She then explained that Marinette had more than a crush on Adrien with her having his schedule and even some of the plans she and the girls helped with. 

Luka was left disturbed by this revelation, but also disappointed in his sibling, he knew Juleka had a hard time being confrontational often avoiding it, but to help essentially trick Adrien into going on a date without his consent with someone he might not even like was too far. He expressed his disappointment, but understood that she had hard time making sure she was heard. He made it clear that Marinette would only continue to drag her into things that were definitely not legal and that it would be best if she separated herself from her. Juleka agreed since she wasn’t comfortable with it from the beginning.

Juleka had pulled the girls aside to talk about Marinette and how she didn’t want to be apart of it anymore. Rose and Mylene hesitated while Alix readily agreed with how she was never for it to begin with, not caring much about the romance aspect. Alya tried to convince the girls that Marinette was just like that and did over the top things but none of the girls were having it. With Juleka vocalising her opinions, they no longer felt comfortable helping Marinette with any of her plans, and having reflecting on what they were doing it, they all agreed that they wouldn’t want someone doing what they were doing to them. In the end the all agreed to distance themselves from Marinette and not encourage her. Rose, Juleka, and Mylene weren’t very confrontational people so they made up excuses why they couldn’t hand out with her. Alix had no problem telling her that she didn’t feel like hanging out with her that day and Alya hung out with her but quickly made excuses to leave whenever she wanted to talk about making another plan to go on a date with Adrien.

With the girls change in behavior, the guys of the class quickly took notice of the distance and awkwardness between them, or more specifically between them and Marinette. Ivan had asked Mylene and Mylene not wanting to hide anything from him told him the truth of what was going on. Nathaniel asked Alix and she had no problem telling him everything that went down and Marinette’s behavior.

 It wasn’t long before everyone knew about Marinette, everyone except Adrien, Chloe, and Sabrina. No one knew how to tell Adrien and no one wanted to really tell Chloe or Sabrina knowing they would make a big spectacle of it. Nino, not wanting his best friend to be in the dark any longer decided he wanted to be the one to tell him. They felt bad but they knew they had to get the adults involved. While they talked with Mrs. Bustier, Alya went to talk to Marinette’s parents. She was prepared for them not to believe her, After all, no parent wants to believe the worst of their child. She told them everything while also encouraging them to go up to her room and look around. She had told them about the pull out schedule and the chest of presents she had.

As the days passed, Marinette was left confused. Her girlfriend’s always seemed to be busy nowadays, not handing out as much as they used to, and even the guys seemed to be at a distance whenever she tried to talk with them for schoolwork and such.

When she got home she was greeted with an unpleasant surprise. Her parents had gone through her things in her room and found her schedule for Adrien along with the chest of presents and photos under her bed. They scolded her and told her that she could get into serious legal trouble. They then grounded her, taking away her phone and computer. She wasn’t allowed to go anywhere and after school she was to come straight home.

To make matters worse, when she went to school the next week, she learned she was moved to another class and would be monitored in case she tried to go near Adrien. Her friends wouldn’t even talk to her and the few that would would give an excuse to leave. She didn’t even see Adrien even anymore and when she did he would quickly run away. Marinette didn’t understand, what went wrong?

Too distraught with emotion, Marinette did not see the akuma apporaching her, getting closer and closer...

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 5.2 | In Spite of Ourselves

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 11.1k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, sexual content, emotionally charged confrontations, conflicting priorities, and that sinking feeling when you realize letting go might not be an option anymore

A Few Quick Notes:

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

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

📌 Requests: Open

Author’s Note:

First off, I’m so sorry this chapter is late—I have COVID and feel like death. Thanks for being patient with me while I try to survive this plague. You guys are the best, seriously. 💜

Sometimes, you can feel the ground shifting under your feet before you even know why. That slow, uneasy realization that something fundamental has changed, and there’s no way to rewind to who you were before.

This chapter is all about that tipping point—the moment when you realize that what you thought was just a spontaneous, whirlwind connection has become something rooted, something permanent. It’s about standing on the edge of something new and terrifying, trying to decide whether to leap or turn away.

For Joe, it’s about fighting against his instinct to compartmentalize—trying to reconcile his carefully curated, structured life with the unplanned, unpredictable connection he’s found with Riley. It’s about recognizing that sometimes stability doesn’t come from control—it comes from trusting that the ground beneath you won’t give way.

For Riley, it’s the weight of something she didn’t see coming—a collision of her carefree spirit with the harsh reality that this isn’t just a passing moment. It’s the vulnerability of admitting that maybe, just maybe, she’s started to care too much about a man who was never supposed to be more than a few unforgettable days.

This chapter is about that moment when you stop pretending you’re unaffected—when you face the truth that whatever this is, it’s too big to ignore. It’s about two people who were never supposed to fit finding themselves completely and undeniably entwined.

I hope this one hits you right in the gut. I poured my whole heart into capturing that feeling of being terrified and exhilarated all at once—the point where “maybe” turns into “definitely” and you can’t unfeel it, no matter how hard you try.

Thank you so much for all your support and love on the last chapter! Your reactions genuinely fuel me to keep writing—even while battling COVID. I can’t wait to hear what you think of this one. 💜✨

Happy reading! 💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains and a headache that felt like it had been personally handcrafted by the devil himself. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy, and when he shifted, something sharp dug into his ribs.

A bead.

He peeled his eyes open just enough to see a rogue strand of Mardi Gras beads tangled in the sheets. The memories hit in pieces—Riley on his shoulders, her victorious yell, too much bourbon, Tomas shoving a flask in his hand every time he turned around, the slow, easy way she'd curled into him after—

Bzzzzz.

Joe groaned as the insistent sound of a phone vibrated somewhere in the room. Not Riley's—hers was still facedown on the nightstand.

He patted blindly around his side of the bed until he found his own phone, squinting at the screen.

Mom.

Shit.

He answered on autopilot. "Hey."

"Hey, sweetheart. You busy?"

Joe rubbed a hand over his face, trying to push through the fog. "Uh… not really."

"Good! I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. Maybe grab lunch?"

Joe blinked. "Lunch?" He turned his head just enough to glance at the clock. 11:47 AM.

"Yeah, lunch. That thing people eat in the middle of the day? You know it?"

He swallowed, wincing at how dry his throat was. "I'm not home."

A pause. "…Okay. No problem. When will you be?"

Joe scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

Another pause, longer. "…You're out of town? I thought you had a full schedule this week."

There was no use lying. "I did."

Joe sighed, bracing himself. "I moved some things around."

His mom's voice shifted. "You moved some things around."

"Yep."

"…To go where?"

Joe exhaled through his nose, staring at the ceiling. "New Orleans."

Silence. Then—

"You moved things around… to go to New Orleans… for a few days."

"Correct."

A beat. Then, in that knowing, motherly tone that sent a fresh wave of dread down his spine—

"And what exactly are you doing in New Orleans?"

Joe glanced sideways. Riley was still buried under the covers, only the top of her head visible. He closed his eyes. "Visiting a friend."

"A friend."

"Yup."

"You moved your entire schedule around to visit a friend in New Orleans."

"…Yup."

His mom made a sound. A knowing sound. "Is this friend female?"

Joe hesitated. "Mom."

Silence.

Then, "So you're in New Orleans."

"Yes."

"With a maybe female friend."

Joe groaned. "Mom."

"That's very interesting."

"I hate this conversation."

"No, no, I'm fascinated. Tell me everything."

Joe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I'm done now. I'll call you when I'm back in town. LOVE YOU."

"Wait—"

He hung up and immediately flopped back against the pillows, draping an arm over his face.

"Friend, huh?" came Riley's sleepy, amused voice from under the covers. She rolled over, peeking at him with one eye. "That's what they're calling it these days?"

Joe groaned again. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough," she murmured, a small smile playing on her lips. "You sound terrible."

"I'm dying. You'll have to eulogize me. Make sure to mention my many talents and few flaws."

"Blame Tomas," Riley said, pushing herself up slightly. "Every time I turned around he was handing you that flask."

“I don’t even know what was in it,” Joe muttered, rubbing his temple. “Pretty sure it wasn’t legal.”

“Water,” Riley commanded, dropping her head back onto the pillow. “We need water.”

Joe chuckled, immediately regretting it when his head throbbed in protest. “Didn’t you get us water last night?”

“I did,” she mumbled, not bothering to lift her head. “But apparently we drank it all before passing out.”

Joe sighed and forced himself to sit up, wincing at the way the room swayed. “How about I get us some more water and painkillers instead?”

“Yes, go be the strong one,” Riley mumbled into the pillow. “You’re clearly better at handling your liquor than I am.”

Joe managed to haul himself out of bed, pulling on his discarded boxers before padding to the kitchen. He filled two glasses with water and hunted down ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet, returning to find Riley exactly as he'd left her—sprawled across the bed like a wounded starfish.

"Come on," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sit up. Doctor's orders."

Riley glared at him through one cracked eyelid. "You're not that kind of doctor."

"I've seen like, three episodes of Grey's Anatomy," Joe countered. "Close enough."

With a groan of protest, Riley hauled herself upright, accepting the pills and water with as much dignity as someone in her condition could muster. Joe swallowed his own, then settled back against the headboard, arm automatically extending in invitation.

Riley scooted closer, fitting herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. For a while, they just sat there in companionable silence, sipping water and letting the medication begin its work.

"I think I need to stay perfectly still for approximately twelve hours," Riley said finally. "Possibly longer."

Joe hummed in agreement. "No more parades today?"

"God, no," Riley groaned. "I wish we could, but my partying skills are rusty. I forgot how Mardi Gras takes no prisoners."

"So what you're saying is," Joe ventured carefully, "today is a good day to do absolutely nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," Riley agreed, nestling closer.

And somehow, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.

And they did. The entire day unfolded in languid, comfortable laziness—a late breakfast of toast and coffee (the most they could stomach), followed by a marathon of 90s cartoons on Riley's worn leather couch. It had been one of those unexpected connections during their first meeting in New York—discovering they both harbored a not-so-secret love for the cartoons they'd grown up with.

They settled easily into a marathon of classics—everything from Animaniacs to Batman: The Animated Series—his arm draped casually over Riley's shoulders as she leaned against his chest. The simple domesticity of it struck him halfway through their third episode—how natural it felt to be here with her, doing absolutely nothing special.

When her phone buzzed for the third time in five minutes, Riley groaned, finally reaching to check it.

"Sorry," she said, glancing at the screen. "My friends are relentless."

Joe peered over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the group chat title: THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

"The Dolls?" he questioned, amused.

Riley rolled her eyes. "High school nickname that unfortunately stuck. Laura, Haley, and me. Been friends since we were fifteen."

"And they're checking in on you?"

"More like demanding a full report," Riley admitted, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. "I promised I'd tell them how things were going."

"Don't let me stop you," Joe said, genuinely curious about what she might say.

Riley shot him a look that was half suspicious, half playful. "You just want to know what I'm going to say about you."

"Maybe," he admitted with a grin.

Riley turned back to her phone, angling it slightly away from him as she typed, a small smile playing on her lips.

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: Are you alive or did you drink the city dry last night?

Laura: Hello???

Haley: She's obviously busy. Let the woman live.

Haley: But also CALL US IMMEDIATELY we need details

Riley: I'm alive. Barely. Shit got crazy.

Laura: 👀👀👀

Laura: And the boy?

Riley: Also alive. We got a shoe last night.

Haley: Please tell me you got a photo of Joe Burrow at Mardi Gras

Riley: You know I did. She sent them one.

Laura: Look at y'all!! So cute. So how's it going? Scale of 1-10?

Riley paused, glancing up at Joe who pretended to be absorbed in the cartoon. She smiled to herself and typed again.

Riley: Y'all unfortunately for me its off the scale.

Haley: No way

Riley: Yes what i am gonna do?

Laura: OH MY GOD

Haley: Is he still there? RIGHT NOW??

Riley: Possibly watching Batman on my couch as we speak.

Laura: YOU'RE TEXTING US WHILE HE'S RIGHT THERE??

Riley: He's curious what I'm saying about him.

Haley: Tell him we said he better be treating our girl right or we'll find ways to make shit very uncomfortable for him 🔪

Riley: I'm not telling him that.

Laura: Fine. When do we get to meet him?

Riley: Let's not get ahead of ourselves. He leaves tomorrow.

There was a pause in the incoming messages, and Riley could almost feel her friends' unspoken concern through the screen.

Haley: And then what?

It was the question Riley had been avoiding even in her own mind. She glanced at Joe again, who was now openly watching her, a question in his eyes.

Riley: I don't know. We haven't talked about it.

Laura: Girl...

Riley: I know. It's just been...nice. I don't want to ruin it by overthinking.

Haley: y'all better talk about it before he leaves!!

laura: seriously what is the plan

riley: i know i know we will

Riley: I've got to go. Will call tomorrow. Love you both.

Haley: Love you. Be careful with your heart. ❤️

Laura: What she said. And USE PROTECTION. ❤️

Riley turned her phone face down on the coffee table, cheeks slightly flushed. "They say hi," she said, clearly editing heavily.

Joe smirked. "And what else?"

"Nothing important," Riley replied too quickly.

"Uh-huh." Joe wasn't convinced but let it drop, pulling her closer against him. "So, you gonna send me those pictures from yesterday you just sent the girls?"

Riley's head whipped around, eyes wide. "I knew you were being nosy!" She shoved his shoulder playfully. "Were you reading my texts the whole time?"

"Just enough to know you've been documenting our adventures," he teased, fingers finding the ticklish spot at her waist.

She squirmed away, laughing. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Depends on how nice you are to me."

Joe's expression softened, his hand finding hers. "We should probably talk about what happens next, you know. After tomorrow."

Riley's smile faded slightly, but she didn't pull away. "I know," she said quietly. "But not right now, okay? Let's just enjoy what we've got for right now."

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them. Joe nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Deal. But soon."

"Soon," she agreed, nestling back against him as Batman outsmarted the Joker once again on screen.

By the time evening rolled around, their hangovers had mostly subsided, leaving behind a pleasant, drowsy contentment. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across Riley's living room, the sounds of smaller parades floating in through the open windows.

"Are you sure you don't want to catch one more parade before you leave tomorrow?" Riley asked, her head in Joe's lap as he absently stroked her hair. "There's a couple of fun ones tonight."

Joe considered this for a moment, weighing the appeal of spending another night in the Carnival crowds against something more private. "My hotel room has a balcony overlooking the parade route," he said decisively. "Let's watch from there. Private, comfortable, with room service on speed dial."

Riley's lips curved into a smile. "That does sound appealing. Very VIP."

"Plus," Joe added, his fingers still playing with her hair, "I haven't actually spent any time in the place I'm paying for."

Riley laughed, sitting up to face him. "Are you suggesting I've been monopolizing your time, Burrow?"

"Absolutely," Joe confirmed, grinning. "And I've enjoyed every second of it. But I thought maybe... I don't know. Maybe we could do the hotel tonight. Watch the parades from the balcony, order some room service, see how the other half of Mardi Gras lives."

"The fancy half, you mean," Riley teased, but her eyes were warm.

"Exactly," Joe nodded. "What do you think?"

Riley pretended to consider it, tapping her chin theatrically. "Let me see... private balcony, air conditioning, room service, no crowds..." She grinned. "I think I can be persuaded."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," Joe replied, already reaching for his phone. "I'll call ahead, have them prep something special for us. Make sure the kitchen stays open late."

The casual way he took charge of the evening—confident and unspoken, like he knew exactly what he wanted—caught Riley off guard. Amusement flickered in her eyes, but it quickly softened into something warmer, more appreciative. She liked seeing him like this—decisive, assured, leaving no room for second-guessing.

Joe didn’t waste any more time, leaning in to kiss her softly at first—just a brush of lips that melted into something deeper, more deliberate. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and Riley’s fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring herself against the pull of his presence.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to catch her breath, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “If we start this now, we’re never gonna make it to your hotel before the streets are packed.”

Joe smirked, clearly unbothered. “That supposed to be a problem?”

Riley gave him a knowing look, fighting back a grin. “Only if you want to be stuck in the middle of a crowd for the next three hours.”

Joe sighed dramatically, dropping his forehead to hers. “Fine. Rain check. But I’m cashing it in later.”

Her smile turned wicked, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “I’m counting on it.”

She stood, stretching her arms above her head, her t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. Joe caught himself staring and quickly looked away—only to realize too late that his reaction was probably just as obvious.

"I should pack an overnight bag," Riley said, rolling out her shoulders. Then she glanced down at her loungewear. "And maybe put on real clothes."

Joe, caught off guard by the warmth that spread through him at the sight of her looking so comfortable and at home, managed a simple, "You look fine as you are."

Riley paused mid-step, one eyebrow raising slightly. "That so?"

"I just meant—" Joe began, then stopped himself, recognizing the teasing glint in her eyes.

"Mmhmm." She smiled, a knowing look passing between them. "I'll be quick."

As she disappeared into her bedroom, Joe sat back on the couch, struck by the realization that something had shifted between them in the past day and a half. What he felt watching her move around his space went beyond simple attraction. It felt like something clicking into place, something he hadn't even known was missing.

This was something else entirely. Something that made his chest feel tight when she looked at him like that, something that made him want to tell her things he rarely shared with anyone.

Something that was going to make leaving tomorrow a lot harder than he'd anticipated.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent, another reminder of the real world waiting beyond this Mardi Gras bubble they'd created.

Sarah: Just checking in. Flight still good for tomorrow? Need any changes?

Joe stared at the message, the mundane logistics suddenly feeling like a weight. He typed back a quick affirmative, then set his phone aside, not wanting to think about tomorrow just yet.

In the bedroom, Riley was having a similar moment of realization as she tossed overnight essentials into a small bag. Her phone lit up with another message from the group chat.

Laura: I know you're ignoring us, but I had to say: I haven't heard you this happy in ages. That's all.

Riley smiled, warmth spreading through her chest. She hadn't told her friends everything—how Joe had lifted her onto his shoulders during the parade, his quiet vulnerability when he talked about life after football, the way he'd looked around her house like he was memorizing every detail. Some things felt too precious to share, even with the people who knew her best.

She typed back a simple heart emoji, then finished packing, trying not to think about what this all meant beyond tonight. Tomorrow would come whether they were ready or not. But they still had tonight, and she intended to make the most of it.

When she emerged from the bedroom, overnight bag in hand, Joe was standing by the window, looking out at the neighborhood. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and the way his face lit up at the sight of her sent a flutter through her stomach that had nothing to do with her lingering hangover.

"Ready?" he asked.

Riley nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Ready."

Joe arrived at the hotel first, slipping through the lobby with practiced ease. He was used to keeping a low profile, and the staff here had already proven they valued discretion. A simple nod from the desk clerk was all the acknowledgment he got as he made his way upstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a soft knock at his door.

Riley stepped inside quickly, hood pulled up, oversized sunglasses still on. "I feel like a mistress sneaking into a politician's hotel room," she muttered, tugging the glasses off.

Joe smirked. "Want me to start making bad policy decisions to complete the fantasy?"

"Please don't." She tossed her bag onto a chair and glanced around.

Joe watched as Riley took in the suite, struck by how different it felt having her here, in this impersonal space, after the warmth of her house. Despite the luxury—the high ceilings, antique furniture, tall windows overlooking the parade route—it felt less like home than Riley's cozy shotgun had after just one night. He found himself missing the character of her place—the emerald walls, the mismatched furniture, the art covering every surface. This place was beautiful but sterile by comparison.

"This view though," Riley said, dropping her overnight bag on a chair and heading straight for the balcony doors. "Front row seats."

Below them, the street hummed with energy—people in costumes and masks making their way toward preferred viewing spots, street vendors selling beads and drinks, the occasional burst of music from passing groups.

Joe followed her onto the balcony, coming up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. A sense of déjà vu washed over him—they'd stood like this just yesterday, on his first night in the city. Had it really only been a day and a half? It felt impossible that he'd know her so well after such a short time.

"First parade should come through in about an hour," Joe said, resting his chin on Riley's shoulder. "Plenty of time to order dinner."

Riley turned in his arms, facing him with a mischievous smile. "Plenty of time for other things too."

"That so?" Joe asked, his hands settling on her hips, already pulling her closer.

"Absolutely," Riley confirmed, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Any objections?"

"Not a single one," Joe murmured, his mouth finding hers.

Riley laughed against his lips, her hands already working at the hem of his shirt.

Without breaking the kiss, he guided her back inside, moving from the balcony into the bedroom with easy purpose.

The kiss deepened as they crossed the threshold, clothes falling to the floor in an urgent tangle. Joe's hands slipped beneath Riley's shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of her back. When his fingers traced the line of her spine, she arched into him with a soft sound that made his blood run hot.

His shirt hit the floor first, followed quickly by hers. Riley's hands found his chest, fingers tracing the contours of muscle with clear appreciation. Joe watched her face as she touched him—the focus in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips—and felt something tighten in his chest that had nothing to do with physical desire.

When his hands reached the clasp of her bra, Riley smiled, reaching behind herself to unfasten it before he could.

The sight of her—golden in the late afternoon light filtering through the balcony doors, confident in her bare skin—nearly undid him.

"Fuck," he breathed quietly, the word slipping out without thought, admiration rather than vulgarity coloring his voice.

Riley's smile deepened, eyes darkening playfully. "That's the idea, but you're still wearing pants."

He removed his jeans before guiding her toward the bed, pulling her down with him so she straddled his hips. The weight of her against him, the feel of skin on skin, the way her hair fell around them like a curtain—all familiar now yet somehow more intense than it had been that morning.

This time, there was none of the hesitation of their first encounter. This was a continuation, a deepening of something they'd already begun. Her body against his felt both new and achingly familiar, like returning to a place he'd only visited once but had thought about constantly since.

He took his time with her—mapping the constellation of freckles across her collarbone with his lips, learning which touches made her breath catch, which made her arch against him, which drew his name from her lips like a prayer. Every response, every reaction was filed away, precious knowledge he wanted to keep.

Riley was just as thorough in her exploration—her hands finding the sensitive spot on his hip bone that made him shudder, her lips tracing the scar on his knee with unexpected tenderness, her eyes never leaving his face as she gauged the effect she had on him.

When Riley's leg hooked around his waist, Joe flipped their positions in one smooth motion, covering her body with his own.

Without breaking rhythm, he reached toward the nightstand where he'd left a condom earlier—a moment of preparation that now seemed like the most practical decision he'd ever made.

They moved together with a synchronicity that felt both natural and miraculous, finding a rhythm that built steadily toward release. Riley met him thrust for thrust, her hands never still, her eyes never leaving his except when pleasure forced them closed.

When she came undone beneath him, her body tightening around him, her back arching off the bed, Joe followed her over the edge—the physical release accompanied by something deeper, more profound, that left him breathless and shaken.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, hearts racing, skin cooling in the air-conditioned room. Riley's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his shoulder. Joe's hand found its way to her hair, stroking the silky strands as their breathing slowly returned to normal.

"So," Riley said finally, her voice warm with satisfaction, "about that room service..."

Joe grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I'll get the menu."

They did eventually order room service—a feast of local specialties that they devoured while lounging in plush hotel robes, the parade passing in a blur of lights and music on the street below. The balcony provided the perfect vantage point—close enough to catch beads thrown by particularly ambitious riders, but removed from the chaos of the crowds.

"I have to admit," Riley said, plucking a beignet from the dessert plate, "this is a pretty great way to experience Mardi Gras."

Joe nodded, leaning back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Best of both worlds. The view without the crowds."

"Though there is something to be said for being down in it," Riley mused, licking powdered sugar from her fingers in a way that made Joe temporarily forget what they were discussing. "The energy of the crowd, the music up close. Especially the second lines."

"Second lines?" Joe asked, dragging his attention back to the conversation.

Riley's eyes lit up. "Oh, you've never experienced a real second line? That's criminal. We have to fix that before you leave."

"What exactly is a second line?" Joe asked, curious now.

"It's... hard to explain," Riley said, searching for the right words. "Technically, it's the group of people who follow behind the main parade—the 'first line' being the official band and members. But it's so much more than that. It's this spontaneous celebration, with music and dancing and everyone joining in. It's the heart of New Orleans street culture."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, her hands moving animatedly as she described the tradition. "The best ones happen after the main parades, when brass bands just start playing and people follow. No barriers, no formality—just pure joy."

Joe watched her, entranced by her passion. "Sounds amazing."

"It is," Riley confirmed. "And there's almost always one that forms after the night parades here. We could join, if you wanted. You'd still be incognito—everyone's in costume, and it's dark, and no one's paying attention to individual faces anyway."

Joe hesitated, weighing the risk against the obvious happiness it would bring Riley. "Would I need my full royal costume again?"

Riley shook her head. "Just a mask would be fine. And maybe a hat. It's more about the spirit than the outfit, anyway."

The joy in her eyes made the decision easy. "Alright," Joe agreed. "Let's do it."

Riley's smile was blinding. "Really? You'll love it, I promise. It's my favorite part of Carnival."

As they finished their dessert, the parade outside reached its conclusion, the final floats passing beneath their balcony in a blaze of light and sound. But rather than dispersing, the crowd seemed to be gathering, coalescing around something Joe couldn't quite see from their vantage point.

"Listen," Riley said, tilting her head. "Hear that?"

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of brass instruments—trumpets, trombones, tubas���began to rise above the general din. Not the organized music of the parade bands, but something more organic, more spontaneous.

"We gotta move it, Burrow. We're missing it."

Joe could see the longing in her expression. "Let's go," he said simply, already reaching for his disguise.

They scrambled into their clothes with a frantic energy that had them bumping into each other, laughing as they nearly toppled over. Riley dug through her bag, producing two bandanas—one purple, one green—and handed the green one to Joe.

She reached up, adjusting the bandana around his face, making sure it covered enough but that he could still see. Joe had worn one yesterday, but somehow her hands on his face, fixing it just right, felt more intimate than before.

"Wait," Riley said, grabbing his Bengals cap and pulling it low over his eyes. She stood back to examine her work. "Perfect. Now come on."

The hotel lobby was nearly empty, the staff having long given up trying to maintain decorum as Carnival reached its peak outside. They slipped through the doors and into the night, the air thick with humidity and possibility.

The music was louder now, a pulsing rhythm that seemed to vibrate through the pavement itself. Riley clutched his hand tighter, pulling him through the crowd toward the sound.

And then, suddenly, they were there.

Time seemed to slow as they rounded the corner. The street opened up before them, transformed into something magical. A brass band—maybe a dozen players strong—had claimed the intersection, their instruments gleaming under streetlights, their bodies swaying as they played. Around them, people moved in a fluid dance, some with elaborate steps, others simply swaying, all connected by the music that flowed between them.

There were no barriers here, no separation between performers and audience. Just people—all kinds of people—caught up in the same moment, the same music, the same joy.

Joe felt something shift inside him as he took it all in. This wasn't like the organized parades, wasn't like any celebration he'd ever experienced. This was raw, authentic connection—strangers becoming community through nothing more than shared rhythm and movement.

Riley was watching him, her eyes bright above her bandana. Without a word, she pulled him deeper into the crowd, finding a spot where they could move freely. The press of bodies created a strange anonymity, a freedom he hadn't expected.

The band played something with a driving beat that had the crowd whooping in recognition. Joe didn't know the music, but it didn't matter—the energy was contagious, impossible to resist.

Before he could overthink it, he was moving. Not with any particular skill, but with an abandon he hadn't allowed himself in years—maybe ever. The constraints that usually bound him—the careful image, the constant awareness of being watched—fell away, leaving just Joe, just this moment, just the music and Riley's hand in his.

A woman with feathers in her hair pressed a plastic cup into his hand, filled with something sweet and potent. Joe drank it without hesitation, feeling the alcohol warm his blood, loosen his limbs even further. Riley accepted her own cup from a man in a glittering vest, raising it in a toast before drinking deeply.

The second line began to move, the band leading the way down the street, the crowd flowing behind them like a river finding a new course. Where others struggled with the chaos, Joe moved with surprising ease, his body naturally creating space for them both. There was a calm certainty to his movements, not from knowing the streets but from an instinctive awareness of the crowd itself.

When the crowd compressed unexpectedly, Joe simply shifted his position, creating a protective bubble around Riley without being overbearing. His hand remained steady at the small of her back, not controlling but present. The subtle protection allowed Riley to lose herself completely in the moment, to dance and laugh with wild abandon, knowing he was there.

Everything took on a dreamlike quality—the glow of streetlights reflecting off brass instruments, the blur of faces and costumes, the way sound seemed to wrap around them like a physical presence. Joe lost track of time, lost track of anything beyond this moment.

Someone tossed beads around his neck. Someone else pressed another drink into his hand. A woman with silver-painted skin danced past him, trailing glitter in her wake. A man with a trumpet pulled away from the band to play directly to Riley, who laughed and spun in response.

And through it all, Riley stayed close, her hand finding his whenever they were separated, her body moving against his in a dance that felt like conversation. She would glance back at him occasionally, appreciating the way he navigated the crowd with that same quiet confidence he brought to everything else.

The second line wound its way through streets Joe didn't recognize, each turn revealing new sights, new sounds, new people joining the celebration. They passed beneath balconies where people called down to them, through narrow passages where the buildings seemed to amplify the music, into wider avenues where the crowd spread out like water finding its level.

As they moved through the streets, the brass melodies swirling around them, Joe found himself thinking of vinyl records, of that moment in the shop when the Talking Heads album had appeared in his hands like some cosmic message. Home is where I want to be. The line had been circling his mind since that first night in Riley's house, but now—surrounded by strangers who felt like friends, caught in music that moved through him rather than just around him—he understood what David Byrne had been trying to say all along.

Home wasn't a place. It wasn't Cincinnati. It wasn't the careful apartment he'd decorated with the help of a designer who'd asked him what he wanted and he'd answered, "Clean lines." It wasn't even Athens, which he still called home out of habit more than feeling.

Home was this. Right here. This moment. This singular point in time where everything aligned in a way he'd never experienced—the rhythm of the brass, the press of people, the weight of Riley's hand in his. It was the unexpected joy of surrender, of letting go of the careful control he maintained in every other aspect of his life.

Something fundamental shifted inside him, plates of identity rearranging themselves into a new configuration. The Joe Burrow who prepared relentlessly, who measured success in completions and touchdowns, who crafted his image with the same precision he used to read defenses—that Joe Burrow was still there. But now there was room for something else. Something new.

Or maybe something ancient, something that had always been there beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

The band hit a crescendo, the crowd surging in response, and Joe felt it like a physical wave through his body. He was laughing, he realized, in a way he hadn't since childhood—full-bodied, unrestrained, absolutely present.

Riley was looking up at him, something unspoken but unmistakable in her eyes. Joe pulled his bandana down just long enough to kiss her—a brief, electric contact before he covered his face again. It was reckless perhaps, but in that moment, it felt like the only possible response to the overwhelming tide of emotion.

When the song ended, the band transitioning seamlessly into something else, the spell wasn't broken. If anything, it deepened, solidified into certainty.

In the middle of Carnival, in the heart of New Orleans, surrounded by strangers and music and motion, Joe Burrow felt himself change. Not dramatically, not completely—but fundamentally, in ways that reverberated through every fiber of his being. Like a quarterback who suddenly sees the field in a different way, who recognizes patterns where before there was only chaos, Joe saw his life through new eyes.

This was what Riley had meant. This was what couldn't be explained, only experienced.

This, he realized with crystal clarity, was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Riley looked up at him as the crowd moved around them, her eyes bright with recognition. "Tell me this isn't the most alive you've ever felt," she challenged, her voice barely audible over the music but somehow perfectly clear to him.

And Joe couldn't lie. "It is," he admitted, the truth of it resonating through him like the brass notes themselves. "You were right. This is incredible."

"Thank you," he said as she came back into his arms, knowing the words were woefully inadequate. "For showing me this. For showing me your New Orleans."

For showing me a version of myself I didn't know existed, he wanted to add, but couldn't bring himself to say.

"Thank you for giving it a chance," Riley replied, stretching up to kiss him, heedless of the crowd around them.

The second line continued for hours, winding through the Quarter, gaining and losing participants as it went. Joe and Riley stayed with it until the very end, until the band finally came to rest in a small square, playing one final, triumphant number before disbanding into the night.

As the crowd dispersed, Riley leaned against Joe, breathless and flushed with exertion and joy. "Well, Burrow," she said, looking up at him with dancing eyes, "what do you think? Worth missing the VIP balcony view?"

Joe stared at her for a moment, still struggling with the magnitude of what he was feeling. There was something terrifying about it—this sudden, seismic shift in his perception of what mattered, what he wanted, who he could be. He'd always prided himself on his focus, his singular dedication to his career. Yet here he was, in the middle of the off-season, already mentally rearranging his calendar to include more of... this. More of her.

"I'm clearing my entire schedule next year," he said, the words coming out before he could filter them, surprising even himself with their certainty.

Riley's eyes widened slightly, catching the weight behind his seemingly casual statement. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the implications of his words—of a future that extended beyond this weekend—hanging in the air between them.

Neither seemed ready to examine it too closely, both perhaps afraid to break the spell of the moment by putting too fine a point on it.

Instead, Riley simply took his hand, leading him back toward the hotel. "I'm holding you to that," she said, and Joe knew she meant it as more than just a casual promise.

The walk back was quieter, the streets beginning to empty as even Carnival revelers eventually succumbed to exhaustion. They moved in comfortable silence, hands intertwined, occasionally stopping to kiss in doorways or against lamp posts, unhurried and content.

Joe's mind was still racing, trying to process everything he'd experienced, everything he was feeling. The careful architecture of his life—the routines and boundaries he'd constructed over years—seemed suddenly insufficient, too small to contain this new thing growing inside him. It wasn't just attraction or even affection. It was something more fundamental, more disruptive.

It scared him, if he was honest with himself. He'd built his career, his entire identity, around being in control. Around knowing exactly what he wanted and pursuing it with single-minded determination. But this—whatever was happening with Riley—hadn't been part of the plan. It was unexpected, uncharted territory.

And yet, the thought of returning to his carefully ordered life without her in it seemed impossible now, like trying to go back to black and white after seeing in color.

By the time they reached the hotel, the first hints of dawn were appearing on the horizon—a subtle lightening of the eastern sky, a promise of the day to come. Joe's flight was in the afternoon, a reality they had both been carefully avoiding discussing.

In the elevator, Riley leaned against him, her energy finally flagging after hours of dancing. "I think you've officially experienced the full Mardi Gras," she murmured. "Parades, costumes, second lines... We hit all the highlights."

"Best tour guide ever," Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, wishing he had the words to tell her that she'd shown him far more than just a city—she'd shown him a different way of being in the world, a different possibility for himself that he'd never considered before.

But those were thoughts too new, feelings too raw to articulate just yet. So he held her closer instead, memorizing the weight of her against him, the scent of her hair, the perfect fit of her hand in his—storing up sensory memories to carry back to Cincinnati, where he knew everything would look different now, whether he wanted it to or not.

Back in the hotel room, they shed their clothes with the easy familiarity of people who had done this before, climbing into the massive bed with grateful sighs. Riley immediately curled against him, her head finding its spot on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest.

"What time's your flight again?" she asked, her voice already heavy with exhaustion.

"Nine," Joe admitted reluctantly. "So I should probably be at the airport by seven."

Riley groaned softly. "That's like...three hours from now."

"I'll sleep on the plane," Joe said, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. "This is worth it."

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was smaller, more vulnerable than he'd heard it before.

"I don't want you to go," she admitted quietly, the late hour and exhaustion lowering her usual guards.

Joe tightened his arm around her. "I don't want to go either," he said honestly.

Riley propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with an uncharacteristically serious expression. "So where does that leave us? This weekend has been... I don't even have words for what it's been. But tomorrow you go back to Cincinnati, and I stay here, and then I'm off to LA for recording, and then you start training, and..." She trailed off, the logistics suddenly overwhelming.

Joe reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted to tell her everything—how she'd upended his carefully constructed world, how he'd caught himself considering what it would be like to have a place here, how for the first time in his life his single-minded focus on football felt insufficient. But those thoughts were too new, too raw, too untested to share just yet.

"And we figure it out," he said instead, simpler but no less true. "If we want to make it work, we will."

"Just like that?" Riley asked, a hint of skepticism in her voice. "It's never that simple."

"Maybe it is," Joe countered. "Maybe we're making it complicated by overthinking."

Riley laughed softly. "Says the overthinker who didn't kiss me when he wanted to in New York."

Joe smiled, caught. "I'm trying." He hesitated, then decided to let her in, just a little. "Look, this is different for me. I'm a homebody. Always have been. I've spent my whole life laser-focused on one thing—football. Everything else just... existed around it. Relationships, friendships... they were always secondary. Had to be." His voice dropped lower, more vulnerable. "I don't know how to do this—to feel this connected to someone so fast. It's like finding a missing piece you didn't know was missing."

Riley watched him carefully, giving him space to continue.

"But this weekend," he said slowly, "with you...it's like I found a part of myself I forgot existed. Or maybe never knew was there." He shook his head slightly. "I don't know how to fit that into my life in Cincinnati, but I know I want to try."

It wasn't everything he was feeling—not nearly—but it was more than he'd shared with anyone in a long time. More than he'd admitted even to himself until this moment.

Riley studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for something. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she leaned down, capturing his lips in a kiss so tender it made his chest ache.

"Okay," she whispered against his mouth. "We figure it out."

They sealed the promise with another kiss, and another, until talking gave way to touching, and words were replaced by sighs and moans and whispered encouragements. They made love with a new urgency, as if trying to store up memories to carry them through the coming separation. Joe memorized every sound she made, every arch of her back, every gasp of his name. Riley traced his body with fingers and lips like she was committing him to memory, learning him by heart.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin, breathing gradually slowing to normal. Joe struggled to keep his eyes open, exhaustion finally claiming him after the longest, most extraordinary day.

"Go to sleep," Riley murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I'll be here in the morning."

Joe wanted to say something more—something about how these few days had changed him, how he'd never felt this way before, how he already missed her even though she was still in his arms. But sleep pulled him under before he could find the words, the gentle rhythm of Riley's breathing against his skin lulling him into dreams.

Joe woke just five minutes before his alarm was set to go off, the room still dark, Riley's warm body curled against his side. For a moment, he just watched her sleep—the peaceful expression on her face, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the tangle of blonde hair spread across the pillow.

His flight was at 9 AM, which meant he needed to be at the airport in less than two hours. The thought of leaving—leaving her—and returning to his carefully structured life in Cincinnati created a physical ache in his chest, surprising in its intensity.

Joe slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to disturb her. He padded to the bathroom, splashing water on his face as he tried to sort through the tumult of emotions.

He needed to say something—something to mark what had happened here, something to carry them through the weeks or months that might pass before they could be together again. But what could possibly capture the significance of these days? What token could possibly be enough?

As he dried his face, his eyes caught on his reflection in the mirror—specifically, on the thin silicone bracelet on his wrist. His LSU bracelet, the one he'd worn since his college days, a simple blue band with purple lettering. A reminder of where he'd come from, of the journey that had made him who he was.

It wasn't much, but it was significant. Personal. A piece of himself she could keep.

Decision made, Joe returned to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed to watch Riley sleep for a few more precious moments. Then, gently, he slid the bracelet from his wrist and placed it on the nightstand.

He found the hotel stationery in the desk drawer, pausing with pen in hand as he considered what to write. He wasn't one for flowery words or lengthy explanations, but he wanted her to understand what these days had meant.

Finally, he began to write:

Riley,

Not good at goodbyes, so I'm not waking you up. These few days have been the best I've had in a long time. Thank you for showing me your city, your world.

This bracelet has been with me since LSU. Through everything. I want you to have it until next time. And there will be a next time—soon.

Call me when you're up.

Joe

He folded the note and placed it beside the bracelet, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Riley's forehead. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, her fingers curling into the warm spot he'd left in the sheets.

Joe dressed quietly, packed his few belongings, and took one last look at the room—at Riley asleep in the massive bed, at the balcony where they'd watched the parades, at the scattered evidence of their night together.

Before heading out, he grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to Mark, asking him to push back their morning meeting by an hour. He needed to make one more stop before heading to the airport.

Downstairs, Joe approached the front desk, where a different clerk from the previous day greeted him with a professional smile.

"Checking out, Mr. Burrow?"

"Yes," Joe said, sliding his keycard across the counter. "But I was hoping to extend checkout for the room until this afternoon. My... friend is still sleeping, and I want her to be able to rest as long as she needs."

The clerk nodded, typing something into the computer. "No problem at all, sir. We can extend it until 3 PM if that works?"

"Perfect," Joe said, adding his credit card to the counter. "And whatever room service she orders, put it on this."

With that taken care of, Joe stepped outside into the quiet morning streets, the city still recovering from another night of Carnival. The air was cool, clean in a way it wouldn't be once the day's revelry began again. He took a deep breath, savoring one last taste of New Orleans before heading to his waiting car.

But as he settled into the backseat and gave the driver directions to the airport, Joe knew with absolute certainty that he would be back. Soon.

Riley woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains they'd forgotten to close and an empty space beside her in the bed. She reached out, finding the sheets cool to the touch—Joe had been gone for a while.

"Joe?" she called, her voice thick with sleep. No response.

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her face as she glanced around the room. His bag was gone from the chair where he'd left it, his shoes no longer by the door. A hollow feeling opened up in her chest, a sense of loss that seemed disproportionate to their short time together.

For a moment, she just sat there, the reality of his departure settling over her like a weight. He'd left without waking her. Without saying goodbye. Her throat tightened as an unwelcome thought pushed its way forward: maybe this weekend hadn't meant to him what it had to her. Maybe once he stepped away from the Mardi Gras bubble, from her world, he'd realized it was just a nice diversion—nothing worth disrupting his real life for.

She'd let herself hope. Worse, she'd let herself believe he felt it too—that unexplainable connection, that sense of recognition that had nothing to do with how long they'd known each other and everything to do with how deeply they'd connected.

Riley swallowed hard, blinking back tears that had appeared without warning. This wasn't her. She didn't get emotional over men, especially ones she'd just met. But as she looked around the empty hotel room, at the indentation in the pillow where his head had been, at the single earring she'd tossed on the dresser that now seemed to emphasize her aloneness—she couldn't deny the ache spreading through her chest.

Then her eyes caught on something on the nightstand—a purple and gold silicone bracelet, the colors faded from years of wear. LSU. Joe's bracelet, the one he'd worn constantly, that she'd noticed he never took off.

Beside it lay a folded piece of hotel stationery with her name on it.

Riley reached for both with slightly trembling hands, sliding the bracelet onto her wrist before unfolding the note. As she read his words, the tears she'd been fighting spilled over, tracking silently down her cheeks.

The note wasn't long or poetic. It was pure Joe—straightforward, unembellished, and somehow more meaningful because of it. He'd left her his bracelet. A piece of himself, something important, something personal.

She traced her fingers over his handwriting, the physical evidence of his presence, of his promise to return. The tears came faster now, catching her off guard with their intensity.

"Shit," she whispered, pressing the note to her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut.

She was crying not just because he was gone, but because she missed him already, with an intensity that scared her. Because in just three days, he'd somehow worked his way past all her carefully constructed defenses. Because she was already counting the days until "next time," even though they hadn't set a date, even though their lives existed in different worlds, on different trajectories.

Riley lay back against the pillows, his bracelet a comforting weight on her wrist, his note still clutched in her hand. She allowed herself this moment of vulnerability—of missing him, of acknowledging what these days had meant, of being afraid of how much she'd come to care in such a short time.

The tears weren't just sadness. They were recognition of something rare, something precious, something worth fighting for. And beneath it all, a quiet certainty that whatever had started here was far from over.

She reached for her phone, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she began to type a message to the man who'd somehow, in the space of a Mardi Gras weekend, become essential.

She stared at the blank text screen for a moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Riley Carter had never struggled with words—they were her livelihood, her art—but somehow finding the right ones for this felt impossible. Too casual would diminish what had happened between them. Too intense might scare him off.

Finally, she typed:

Riley: Just found your note. Already wearing the bracelet. Thanks for making me cry before coffee, Burrow.

She paused, deleted it, then tried again:

Riley: The bracelet is perfect. I'll keep it safe for you. Thank you for everything.

Too formal. Too distant. She deleted that too, frustration building.

She tried once more:

Riley: Found your note. Miss you already. The bracelet doesn't leave my wrist until you're back to claim it.

She hit send before she could overthink it, then immediately tossed her phone aside, her heart racing like she'd just performed in front of thousands. It was the truth—simple, direct, vulnerable. The kind of truth she usually saved for her lyrics, not her life.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

She hadn't expected such a quick response. He must have turned his phone on the second the plane touched down, a thought that made the ache in her chest soften into something warmer.

Joe: Back in Cincinnati. Three days wasn't enough. I'll call you later.

She replied with just a heart emoji. Sometimes words weren't necessary.

Riley smiled through the remnants of her tears, holding her wrist up to examine the faded purple and gold band that now felt like the most precious thing she owned.

Joe stepped off the plane, already feeling the shift. The cold Cincinnati air, the familiar airport, the weight of his real life settling back onto his shoulders.

His driver was waiting for him at arrivals, a clipboard with "BURROW" in his hand though they both knew it wasn't necessary. Joe nodded in greeting, sliding into the back seat of the black SUV as the driver loaded his single bag into the trunk.

"Good trip, Mr. Burrow?" the driver asked, the same question he always asked.

"Yeah," Joe said, surprised by how inadequate the word felt. "It was."

He scrolled through the messages that had accumulated during his flight—his agent reminding him about tomorrow's meeting with the equipment sponsor, his trainer checking if he wanted to bump their session to evening instead of morning, his mom asking if he'd made it home safely. He replied to each with practiced efficiency, but his mind was still in New Orleans.

The city had felt different with Riley there. And now, Cincinnati felt... less.

The drive to his place was the same as always. Same route, same buildings, same grey February sky. But now he noticed the absence of color, the lack of life compared to the vibrant chaos of New Orleans. When had Cincinnati started feeling so sterile?

He got home, dropped his bag by the door, and immediately noticed how he almost hated how his house now felt compared to Riley's. No warm light, no music, no trailing plants or mismatched furniture that somehow worked. His place was all clean lines and neutral tones, professionally decorated to be impressive but not personal. It had never bothered him before.

Joe moved through the empty rooms, turning on lights, opening blinds, trying to inject some life into the space. He glanced at his wrist out of habit—only to remember the bracelet wasn't there. That small weight was missing, and it threw him. He rubbed his thumb over the spot where the silicone band usually sat, the phantom pressure a constant reminder of what he'd left behind.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, stared at the protein shakes and meal-prepped containers, then closed it again without taking anything. His stomach growled, but nothing appealed to him. He wanted beignets dusted with powdered sugar. He wanted spicy gumbo and Riley laughing across the table.

He checked his phone again, rereading Riley's text, lingering on Miss you already before typing:

Joe: What song are you playing right now?

A beat later, her response:

Riley: "In Spite of Ourselves" by John Prine & Iris DeMent

Joe smiled, immediately searching for the song on his phone. He connected to the speakers—rarely used except for pregame warm-up playlists—and hit play. The playful, honest duet filled his living room, the lyrics about two imperfect people who fit together perfectly making his smile widen. He could almost hear Riley's laugh, could picture her singing along. Somehow, the song made the space feel less empty.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch as the music washed over him. The pull in his chest was almost physical, a tightness that hadn't been there before New Orleans. Before Riley.

When the song ended, Joe walked to his bag and carefully removed the Talking Heads vinyl he'd bought at the record store. He held it for a moment, then placed it prominently on the console table in his entryway—the only personal item in the otherwise meticulously designed space. It looked out of place among his minimalist decor—vibrant, meaningful, a splash of color in the monochrome.

He picked up his phone again, staring at the record he’d placed on the console table—the only personal item in the otherwise meticulously designed space. It looked out of place, bold and colorful against the clean lines and muted tones.

He ran his thumb over his bare wrist, missing the familiar weight of his bracelet. The room felt empty, too perfect. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something needed to change—something to make this space feel less like a hotel and more like a home.

Decisively, he opened a browser and searched for high-end turntables. The price didn’t matter; what mattered was quality. If Riley was going to visit—and she would, he’d make sure of it—he wanted the music to sound just right.

Joe scrolled through reviews, comparing features with the same focus he usually reserved for studying defensive schemes. Turntable. Amplifier. Speakers. The best system money could buy.

Small changes. Starting points. The kind of details no one but Riley would notice or understand. Because somehow, in just three days, she'd seen parts of him he'd forgotten existed, or maybe never knew were there at all. He glanced around his living room again, seeing it through new eyes, and for the first time since buying it, he didn't see a showcase.

He saw potential.

Riley left the hotel as soon as she got up. There was no reason to stay—the late checkout Joe had arranged would go unused. The room felt wrong without him there, like she was sharing the space with a ghost. His absence was somehow more present, more tangible, than if he'd never been there at all.

The half-empty coffee cup he'd left on the nightstand. The indent in his pillow. The lingering scent of his cologne in the bathroom. All evidence of someone who was gone but not quite gone.

She'd never hurried through her morning routine so quickly, desperate to escape the emptiness that was somehow worse than being alone.

When she finally made it home, the city felt strange around her. It was still Mardi Gras, still her favorite time of year in her favorite place, but something was off. Like someone had adjusted all the colors, making them slightly less vibrant. She'd lived in New Orleans for years, knew every corner of her neighborhood, but suddenly the familiar patterns of her life felt... insufficient.

"Get it together, Carter," she muttered to herself as she unlocked her front door. "It was three days. Three."

But it had been three days that had somehow shifted something fundamental inside her. Three days that had her checking her phone every five minutes, staring at his bracelet on her wrist, playing their conversations over in her head like favorite tracks on a well-worn album.

Her house, normally her sanctuary, felt too quiet. She walked through the rooms, running her fingers over the surfaces of familiar objects, wondering if Joe had touched them too. The record player in the corner caught her eye. She picked out a vinyl without thinking too hard about it, needing something to fill the silence.

John Prine's voice filled the room, and Riley sank onto her couch, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over Joe's LSU bracelet. She had studio time booked later—their album wouldn't finish itself—but for now, she allowed herself this moment of... what? Not sadness, exactly. Something more complex. Something that made her feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.

Her phone buzzed.

Joe: What song are you playing right now?

Riley smiled for the first time since waking up alone. How did he know? She glanced at the record spinning on her turntable, then typed:

Riley: "In Spite of Ourselves" by John Prine & Iris DeMent

She didn't explain why—didn't mention how the lyrics about two imperfect people finding each other felt suddenly, intensely relevant, or how Prine's wry humor was the only thing keeping her from sliding into a frankly embarrassing level of melancholy. He'd either get it or he wouldn't.

She set her phone down and leaned her head back, closing her eyes as the music washed over her. Three days. Just three days, and she was already haunting her own house like some lovesick teenager. It was ridiculous. It was completely unlike her. What would Haley and Laura say?

Well, she knew exactly what they'd say. They'd say she was in trouble. And they'd be right.

Her phone buzzed again. Not Joe this time, but a reminder of her studio session in two hours. Real life, calling her back. The album they were midway through recording wasn't going to wait, and honestly, work was probably exactly what she needed right now.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Riley hit Laura's contact and put the phone on speaker as she started gathering her things for the studio.

"Well, well, well," Laura's voice filled the room after the second ring. "If it isn't the ghost who's been ignoring our texts all morning. I was about to send a search party to make sure Quarterback Boy didn't turn out to be a serial killer."

"He left this morning," Riley said, surprised by how her voice caught slightly on the words. "Early flight."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Laura spoke again, her teasing tone had vanished. "You okay, Ri?"

"I'm fine," Riley said automatically, then sighed. "Actually, I don't know what I am. It's stupid. It was just a few days."

"Doesn't sound stupid to me," Laura said quietly. "Sounds like something happened."

Riley sank back onto the couch, absently touching the LSU bracelet on her wrist. "Yeah. Something happened." She paused, struggling to find words—ridiculous for someone who wrote lyrics for a living. "I can't explain it, Laura. It's like... I've known him forever? But also not at all? And now he's gone and my house feels wrong and I'm playing John Prine like some heartbroken teenager and I don't even recognize myself right now."

Laura let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. You're in it deep."

"Shut up," Riley groaned, but there was no heat in it. "I know how it sounds."

"Actually, it sounds exactly like you," Laura said, her voice gentler now. "The real you. The one who feels everything so intensely. That's who you've always been, Ri. You kind of lost that part of yourself during all those years with Ethan."

Riley was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in. Laura wasn't wrong. The on-again, off-again years with Ethan had taken a toll she hadn't fully recognized until after it was over. She'd spent a whole year deliberately single after they finally ended things for good, focusing on finding herself again. And somewhere in that process, she'd gotten comfortable keeping her feelings at a distance, not letting herself explore possibilities with anyone else.

"Maybe," she admitted finally. "It just feels... risky."

"Good risky or bad risky?"

Riley laughed. "I don't even know anymore."

"So when are you seeing him again?"

The question caught Riley off guard. Not if. When. Like there was no doubt.

"I don't know," she admitted. "We didn't really make specific plans. He's got training, I've got the album... and then we leave for Italy right after. It'll be at least a month before there's even a possibility."

"A month?" Laura groaned dramatically. "You're going to be impossible to live with in Italy. Here I was looking forward to celebrating your birthday in Tuscany, and now you're going to be pining after Football Boy the whole time."

"I am not going to be pining," Riley protested, though the thought of a full month without seeing Joe did create a hollow feeling in her chest. "I'll be completely present and birthday-appropriate."

"Mmhmm," Laura hummed skeptically. "Keep telling yourself that."

"You're the worst."

"No, I'm the best, which is why I'm going to help you figure out when you can see him after we get back. Haley owes me twenty bucks, by the way."

"You bet on me?"

"I bet on chemistry. Haley said you'd play it cool for at least a week before making any moves. I said you'd be planning your next meeting before his plane even landed."

Riley rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop smiling. "I hate you both."

"No, you don't," Laura said, her voice softening. "Listen, I know this is new territory for you. But I haven't heard you sound like this about anyone... maybe ever. So whatever this is? I'm here for it."

"Thanks, L," Riley said quietly. "I gotta go. Studio time."

"Go make magic. And Riley? I'm really happy for you."

After they hung up, Riley stood in her living room for a moment longer, feeling oddly settled. Hearing herself say it out loud—admit how she was feeling, acknowledge that she wanted to see him again soon—had made it more real somehow. Less something happening to her and more something she was choosing.

A month. Four weeks. Thirty-some days before seeing him again was even possible. The thought was daunting, but also... maybe good? Time to process whatever this was becoming, time to finish the album without distraction, time to be sure this wasn't just Mardi Gras magic that would dissolve in the daylight of real life.

Though even as she thought it, Riley knew better. Whatever was happening between them was too real, too grounded to be dismissed as holiday fantasy.

Riley forced herself up off the couch, heading to her bedroom to change into something more suitable for the studio. As she passed her dresser, she caught sight of herself in the mirror—Joe's bracelet on her wrist, a small smile still playing at her lips. She looked different somehow. Not dramatically, not in any way anyone else would notice. But she could see it.

"Three days," she whispered to her reflection, half-accusation, half-wonder.

But sometimes three days was all it took.

She grabbed her guitar case, her notebook full of half-finished lyrics, her jacket. At the door, she paused, looking back at her empty house. For the first time since moving in, she felt a strange sense of anticipation—not just of coming back, but of someday having someone else there too. Someone specific.

Riley locked the door behind her, adjusting Joe's bracelet on her wrist as she walked down her front steps. She might be in trouble, but she was pretty sure it was the good kind.

[agxinstthesun]

an overly complex analysis of how the killjoys deal with loss

party poison-

party poison has a soul crushing fear of death. maybe it isn’t apparent- not what you’d expect from someone who appears so confident and in tune with themselves, but there’s signs. the way their eyes go dark when anyone in the crew gets even slightly injured- the way they're always first to volunteer to stay up all night on patrol, knowing their paranoia would keep them up either way. you could chalk it up to their “leader instincts,” but their crew would argue it runs deeper than that. a good leader doesn’t have to do what party does- a good leader - by zone standards - keeps the group motivated- keeps them from splitting up. party poison keeps the group alive, together. they took a team and effortlessly morphed it into a family. admitting to it would feed their suspended guilt even more, but each time they hear of a death outside their inner circle, a small part of them is relieved that it wasn't their family blinded by the witches touch that day.

if it were to happen, it would destroy them. the loss would be bad enough, but the guilt of it all might be enough to put them out of commission for a long while. as strong as they are, the role of "leader" digs into them like the soles of a brand new pair of shoes. leaving an indent of responsibility and overcompensation in the sand with every step they take.

jet star-

jet star never strays far from death, not since what happened to his family. finding his parents ghosted after an unexpected raid carried out by some particularly violent exterminators was the catalyst for a lot of things in his life. his heightened sympathy for the dead and the mourning was one of those things. he was known throughout the desert as a safe person to talk to about those topics. it was even said that he would offer sympathy despite negative affiliations or disagreements your group had with his. it'd be a lie to say it didn't weigh on him, though. the anger built up from hearing all of these stories and the lingering effects from his own experiences culminated in an intense hatred for BLI and everything they had done. this passion was the one thing him and party poison truly connected over when they first met.

it's no surprise that, if confronted by a companions passing, this anger and passion would hit him hard. how unfair it is, how inhumane, it shakes him. initially, he'd think to organize- to finally just go for it and take out as many of those pigs as possible- but he wouldn't. he's too aware of the amount of people in the zones that still need him. he's second in command, he's as much a leader as party is. still, he'd become distant. it'd serve as another warning not to get too close, to not give too much of yourself to something that is only ever temporary.

fun ghoul-

fun ghoul doesn't acknowledge death. despite his ever frequent catfights with it, he manages to get by rarely considering the possibility. the truth being that if he did, the weight of it all would crush him. deep down, he knows he's helpless to it. he knows that each time he evades her grasp, she gets smarter. it's no doubt it'll all catch up to him eventually..but his friends are all untouchable. seeing them injured, near ghosted? it never feels real. on a bad night, he'll think of how the others must look down, mortified, to him each time he’s left bleeding out against the desert sun. it gives him a sense of importance sometimes, but usually it just builds guilt.

if he had to face a loss head on, it would be a pivotal moment to him. as the reality set in, he'd feel lost. stupid for being naive enough to ignore it for so long. that love of throwing himself into the danger that he relied so heavily on before would fade just as fast as it came, the loss weighing him down in small ways for as long as he lived. the remorse he’d feel for pushing his love inward, and seldom expressing it, would sit heavy on his shoulders. he'd cling even more to whatever it is he had left, and protect it with his whole life.

kobra kid-

kobra kid is conflicted on death. of course it scared him- the thought that he would disappear one day, but more often than not, he caught himself wondering if that was just something he had picked up from party. the longer he thought about it on his own time, the more the thought became oddly comforting. the fact that there would eventually be a moment of rest amidst all the chaos didn’t sound all that bad to him..of course, it also pissed him off. it made him mad that the city forced that mindset onto you. the idea that submitting yourself to death was the only way to true freedom. however, it wouldn’t take long for the morbid curiosity found its way back to him.

he was almost too aware of the looming presence of death around him and the rest of the crew (the rest of the desert, really). if it happened, he wouldn’t be shocked, but deeply mourning still. he’d send letters in the mailbox, despite always considering it a futile effort. he’d silently participate in whatever zone rituals he thought would help him feel better, though they almost never would. he’d become especially reclusive and unresponsive to sympathy- it’s just something people do to feel like they’re helping, right? he’s way more dependent on his crew than he’d ever let on, and this fate would only further prove that.

[you-are-my-neverland]

“You know, everyone else thinks you’ve lost your mind because of grief, But I know you better than that, and I know that whatever’s going on with you is more than whatever happened to your dad. The person in front of me, that’s not you. And I don’t know where the fuck she is, but I hope the real Naying Yue wakes up soon.”

NAYING YUE'S life has been on a downward spiral ever since her father disappeared three years ago. Expelled from university and alone after violently stabbing her friend in the eye, she believes her twenty first birthday is as good as any day to die, only for her suicide to be interrupted by an attack by monstrous beings. Saved by strangers who call themselves Outsiders, she is told her life as she knows it is a lie: Her father did not save her life as a child, but instead kidnapped her from the powerful Yue family. Thrown headfirst into the dangerous World of Outsiders, where humans endowed with a magical current are hunted ruthlessly by the eldritch beings known as the seraph and the power plays between factions shed just as much blood, Naying finds herself pulled by opposite powers and desires. Forced to play in games she does not fully understand and plagued by unexplained blackouts and boughts of violence, Naying must fight herself and the world to stay alive. But all she really wants is to find her father.

GODHOOD is the conceptual title for a prospective trilogy that follows Naying Yue as she reclaims her destiny. Set in a universe where magic runs parallel to the ordinary world in the form of a current. Those that possess the current are called Outsiders, endowed with extraordinary abilities and able to perceive the truth of the world, responsible for maintaining equilibrium. As Naying embraces the changes within herself, a young monk searches for an answer that has haunted him his whole life, and a skater must confront a part of herself she has tried to turn away from. A boy sits catatonic in a wheelchair in the garden, and a pair of twins are forced to chose between the past and the future. Their stories intertwine with one another's while overlapping with that of various other characters across the Godhood Universe.

Status. Drafting book one

Genre. Urban fantasy with wuxia and mythic elements

Themes & Tropes. destiny, the problem of free will, humanity, the trolley problem, the abuse and cycle of power (how we play into and uphold the systems that hurt and oppress us), individual identity & internal conflict, ambition & power, who we choose as a family, parent/child relationships (specifically father/daughter), balance

Tag: wip: godhood

More information available on the ppt intro of this wip!! I'm always open to asks about specific characters and worldbuilding, though I don't know when I'll be making an actual post about it. I mostly post small snippets here and there :)

Taglist (currently tagging those who expressed interest before, please reach out to be added or removed)

@lena-rambles @ink-flavored @vacantgodling @dirtcatty

Extra excerpt beneath cut!

“You don’t believe I’m her, do you?” she asked softly. “Naying Yue. The dead one.” “Dead, or missing?” Lien murmured in response. “Or found?” He stepped down into her space, so they were toe to toe, too crushingly close to stand on her own. She fought against stepping back, holding herself taut to prevent her body from swaying backwards without her control.  “Your bet,” she said, staring up at him. His eyes were dark. She could see a sliver of the moon in them at this distance. The last, and only, guy she had been this physically close to was Frey. “I bet you’re going to ruin something,” Lien said in a low voice. “Real or not.” Naying swallowed, then let herself smile. “How much are you willing to bet on that?” “Why?” Lien asked, boredom sweeping over his features. He took a step back. “Planning on providing a payout?” “I doubt it would be that hard,” Naying replied, following his step. “I don’t play nice.” Lien shook his head with a rueful grin. “I can see that much.” He paused. “So what’s your bet, then?” “My bet?” Naying echoed curiously. “Real, or fake?”  “Well,” Naying said. “It’s probably the same as yours, isn’t it? I’m a fake who is pretending to be the real thing, or I’m the real deal still putting on a facade. Either way, I’m going to fuck things up, aren’t I?” “There’s no odds if they’re in both of our favor,” Lien replied.

[pumpkinsy0]

Pop off with some ponyboy addiction headcanons and Curlys/ everyone’s gen reaction to bro actually getting addicted to drugs n shit

im gonna make this more like a general hcs thing so it can fit for whatever u want!!

•pony canonically has an addictive personality/a bitttt of a substance abuse issue when it comes to cigarettes, when he gets stressed he turns to whatever he can for comfort, he doesnt even necessarily have to like it, if it helps him take of the edge a bit, he’ll try it, peer pressure plays into it a bit too

•he absolutely knows that its wrong for him, its just that he NEEDS the comfort it brings, when he doesnt have it he becomes a little more physically destructive to his body somehow

•curly doesnt really know how to deal w it, his mother has the same issues and he’s seen what shes like now and growing up and he doesnt want that for pony, but he doesnt know how to help him

•sucks even more bc curly promised himself he wouldnt turn out like his parents and despite his best efforts ponys changing to acting like his mom so imagine how this guys feelin rn

•so seeing that i feel like pony and curly would drift a way a bit, curly wants to help pony but it reminds him too much of ppl he cant stand, they argue a bit more and their banter isnt rlly banter anymore, theres some emotion truth to what they r saying now

•everyone knows about ponys addiction, its rlly no secret at all, they know somethings up w him, they make little comments here n there about him

•i think they r pretty upset about it, maybe disappointed too, but mostly at themselves for not helping pony before he could come to this point, they feel like they contributed to this a bit

•pony knows they know but downplays it a lot, saying hes only doing it now bc hes stressed but he’ll be fine without it later on, gets super defensive, he feels like all eyes r on him

•so naturally curly would go to everyone else about it so they can confront him, but i dont think it would be like, with a intervention, its more so a plan over a course of time to individually talk to pony when they can and have a heart to heart w em, either that or they have one person do that for them but they share all the problems everyones having

•it takes a while but i think pony could find a substitute to cope in the meantime until he can function without doing it, its hard for him to do a whole 180 and sometimes he slips, but he is trying

•curlys one of the main ones pony stays on track , along side darry and soda

[smoshsfavoritepizzaplace]

i think people who dislike damien tend to claim that it was for his interaction w a palestinian fan are quite transparent on the fact that its implicit bias against autistic adults who do not mask as much lol. because, the thing is, what he did was shitty. how he acted towards that fan was not cool.

these people were WAITING on him to do something bad because they do not like autistic people who don't mask. maybe i'm reading into it too much but when someone is "annoying" online, people hold their breaths hoping they do somethingto fuck up so that they have a moral high ground to hate on them from. but the truth is they just dislike his autistic traits.

after his interaction w the palestinian fan, i honestly liked him a little bit less. he used to be one of my faves but i thought how he reacted was immature. autism or not, i've learned to interact with people who confront me with respect and care and i have autism and i don't mask, either. i know the shame spirals that lead to how he acted, i still thought it was uncool even when i understood it. but oh my god, i don't even hate n*ah the way some damangela antis hate damien.

i get why people dislike him for his "woke" persona esp cause so many men of his status and complexion (hehehe sorry white men) have positioned themselves as feminists but are just using it as a shield to protect from being critiqued on their actual misogyny. and i also dislike it when white people "activist" so hard that they speak over poc- i especially hate when whits people tryto tell me why white people behavior is bad. i think damien can fall into a bit of a sanitized, millenial internet activist archetype and it does frustrate me sometimes.

but i think, as an autistic person, you can kinda pick up on when people hate someone because of the reasons they claim or if it's just implicit bias. and in the case of damien, the WAY some people hate him make it clear to me that it's just because of his autism. ESPECIALLY after his vocalness about his diagnosis. people want shame out of everybody and hate self acceptance. the same way that when people hate on courtney it's blatantly obvious that it's misogyny when they pretend it's for "valid" reasons.

also sorry i'm so critical of damien on here. i also dislike when people chalk up any bad behavior to "it's his autism" when it isn't. i'm sorry if this whole message is a little messy but i hope u get what i'm trying to say 😔😔

tl;dr: there are valid reasons to criticize and dislike damien but the way some damien haters act make it obvious to me that they're lying and they just hate him cause of his autism.

Tbh I’ll never really understand why people hate Damien the way they do. He of course has made some questionable choices or whatever but some people act like he’s the straight up worst sometimes. It’s totally okay to hold him accountable if he does something bad, absolutely, but I think some people have just disliked him for a while and like you said, waited for him to mess up. As I stated before, everyone who doesn’t like doesn’t have to and it’s okay that they don’t. But I just wish they were a bit more “fair” to him if that makes sense

[megaderping]

Adachi is such an interesting character because I think a lot of his worst kinds of fans are the type who like... see themselves in him and thinks that's a good thing and who talk about how he was right, but that absolutely doesn't sum up every person who likes him, and I think that's something that people forget in the greater fan discourse. Adachi is meant to represent a lot of things to Persona 4's narrative. He is a byproduct of many toxic aspects of Japanese work culture. The idea that hard work will get you a stable life with a good job and a steady future. Adachi internalized this, and yet he got sent to this hick town with nothing to do over one escape. His refusal to form meaningful connections with others in favor of nihilism and a desire to just watch the world burn is meant to be a cautionary tale. If you see yourself in Adachi, the game asks you to reflect and consider that there are still things worth living for. It's also a lesson he ultimately gets. He is the one who urges the Investigation Team to pursue the real truth, and his arc in Ultimax is great because while he's still not a great person, he also has grown enough that even if he's still mean as shit, he entrusts the future to Yu and the Investigation. He just wants to go back to jail, play by the rules, and face justice, whatever form it takes, and instead he's dragged into more supernatural bullshit and has to deal with Sho. He's forced to confront who he was in the past, and he hates what he sees, and he hates that Sho is assuming the exact same kinda mindset that got his ass kicked in the end. And all of this is fantastic, but then I look at the kinda fans who talk up Adachi as if he's this great person and use him as a means to shit on fans of, say, Akechi without even trying to understand the cultural context or distinctly different role he plays in his narrative. It's not good to strawman Adachi or Akechi fans and the weird beef between the audiences of both characters annoys the shit out of me because they both have their own meanings and critiques of Japanese culture. And, y'know, people can like different characters for different reasons. I feel like a lot of this could be resolved if people were just polite and more open to discussion instead of making assumptions about why people like certain characters. Because Adachi's misogyny is definitely reflected in a lot of the kinds of fans who will actively shit on the female characters and female Persona fans, but I've met some genuinely kind fans of the character who just find him compelling for the disaster that he is and the interesting role he works as a foil to the Investigation Team. You never know why a character is someone's fav until you talk to them, and aggression doesn't help facilitate good discussions. Idk. Just a random thought, I guess.

[mya-valentine]

A Moment to Heal

Synopsis: As the sun sets over Jujutsu High, Juri and Gojo find themselves on the rooftop, the unspoken tension between them finally surfacing. Juri, a hardened sorcerer driven by revenge for her parents' deaths, struggles with the emotional burden she's carried for years. Gojo, knowing her well, gently pushes her to confront her past. Their banter fades as Juri hesitantly opens up, calling Gojo by name for the first time, a small but significant gesture. Later, over pastries, Gojo warns her about the higher-ups' schemes and their intent to pit her against Itadori, forcing Juri to confront difficult truths about her future.

The sun had already begun to set by the time Gojo and Juri found themselves alone on the rooftop of the school, the soft hues of orange and pink casting long shadows across the city skyline. It was a familiar spot—one they had both retreated to over the years when they needed to think. Today, however, it was different. The air between them was heavy with something unspoken, something Juri had been carrying for far too long.

Gojo leaned against the railing, his trademark grin softened into something more thoughtful. He had always known there was more to Juri than her sharp tongue and reckless bravado, but he had never pushed her to reveal it. She was a fortress, built high and sturdy, and Gojo knew better than anyone that breaking through it wasn’t easy. But today, after all the years of banter and sarcasm, he felt like they were on the cusp of something real.

“You know,” Gojo started, his tone unusually gentle, “it’s been a while since we’ve talked about them.”

Juri’s jaw clenched, her gaze fixed firmly on the horizon. She didn’t need to ask who he meant. Her parents—the topic she avoided at all costs. She hated the way thinking about them made her feel; vulnerable, angry, and alone. 

“They wouldn’t want you to carry this burden forever,” Gojo said, carefully choosing his words. “I know it feels like it’s all on you, but it’s okay to...let some of it go.”

Juri’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. She wasn’t sure if she was angry at Gojo for bringing them up or at herself for feeling the weight of his words. She had built her entire life around that rage, the loss, and the need for revenge. It was her fuel, her reason for every fight, every reckless mission. 

“I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me,” she muttered, her voice low but lacking the usual bite.

Gojo chuckled softly, though it wasn’t the teasing laugh he usually used. “I’m not psychoanalyzing, just… talking. You’ve been holding onto this for so long, Juri. It’s okay to be angry. Hell, it’s okay to feel whatever you need to feel. But you can’t carry it alone forever.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind brushing through the trees below and the distant noise of the city. Juri felt the weight of his words sink in deeper than she wanted them to. Gojo had always been a thorn in her side, always pushing, always poking at her defenses. But, in some twisted way, she had come to rely on his presence. He was the only one who knew her well enough to know when to push and when to back off.

“I’m not asking you to forgive anyone,” Gojo continued, his voice even softer now. “But maybe it’s time to let someone in, just a little. You don’t have to do it all by yourself anymore.”

Juri swallowed hard, feeling the knot in her throat grow tighter. She wasn’t sure how to respond, wasn’t sure if she could. Letting someone in wasn’t in her nature—it went against everything she’d built herself to be. But as she stood there, staring at the sunset with Gojo beside her, something shifted. 

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned to face him. Her usual sharp expression had softened, just enough for Gojo to notice. 

“Gojo…” she said, the word slipping from her lips before she could stop herself.

Gojo blinked in surprise. She had never called him by his name—never. It was always ‘rat’ or ‘old man’ or some other insult that was thrown his way with no real malice. But this? This was something else. 

For a moment, Gojo didn’t say anything, unsure of how to respond. He could see the significance of it in her eyes, the vulnerability she rarely let anyone see. 

“You’ve earned it,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “The name.”

Gojo’s usual playful grin returned, but it was softer, more genuine this time. “Took long enough,” he teased, though his tone was filled with warmth. “I guess I should feel honored.”

Juri huffed, rolling her eyes, but the tension had melted away, if only a little. She didn’t know how to express everything that was going on inside her—the confusion, the pain, the anger. But maybe, just maybe, this was a start.

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, though there was no bite behind her words. 

Gojo nodded, understanding. “I won’t.”

They stood in silence for a while longer, the weight of Juri’s unspoken emotions hanging in the air. But for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. She had let down a small piece of her wall, just enough for Gojo to see through, and in that moment, it was enough.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough for her to finally begin healing.

— — —

The sun had set by the time Gojo and Juri made their way through the bustling streets of the city. Despite the serious undertones of their conversation earlier, Gojo had a different plan for their next destination. He knew Juri was feeling raw, emotionally drained from confronting her past, and he wasn’t the type to push people when they needed time to process. So, instead of forcing more words, he decided on a change of pace—a sweet one.

They turned a corner, and Juri’s eyes narrowed at the quaint little bakery tucked between two taller buildings. The warm glow of the lights inside contrasted with the cool evening air. The aroma of freshly baked goods drifted toward them, causing even Juri’s expression to soften slightly. 

“Why are we here?” she asked, her voice flat but curious.

Gojo grinned. “You’ve got a sweet tooth, don’t you? Thought this might lift your spirits. This place has the best pastries in the city—trust me, you’ll love it.”

Juri rolled her eyes but followed him inside. The bakery was cozy, with shelves lined with all sorts of baked goods—cakes, croissants, cookies, and, most importantly for Juri, an entire section dedicated to lollipops. 

Gojo glanced at her as they approached the counter, already eyeing the sweets. “Pick whatever you want. It’s on me.”

She shot him a look but didn’t protest. Juri wasn’t the type to show excitement, but the way her eyes lingered over the lollipops, especially the cotton candy-flavored ones, was enough to tell Gojo he’d made the right call.

After making their choices—Juri with her lollipop and a small box of pastries for later, and Gojo with his signature favorite, a strawberry-filled croissant—they found a table by the window. It was quiet, just the soft murmur of other patrons and the sound of the oven in the back. 

For a few minutes, they just ate in silence, the atmosphere relaxed. Juri leaned back in her chair, the familiar taste of cotton candy on her tongue, helping to ease the tension that had been building up all day.

But Gojo wasn’t one to let important matters slide for long. He watched her for a moment before speaking, his tone more serious than before.

“You know we need to talk about the higher-ups,” he began, breaking the peaceful lull. “We can’t avoid them forever. Not with what they’re planning.”

Juri’s expression darkened, her relaxed demeanor vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. She bit down on the lollipop stick, her eyes narrowing. “What about them?”

Gojo took a sip of his coffee, leaning forward slightly. “They’re playing a long game. You and I both know they’re not just focused on Sukuna. They have other plans—plans that involve you.”

Juri snorted, though there was no humor in it. “Of course they do. They’re still trying to control me. They don’t know who I really am, but they know I’m dangerous. They think they can use me.”

“And they’ll keep trying until they can’t anymore,” Gojo said, his voice dropping a bit lower. “But that’s not the worst of it. You know they’re aiming to pit you against Itadori when the time comes.”

The mention of Itadori made Juri’s jaw tighten. She had been trying to distance herself from him emotionally, trying to stop whatever was happening between them from going any further, but it was getting harder. The thought of being forced to fight him—no, kill him—was something she had been avoiding.

“And you think I’ll just go along with that?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, but there was an edge to it, a challenge.

“No,” Gojo replied, his eyes serious behind his blindfold. “I don’t. But they don’t know that, and they won’t stop until they get what they want.”

Juri stared at him for a long moment, the lollipop slowly dissolving in her mouth. The sweet taste felt bitter now. She knew the higher-ups had their eyes on her, that they were watching her every move. She had always been the outlier, the unpredictable one, and they hated that. They hated that they couldn’t control her, couldn’t bend her to their will like so many others.

“I won’t be their weapon,” Juri finally said, her voice steady but full of anger. “Not for the kid, not for anyone. I’ll end this on my terms, not theirs.”

Gojo nodded, his gaze softening slightly. “I know. But you need to be ready for whatever they throw at you. They’ll come after you harder than ever now. And not just you—Itadori too.”

Juri’s grip on the table tightened, her knuckles white. The thought of the higher-ups manipulating Itadori, using him as a pawn in their schemes, made her blood boil. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of this.

“I’ll deal with it,” she said, her voice sharp. “I always do.”

Gojo smiled, though there was a sadness behind it. “I know you will. But just remember, you don’t have to do it alone this time.”

Juri didn’t respond, her gaze turning back to the window. The city outside looked peaceful, but she knew better. Nothing was ever as calm as it seemed.

For now, though, she would take the moment for what it was. A small respite before the storm. She glanced at Gojo, who was already finishing his croissant with a satisfied grin.

“You really are a rat,” she muttered, though her voice had lost some of its edge.

“And yet, you’re still sitting here with me,” Gojo teased, leaning back in his chair. “That’s progress, don’t you think?”

Juri rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. Maybe Gojo was right. Maybe, for once, she didn’t have to carry all the weight on her own. 

And maybe, just maybe, she could let someone else in, if only for a little while.

.

.

.

The Burden of Strength Masterlist

[useless-prophet]

Mapping Radiant Orders (Stormlight Archive) to the Fears (Magnus Archives)

Because I really like categories, and some of the orders/fears just work together so nicely! And also, both end in archives, which just makes me happy for no real reason. Yes, I know there are 14ish fears and only 10 orders, so some fears will just have to sit out :(

Windrunners: The Vast. Endless sky to fall through... forever... especially since the use of Lashings is not technically "flying", but "falling" towards a different direction.

Skybreakers: Though the Vast does fit the flying part of their powers, the Hunt better embodies the determination of Skybreakers to hunt down whoever breaks the law, to any end necessary. I mean, just look at Nale and what happened in Edgedancer.

Dustbringers: Dustbringers want to break things, and have the handy dandy surge of Division to do so. Desolation is the first fear that comes to mind, given the common themes of destruction, but I could also see a pretty strong relation to the Stranger. Dustbringers don't break things for the mindless purpose of breaking things, but to find out how they work. The inside. Sounds a little like the mechanical contraptions and the changelings of the Stranger? Except the Stranger usually breaks people, and the Dustbringers... well, actually, they probably could as well.

Edgedancers: A tricky one at first, because the edgedancers are so darn good all the time. But given that their oath is "I will remember the forgotten", the step to Lonely, while a little paradoxical, is not a large one - most Edgedancers (like Lift), were once the people who were forgotten by society.

Truthwatchers: Ah, what could make a better match than the Truthwatchers and the Eye. Both committed to seeking truth and knowledge, while the Eye represents the ideals of a Truthwatcher taken too far, such seeking truth is not merely a tool to create positive change in the world, but an end within itself.

Lightweavers: Again, Stranger is vaguely tempting because of the Lightweavers' capacity for disguise, but I think that Spiral better represents the illusory aspects of their powers in tricking the mind, as well as the deep lies that Lightweavers often have to confront within themselves.

Elsecallers: As an order whose oaths deal with reaching one's self-potential, Elsecallers are... difficult to lump into a fear. The surge of Transportation matches the Spiral's connection with doors, but Elsecallers are anything but unsure of one's own mind. But Elsecallers do make excellent strategists and scholars because of their rational nature, meaning that the Web is not a bad fit.

Willshapers: Willshapers are all about freedom, self-determination, and the capacity to choose whatever route you want to walk. The Vast and the Lonely fit into the idea of exploration and freedom against being bound by society or a greater power, but we've already used those. The Buried is the opposite of the Willshapers, but unlike the Edgedancers, I think that there's such a difference in ideals between the two that they can't be reconciled in the same way. If you have a solid argument for a better fear, I'd love to hear it.

Stonewards: You know what's always there for you? A Stoneward. You know what's also always there for you? The ground, if only because you're trapped inside a cave that's slowly crushing the air out of your lungs and will never let you go. The rocky resemblance is just too good of a fit.

Bondsmith: Another hard one. Unity is not really a big theme among any of the powers, except maybe Corruption in the sense of a hive and some of its twisted feelings of love. But there is something that all living things are united in - death, aka the End. Is this crazy to map them to? I don't know, it's the best I've got.

Some of the orders just don't work that well with the fears, but I gave it my best shot. Opinions? Arguments? I'd be glad to hear them :)

[zodiactalks]

These 5 Zodiac Signs Hate Being Told What to Do

Let's face it; some people just follow orders better than others.

Some people like orders because they see them as clear-cut instructions to follow, while others love them because it frees them from second-guessing themselves.

Others, though, hate being told what to do, and will actively resist when someone tries to boss them around.

The following signs are the latter.

#1. Aries

The fastest way of getting on Aries' nerves is trying to tell them what to do. The Ram marches at the beat of their own drum, and they refuse to do things the way others tell them how they need to be done.

Though they're impulsive and spontaneous, they're perfectly capable of getting things done, so the thought of anyone telling them to change the way they do things drives them bonkers, and they'll let you know it.

Aries will make sure you know what they think about your plans, and they won't be shy about it. They'll still do what you tell them to do if you push them, but past this point, they'll refuse to take any responsibility for their actions.

#2. Taurus

No matter what you do, you can't out-stubborn a Taurus, and once they've dug their heels, then it's game over. They'll do their thing no matter what anyone says, even if it's not in their best interests.

They're independent, yes, but they're easily the most stubborn sign in the Zodiac, and the harder you push, the harder they'll push back, so it's always easier to let them do things their way.

It may end disastrously for them, but they'd rather experience failure in their term than success in someone else's.

#3. Leo

No one gets a say in Leo's life other than Leo.

These attention seekers know themselves talented and capable, and aren't afraid of failing if it allows them to increase their skills.

Just like they hate not being under the limelight, they despise it when people tell them to do things a certain way, and while they'll bite their tongue and do as they're told, if they have a superior, they'll work hard to be their own bosses.

Leos make excellent leaders because that's what they were born to be.

#4. Sagittarius

While it might initially appear like Sagittarius doesn't mind being told what to do, it couldn't be further from the truth.

The only difference between these and the previous zodiac signs is that they're not confrontational about it.

When someone tells them to do something a certain way, they'll just smile and do it, unless they know their way works best, in which case they'll smile and do things their way despite what others think.

They're self-directed, independent, and talented, and they trust their talents to the point where they don't see the need to argue.

They'll do whatever needs to be done to get results, even if the actions taken to get there directly contradict what they've been told to do.

#5. Aquarius

Aquarius is one of the Zodiac's most independent signs, and they hate it when others tell them what to do, mainly when it's obvious the other person doesn't know what they're talking about.

They always prefer to do things their way, and while their way may not always work, it's better than trying to force them to do anything.

Unlike other signs in this list, Aquarius won't say no or oppose your choice. They'll simply do the complete opposite of what they were told to do.

Spiteful, maybe, but people will soon learn to let Aquarius do things their way.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 110: April 2018

Martin was usually up before Jon in the mornings. He’d been assuming that it was the Archives themselves waking him up, or maybe just an internal clock telling him he had to get things ready before his people came in, but they’d spent the night at his—their—flat, and here he was, up before the dawn and presiding over the stove as he made breakfast for his boyfriend. Nothing fancy, just a simple, basic spread, but since he wasn’t in the Archives, he needed something else to do with his hands while he cataloged, and he wasn’t the type to linger in the shower.

It was one part reassurance, one part prediction, like walking the rows of shelves and looking for files out of place. Martin knew every dream by now, knew the shape of the fear, knew the course each one took, knew the exact likelihood of his being spotted in them, knew what the door to the room of each dream looked like and where in the room he was likely to find the next one. But they didn’t always appear in the same order, and he used this early morning time to himself to sort out what dreams he’d seen when and what that meant.

It didn’t have to mean anything, and he knew that, but if Gerry’s flashbacks could telegraph what was likely on its way—what was likely to be the death of them, Martin had realized after the last one—why couldn’t Martin’s be leading him to a truth? The Eye wasn’t one for predicting the future, but it could See the present, which was infinitely harder, if you asked him. Easy to make guesses at what might be coming, harder to see what was right under your nose. All he had to do was put the pieces together…right?

The dreams were only of the live statements. At first it had only been the live statements Martin himself had been present for, but now every tape of a live statement he’d listened to had a corresponding door. Well, almost. He’d listened to three live statements Gertrude had recorded, and only one had made it into his dreams—the woman who’d been present when Gertrude disrupted the Flesh’s ritual, apparently. He didn’t dream about the man who’d encountered the ancient Archivist beneath the streets of Alexandria, nor, thankfully, did he dream about Mary Keay. Melanie had also never turned up, but the reason for that wasn’t hard to figure out; he hadn’t started having the dreams until he’d been kidnapped by Breekon and Hope—until he’d begun taking Jon’s place—and both of them had been employed by the Institute by then. The crew of the Archives were exempt from the nightly voyeurism, presumably because the Ceaseless Watcher could see them any time it wanted.

The other two…well, he was fairly certain the reason that he never saw them was because they were no longer in a fit state to dream.

He’d learned the rules of the dreamscape, too. He would find himself standing in front of a closed door. If it was a familiar door, it was almost always the one that led to a cemetery full of fog and empty graves, and all he had to do was touch the knob for it to swing open with a dread creak. If it was unfamiliar, though, he knew to reach for the ring of keys clipped to his belt to find the one that matched the lock. Each lock, each door, each key was—somehow—completely unique, and it was easy to match. There were doors he Knew led to Melanie’s fears, or Basira’s, or Tim’s, or even Jon’s, but there was no key to match on the ring and they remained resolutely shut. On those occasions when he had listened to a tape someone else had recorded and was confronted with a new door, he would be approached by the spectral form of whomever had taken the statement, who would place the key into his hand. They always seemed to be sleepwalking, like they weren’t truly there, and faded away immediately after completing their errand. Whatever the case, once he unlocked the door, while the key remained on his belt, the door stayed unlocked.

Usually.

Martin hummed under his breath as he traced his path in his mind. He’d started with Naomi Hearne as usual—she hadn’t seen him tonight, which was a pity in the waking world but a boon in the Eye’s realm—and then gone through all the other Lonely statements in rapid succession; obviously the Beholding just wanted to get them out of the way. He’d long suspected that the reason Naomi was always first was precisely because she and Martin had known each other through Evan, so it was less likely to be particularly fulfilling, especially if it was a night where she could see him; the nature of the Lonely was such that knowing another person was present took a lot of the fear out of it, and he was pretty sure the only reason the door was still there was that it had to be.

Once the Lonely rooms were over, he’d stepped into a hospital morgue and watched as a corpse rose to address a young woman. This, too, was always largely unsatisfying to the Ceaseless Watcher. Georgie’s lack of ability to feel fear meant that anything he got out of the dream was residual, and on the nights she noticed he was there, she just glared at him. The door on the other side of that one had led to a slowly collapsing train on the London Underground, and despite Karolina Gorka’s apparent lack of fear, she’d been concerned enough to make a statement of her own volition, so it was a little better. Martin wondered, in the daylight hours, how he didn’t have a worse time himself in there, considering there had never been any denying it was the Buried, but he supposed it was because these weren’t really about him. He was only there to observe; the Fears, or the memories of them at least, couldn’t touch him. He wasn’t a god, but he was probably the closest thing there was to it in the dreams.

Things had escalated from there, as they usually did, and Martin laid them out methodically in his mind like a tarot spread. Last night’s path had been largely grouped by which Fear had touched the victim, with an added increase in how much terror they still inspired. The office building had actually been occupied—it wasn’t always, the Hunters kept to odd hours and were half a world away anyway—and the door at the other side of it had been the pale, unvarnished oak with the silver padlock that led to Daisy’s months in the Buried.

Except…except last night, when he had touched the door, it hadn’t budged.

Martin turned the bacon over carefully. He’d been…unconcerned really. Emotions didn’t really factor into the dreams for him. He’d simply reached for the keys on his belt. But when he’d gone through every single key on the ring, looking for the one he Knew matched the padlock, it was simply gone. That was…unusual. Something wasn’t right about it.

There’d been another door right next to it, as there usually was when he encountered a door he wasn’t allowed to access, and he had gone through and lost himself in witnessing Gerry’s spectral form tremble and flicker as the Book burned, which meant Gerry had been asleep, which meant there was probably a flashback to discuss. Martin wondered if it would overlap with wherever his own dreams had been leading him. Gerry’s dream had been one of the last ones; the only one after that had been Web-related, so either there was that to look forward to or that was just the one that drew out the most terror. The guy on the tape had still sounded pretty terrified while Melanie tried to calm him down, but that could easily have also been due to Melanie’s expression.

In his dreams, he’d quickly put the matter of Daisy’s door out of his mind and focused on drinking in the terror of the next room, especially Gerry’s—the Eye got a lot of satisfaction from feeding off another avatar—but in the grey light of pre-dawn, he kept coming back to it again and again. Worry gnawed at him. Could something have happened to her? He didn’t think her falling back into the Hunt would block her door up like that, and he’d learned, first from his round-the-world trip and later from taking Trevor and Julia’s statement, that if whoever’s statement he was wandering through wasn’t asleep at the same time he was, the room would just be vacant, not locked. This had to be something more serious.

But reversible, he reminded himself. The doors being present meant there was a way for him to get to the other side of them…not that he wanted to, really, but they were there. He didn’t know if it was in case they ever distanced themselves from the Beholding or if it was in case everybody else was asleep and the Beholding was willing to settle for crumbs.

Was that it? Martin paused, chasing a nascent thought. The Archives crew were exempt from nightly viewings of their traumas, by virtue of being allied to the Eye, and he suspected it went with anyone who was in some way bound to the Eye. Had Daisy—

The sound of footsteps behind him broke his train of thought, and he turned around with a warm smile. “Morning, Jon. Sleep okay?”

“Hmm? Fine, fine.” Jon seemed…grumpy was the only word Martin could come up with. Despite his claims, he didn’t seem like he’d actually had a good night’s sleep. His hair was a bit disheveled, as though he hadn’t bothered running a brush or comb through it, which was probable—he and Melanie had had a few go-rounds about him not taking proper care of hair as long and thick as his was, and if Martin didn’t brush and style it for him, he often just pulled it back into an absent, messy ponytail or topknot screwed in place with a rubber band, a few of which Martin had had to cut out of his hair in the end—and he hadn’t shaved. There was something off about his clothing, and he was stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest.

He also, Martin couldn’t help but notice, hadn’t asked about his sleep.

“Oh. Good.” He had to fight to keep his smile in place. “Breakfast is almost done. Could you grab the plates, please?”

Wordlessly, Jon came into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and yanked down two plates. Martin eyed him, but decided not to ask about it yet. Jon was obviously thinking over something that was upsetting him, but if Martin asked too early, he’d clam up. Better to either let him decide for himself that he wanted to bring it up or wait until he burned off some of his agitation. Meanwhile, he focused on not burning the bacon.

He served up the food, fetched the silverware, and made tea, then set a mug in front of Jon and sat down. They didn’t often have time for a leisurely meal in the morning, just something quick thrown together in the break room or something Melanie or Tim brought in with them, and even when they spent a night at the flat, Martin’s anxiousness to get back usually meant they didn’t linger. But he’d needed to think, and besides, he wanted to spend time with his boyfriend doing something normal every once in a while. Like eating bacon and eggs and fried bread.

“I think the bread might be starting to go,” he mused, prodding at one of the pieces with his fork. “Not moldy, but a bit stale. Still, nothing a bit of butter can’t cure, right?”

Jon grunted. He was shoving his eggs halfheartedly around his plate without seeming very interested in eating them. He hadn’t made eye contact with Martin since waking up, either, and it wasn’t the comfortable kind of loose attention he usually paid when he was sleepy or overstimulated and just couldn’t have too deep a connection with individual people. It was like he was deliberately not looking at Martin. He was also sitting on the opposite side of the table instead of next to Martin, he’d only got the plates, not the silverware, and—that was what was off about his appearance. He was wearing a crisp, stiff olive green cardigan, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself—Jon was fond of earth tones—but it was a machine knit, commercially produced cardigan rather than one Martin had made (and Jon had mostly appropriated). He hadn’t worn one of those since Jane Prentiss had attacked the Institute.

Martin told himself he was reading too much into it, just being paranoid. Jon could wear whatever he wanted, obviously. He probably had just grabbed the first thing he found, not worrying about whether it was one Martin had made or not, and really, it didn’t matter if he did. They were past the stage where Martin got a weird, fluttery feeling he couldn’t explain when Jon wrapped himself in one of his jumpers without thinking about it. They’d spent the night curled up together, for God’s sake, he knew Jon loved him.

That didn’t mean Jon wasn’t mad at him for something, though.

Part of him—most of him—wanted to avoid the topic, let Jon bring it up in his own time. Apart from his earlier assessment that Jon would be less likely to tell him what was wrong if he asked too early, he wasn’t going to ask are you mad at me like a child. His mum had been like that, refused to actually say when she was upset with him—which, honestly, was most of the time—and would play the passive-aggressive game until he cracked and begged forgiveness for unspecified crimes. Asking what he’d done had never ended well.

The tiny, rational, adult part of him pointed out that, as he had just been telling himself, Jon, unlike his mother, actually loved him. Putting Liliana Blackwood’s motives on Jon without provocation was just cruel, to both of them. And they were trying to communicate. Maybe Jon was trying to conceal his irritation, but surely he’d realize that Martin was only calling him out on it because he cared.

Right?

“Jon?” he ventured, laying down his fork. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” Jon repeated, and oh, boy, Martin knew that tone of voice. He cast an involuntary glance towards the hallway, and it was only when the Knowledge that all of the closets in the flat had knobs on the inside and none of them locked popped into his head that he realized what he was doing in his panic.

He started to swallow the surge of irritation, but that rational adult part of him whispered, No, actually, that’s justified, go for it.

“Yeah, Jon. I’m not a mind reader,” Martin snapped. He paused, then added, “Okay, I am, kind of, but I’m trying very hard not to do that to any of you, and especially not you. It’s really easy to see that you’re upset, but I don’t know why, and if it’s something I can help with, I’d like to know.”

“And if it’s not something you can help with?” Jon said, a bit acidly.

“Then I’d still like to know. Even if I can’t fix it, I’d like to at least know what’s bothering you.”

“Bothering me,” Jon repeated.

That did not serve to make Martin any less irritated. “Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to treat me like I’m the stupidest being on the planet?”

As ways to diffuse the situation, that was probably one of the worst things Martin could have said. As a means of getting Jon to look at him, it was highly effective, even if the shock in his eyes quickly gave way to a look Martin hadn’t seen leveled at him since that stupid dog slipped past him his very first day in the Archives.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin,” he said, his voice cold and brittle with sarcasm. “Of course you’re not the stupidest being on the planet. Far from it. That would be the rest of us, wouldn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” Martin demanded, both bewildered and angry now. “When have I ever said any of you were stupid?”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s obvious in everything you do. Or don’t do, as the case may be. Your knowledge surpasses ours and we all know it.” Jon pushed away from the table, leaving his breakfast—and, Martin couldn’t help but notice with a twist of pain, his tea—untouched. “I’m off to work. If you think there’s anything there I can be of use for.”

“Jon—” Martin began, then changed his mind. He’d fucked it up, as—no, not as usual, he told himself firmly. Yes, he’d suspected that Jon would be upset if he tried to ask what was going on before he was ready to share, but he hadn’t known. He’d made a judgment call and been wrong, that was all. It happened to the best of them. At least it was something fairly low stakes. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

It didn’t feel low stakes, though. This was their first real fight since becoming a couple…if you could call it a fight…and deep down, Martin was both miserable and terrified over it. Few of his relationships had ended well, and all of them had fallen apart at the first serious disagreement. While those had mostly been over things like sex and Martin’s loyalty to his siblings—things Jon was, in theory anyway, completely on board with—he didn’t need the Beholding to know that Jon was it for him, that he would never love another man in his life. He’d been afraid for a while of losing Jon to an Entity or an avatar. He’d never considered the possibility of losing him to a breakup. He was probably catastrophizing a bit, but the fear was real and he didn’t know how to handle it.

Especially when they rode the entire way to the Institute in silence.

He wasn’t surprised when they arrived before Melanie and Sasha, Tim and Gerry having taken a turn spending the night. He also wasn’t surprised when Tim took one look at him and came over to give him a hug.

“Rough night?” he asked sympathetically.

“Rough morning,” Martin mumbled, hugging him back. He was still a little angry at Jon, but he was more scared than anything, and a Tim hug was doing him a world of good. “You?”

“Not pleasant.” Tim let go and glanced over at Gerry.

Gerry set down his mug and came over to hug Martin as well. As usual, he was colder than an ordinary human being, but at least he wasn’t burn-your-skin cold. “We can talk about it when everyone’s together. I, uh, had another flashback last night.”

“Figured. You were in one of my dreams last night.” Tim gave a fake dramatic gasp, putting his hand to his chest, and Martin narrowed his eyes at him. It was only partially in jest. “Not like that. Just…statement dream. If you’re not sleeping, the shack is empty.”

“Wait, you dream about that?” Tim asked, sounding startled. “I thought you just dreamed about the statements.”

“Gerry gave a statement,” Martin reminded him, letting go of his brother. “A couple days before Jon and Melanie left for Sheffield, remember?”

“Yeah, but not to you. And besides, you don’t dream about the rest of us, do you?” Tim frowned. “At least I don’t…I haven’t had any nightmares about…Danny since I made my statement.”

Martin shook his head. “You’re all bound to the Eye, I can’t see your dreams. The, the doors or whatever are there, but I can’t get through them. Gerry isn’t.” A sudden thought struck him. “By the way, where’s Daisy?”

“Right here.” Daisy’s voice floated from the direction the shelves. Martin turned to see her looking…remarkably better than she had in a while, actually. At least like she’d got a good night’s sleep. Her hair was slightly damp, like she’d just got out of the shower, and she was holding a cup of something hot and steaming. She saluted him with it, a dry smile playing about her lips. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Martin did manage to smile back at her. He was honestly relieved to see her. “Sleep okay?”

Daisy shrugged. She looked faintly pleased with herself. “Eventually, yeah.”

Before Martin could inquire about it further, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and turned to see Sasha coming towards them, her usual cup of coffee in one hand and her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Most of them didn’t bother dressing professionally these days, and usually Sasha was no exception, but today she was wearing a pant suit, pumps, and makeup. With her hair in a loose braid slung over one shoulder, it crossed Martin’s mind that she was dressed exactly the way she’d done on their first day in the Archives.

Daisy raised an eyebrow at her. “Job interview, Miss James?”

“No, just reminding myself I’m a grown woman with a job. Morning, all,” Sasha added, slinging her bag off her shoulder and setting it on her chair.

“Morning. Where’s Melanie?” Martin looked over Sasha’s shoulder, but there was no sign of his sister, which was unusual; she was normally in the lead, or glued to Sasha’s side.

“Outside. Jon passed us on the way in heading out to the courtyard, and we got about halfway across the floor before she decided to turn around and follow him so he didn’t have something happen to him.” Sasha set her coffee on her desk and began unpacking her laptop. “I’m guessing he had a rough night, too. He looked unsettled.”

“We’re…fighting. I think,” Martin added uncertainly. “He’s pissed at me, anyway.”

Tim raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, what did you do?”

“I don’t know, that’s the thing. I asked him about what was bothering him and—he didn’t really answer? He was kind of passive-aggressive about it, actually. Something about me treating everyone like you’re stupid?”

Tim’s eyebrows, impossibly, rose higher. “Jon said that?”

“You mean like how he was treating you when he first got the job down here?” Sasha asked. “Like you were stupid. Not like you thought everyone else was stupid.”

“He never thought I was stupid. Just incompetent,” Martin muttered. He rubbed his forehead. “I—have I been acting that way? I don’t mean to, and if I’d known…”

“No?” Sasha sounded incredulous. “Unless you’re complaining about us behind our backs on the tapes when you think we can’t hear them. You know, like Jon did about you those first few months.”

Martin felt the beginning of a headache forming between his eyes. “Sasha, I’m really not in the mood for any more guessing games today. Are you trying to make me angry at Jon back, or are you trying to subtly call him out as a hypocrite?” He froze as the words he’d just said, and the tone he’d said them in, replayed in his head. “Christ. Is that how I always talk to you guys?”

“No, you’re usually a lot more soft-spoken and polite about it when Sasha or Jon are being cagey like they won’t say what’s on their minds if you don’t compel them, and the rest of us don’t do that to you,” Tim said bluntly. “You really need to quit that shit out, Sash, it’s not fair and it’s not funny. We’re supposed to be communicating, remember? If you don’t want to talk about something, just say that.”

Sasha froze, then looked up at Martin with an expression of genuine contriteness. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t actually realize I was doing that. I guess I was trying to get you angry back at Jon—maybe so you’d force him to tell you what’s on his mind, I don’t know. But I wasn’t…I don’t think I was doing it on purpose.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I had a nightmare last night that I haven’t had in years and I guess it upset me more than I thought.”

“About the funfair?” Daisy asked, startling Martin.

Sasha whipped her head around to stare at Daisy, eyes wide with shock. “The—? How’d you know about that?”

“We indoctrinated Daisy into the family proper last night,” Tim said dryly. “She got to witness her first flashback.”

“Maybe that’s why Jon’s so upset. He’s the only one that hasn’t, then.” Sasha rubbed her chest. “But that—that didn’t actually…happen, did it?”

“Must have. I don’t flash back to imaginary events,” Gerry said quietly. “I get it. Easy to convince yourself something like that wasn’t real, especially when you’re a bit older…if you don’t know this sort of thing is real, it’s harder to believe it. And Martin did say you’d been Marked by the Web before Prentiss attacked. I didn’t think that spider biting you in the boiler room was enough to do that if your encounter with the Distortion wasn’t.”

Martin’s stomach lurched. He honestly hadn’t thought about that since the night he’d Looked at everyone, and since Sasha had never asked to make a statement, he’d continued to not think about it. That she didn’t even remember being Marked had never occurred to him, even though he and Melanie had both forgotten their first Marks…

“It wasn’t…that bad, as some of these things go,” Sasha said, a bit uncertainly. “I mean, anyone would have been scared of almost falling off the top of a funfair wheel in the dark.”

“Yeah, but the ringmaster climbing after you with too many limbs, not exactly normal,” Gerry said. “And you were ten.”

“Near enough eleven,” Tim and Daisy said in unison. Despite himself, Martin smiled.

Sasha laughed, but it sounded a bit forced. “I guess I should give you a statement about that later, Martin. Are you up for it today?”

“Yeah, sure. If you are.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “And only if you’re sure you really want to.”

“I do. You deserve to know about it, and at least this way it’s my choice.” Sasha sucked in a sharp breath. “I mean, not that you’ve ever forced one of us to tell you anything we weren’t ready for. That’s not what I’m saying at all! I just mean that I’d rather you hear the details from me rather than accidentally. Besides, you probably haven’t had a good live statement in a while, you’ve got to be hungry, and it’s better to have…farm-raised than wild-caught, I guess. Want to do it now, before Jon gets back in?”

“No. I want to do it later, after you’ve had a chance to tell Jon what we’re doing,” Martin said pointedly. “Last thing I want is for him to think I’m sneaking around keeping secrets from him. Or that I’m, I don’t know, making you tell me.”

“You’ve never done that,” Sasha said. “And I could see how hard it was for you not to ask Tim about his Stranger Mark all the way back at the beginning. You’re a good man, Martin Blackwood, and don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”

Martin smiled weakly. He’d been really worried about Tim’s Mark. Now that he knew the truth about Danny, of course, he could understand why he’d seen the intense indigo glow that looked like the Stranger had physically reached into his chest cavity and ripped his heart out—because, metaphorically speaking, it had. Still worrying and upsetting, but at least not in a something in you has been replaced kind of way.

“Have you ever thought about tracking down the people he flashes back to?” Daisy asked. “Getting their statements?”

Gerry shook his head. “I don’t ever know who I’m flashing back as—to me, it’s always just, well, me. Tim can usually guess when it’s not me—”

“Pretty sure your mum wouldn’t have let you wear pinafores and bows,” Tim interjected.

“—but if it’s not one of you lot, or someone he knows, that’s about all he gets,” Gerry completed. “Even when it is someone he knows…”

Tim nodded. “Honestly, if Sasha hadn’t introduced herself to…uh…Mister Seymour at the funfair, I might not have clued in that it was her. I guess we could maybe start recording them and giving them to Martin so he can Know who it’s about and go find them, but—”

“Can we not?” Martin begged. “I really don’t want to start getting into that habit. The only reason I’m taking Sasha’s is because it’ll keep her from dreaming about it again, but I can’t guarantee that with the other people who give live statements.” He turned to Daisy as a thought he’d had earlier came back to him. “Speaking of, I—”

A door banged hard from the other side of the Archives, cutting him off. “MARTIN!”

Melanie’s voice, equal parts angry and panicked, sent all other thoughts flying out of Martin’s head. She’d been outside—outside with Jon, who was upset and angry and liable to do something stupid. Nothing had attacked them in the Archives in ages, and he Knew that was to do with Basira and Peter Lukas somehow but couldn’t see the shape of it yet, but that might not extend to outside the building, and if they’d left the grounds anything could have happened, and all he could think of was that Jon had been kidnapped, or worse…

He started towards the door leading to the courtyard and halted, drawing in a sharp breath of relief, as Melanie burst into the open part of the Archives, dragging a both startled and annoyed-looking Jon after her. She thrust him into the center of the group and stabbed a finger at him. “Look at him!”

Bewildered, Martin did. He looked both startled and irritated, although the irritation was clearly winning out as he adjusted his cardigan with a jerk. His hair had started falling out of the half-knot he’d pulled it back into, and while from the shoulders down he looked crisply professional, from the neck up he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. And into the path of a backfiring Hoover.

“I don’t know—” he began, not even sure where he was going to end that sentence.

“No, Martin, Look at him,” Melanie said again, and this time he could hear the capital L on Look that had nothing to do with it being at the beginning of the sentence. “We were talking, and I was telling him to stop stressing so much because it’s giving him more grey hairs than before and ran my hand through it to show him and—” She held up her hand, which had a couple strands tangled around it.

They weren’t hair. Jon’s hair was glossy, and even the grey strands were darker than those. It also wasn’t sticky.

Martin stood frozen, staring at the strands of web Melanie had apparently brushed out of Jon’s hair. Several things—Jon’s attitude towards certain things, seemingly innocuous conversations, Tim’s comment about how Sasha and Jon tended to act—suddenly slotted themselves into a picture that made horrific sense. The Eye buzzed excitedly in the back of Martin’s mind, and he had a hard job pushing it away.

Slowly, he turned to look at Jon, who also seemed stunned and frozen as he stared at Melanie’s hand. The expression could have been feigned—and Martin hated that he was thinking like that about his boyfriend—but somehow, it didn’t seem that way. And when he turned to look up at Martin, the horror in his eyes was not something that could be faked.

“Jon?” Martin said, as quietly as he could. It took almost all of his strength to keep the Eye out of his voice as he asked the next question. “May I?”

“Yes,” Jon whispered. His lips barely moved.

Martin…blinked.

The glasses didn’t do much to stop him from Seeing things these days; it was almost entirely by force of will that he didn’t walk around viewing the evidence of the Fourteen on everything he encountered. Without his glasses on, he couldn’t stop it, another reason he was thankful he woke up before Jon and could avoid seeing him before he could get them on, but he didn’t need to take them off to See things clearly. All he did was relax his hold a little, and the Beholding eagerly rushed in to take what it could.

Jon’s Marks nearly stole the air from his lungs. The bright green glow of his eyes and lips had faded a bit, or maybe it just seemed that way, as had the pus-colored glow that still clung to the worm scars dotting his face and neck. There was a bright red slash at his shoulder, splintering into bright blue forks of lightning that seemed to reach his lungs, where it tangled with the brownish-tan that had settled there, and a red-orange line across his throat. There was a flash of yellow in his abdomen where the Distortion had stabbed him, just on the edge of where Martin was looking.

All of that he had expected.

Martin had gone to a Mechanisms concert with Melanie once, just after Gerry had left London with Gertrude for the last time. He remembered the lead singer, Jonny D’Ville, and his delighted, feral grin as he’d sung into the microphone; more particularly, he remembered the makeup on his face, like cracks mazing and emanating from his eyes and spreading across his face. The Web Mark spreading across Jon’s face made that look like a drag queen’s eyeliner. It sparked out from his eyes in long, jagged lines, up into his hairline, into his ears, into his mouth. One particularly long spar traveled in a meandering, unbroken, but still direct line from his eye to his heart—the only part of the Mark that had been there the last time Martin had Looked at Jon, almost two years ago now.

God, how had it gotten so bad so fast?

Slowly, Martin raised a trembling hand and touched Jon’s face, tracing the scars only he could see. Jon wasn’t an Avatar of the Web. Far from it. But it had been slowly taking him over, poisoning his sight, his hearing, his words, even his heart. And Martin hadn’t noticed.

“Jon,” he whispered, penitent and hurting. “I’m so sorry. I should have noticed.”

Jon made a noise he’d only made once or twice before—a tiny whimper of pain, like he’d done when Martin had first Looked at him. The static died abruptly as he threw himself at Martin and jolted him back to the present, throwing his arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Jon gasped out, clinging to him tightly. “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t—I-I shouldn’t have let it get this bad, I—”

“Jon, no, it’s—” Martin stopped himself as he pulled Jon into his arms and held him just as tightly. He couldn’t say it’s not your fault. It…kind of was his fault. At least partly. He took a deep breath and tried again. “I shouldn’t have let it get this bad, either. I was too focused on that…compulsion thing you were doing, and I didn’t realize that was the Web either. I never thought about…the paranoia.”

“It’s not just you. I, I talked Tim into letting me go into the Buried, I—” Jon took a deep breath and buried his face in Martin’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’ll, I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.”

Martin pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head. A too-familiar smell hit him, and he wrinkled his nose. “Did you start smoking again?”

“Last week,” Jon admitted, his voice muffled by Martin’s jumper.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Martin scolded automatically.

To his mild surprise, Jon actually laughed—a bit brokenly, but genuinely. He pulled back and looked up at Martin with genuine warmth and affection in his slightly wet eyes. “I know. I’ll stop. I promise.” He wiped his cheeks and turned to Melanie. “Thank you. For…noticing.”

Melanie shrugged, a bit awkwardly. “You noticed the Slaughter bullet. One good turn deserves another. Thank you for not breaking my wrist when I went to mess with your hair. Speaking of, want to borrow my brush? You look like a horse’s ass.”

That got a round of chuckles, albeit weak ones, from the rest of the Archives crew. Martin looked around at all of them seriously. “I—I’m sorry about that. Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine, Martin,” Sasha assured him. She looked a bit uncomfortable as well. “I, ah, I won’t ask you to Look and see how bad mine’s got, but I can guess. Anyway, I do really want to give you my statement about Mister Seymour’s Wondrous Entertainment Ballyhoo.”

“Mister what?” Melanie sputtered.

Martin closed his eyes briefly. “Was it seriously called that? Jesus. Let it never be said the Mother of Puppets and her ilk are subtle.”

“Huh?” Sasha blinked, then suddenly smacked herself in the forehead. “Seriously? How did I not get that?”

Daisy actually laughed. Martin didn’t think he’d ever heard her laugh before. Jon looked a bit bewildered. “What’s going on?”

“Gerry had a flashback last night,” Tim explained. “It was how Sasha got Marked by the Web. Sasha’s going to give Martin a statement about it so he can get some energy back, especially after what he just did, and also so she doesn’t have to dream about it again.”

Martin took a deep breath and turned to Daisy. “While we’re, uh, getting things out in the open—I, uh, I couldn’t get into your dreams last night.”

“What?” Melanie frowned.

“I don’t remember how much I’ve told you about the dreams.” Martin, reluctantly, let go of Jon and leaned against the edge of the nearest desk; Jon, unprompted, seated himself on the desktop and leaned against his side, which felt a lot like forgiveness to him. “It’s like I’m walking through a series of rooms, and there are…doors. I’ve got a ring of keys on my belt, but the doors are all unlocked. And if I come across a new one, there’s usually a matching key on my belt to unlock it. There are a few I walk past that I Know are, um, yours, but there’s no key on my belt for them, so I can’t witness those. I know all the doors by sight.” He turned to look at Daisy. “Last night, I came up to yours—well, one of them, anyway, the one that leads—led—to the Buried—but it was shut, and the key wasn’t on my ring anymore. I, uh, I got a little worried. Usually if whoever’s dream I’m in isn’t asleep, I just don’t see them, but…this was different. I couldn’t get into it anymore, and…I don’t know, I thought something might have happened to you.”

Daisy shrugged. “I joined the Institute.”

Tim coughed. “Sorry, what?”

“Remembered Basira saying something once, about how she hadn’t dreamed about anything since Elias recruited her,” Daisy said. “And I remembered the first night Martin turned up to watch me watching Masters climb into that coffin, and the first night he turned up without Jon. Couple nights ago I couldn’t sleep and listened to the tape we all made right before the Unknowing…” Something flickered across her face briefly, and she swallowed hard, then rallied and continued. “Anyway, Melanie said something about maybe making a statement about something so she’d stop dreaming about it and…I dunno. Wondered if it would work. So last night after Gerry passed out and you fell asleep on top of him, I nipped upstairs and broke into Bouchard’s old office. Forced the lock. Found where he was keeping the employment forms and just…filled one out.” She shrugged again, seemingly unconcerned, but there was a glint of pride in her eye. “Seemed to work just fine.”

Martin stared at her for a long moment. Worry for what she’d done to herself warred with pleasure that she’d found a solution, and there was a tiny bit of malicious satisfaction at having stolen a servitor of another Fear that he attributed exclusively to the Beholding and ruthlessly told to get fucked.

He smiled. “Well. Welcome to the family, then.”

[taffytm]

@fluggedup (continued from here):

Today had been a day like no other, where Randy had to force himself to become comfortable in the body of another person. His friend's brother, and apparently, Tiffany's friend. Randy had no idea that Tiffany and Dewey were friends, which wouldn't have been that weird normally... but between the bracelet in Dewey's room and the heart eye emojis next to her name in his phone, Randy couldn't help but be suspicious. Lucky for him, this weird day gave him the opportunity to find out the truth for himself. He'd confront it without her even knowing. His girlfriend seemed to be in an extra good mood today, which he wasn't sure was a good or bad thing. Was it because he wasn't around all day? It was actually refreshing though, seeing her not annoyed at him and genuinely smiling, to the point that he couldn't even be bothered about it. Instead, he tried being extra friendly to her as Dewey, testing the waters to see how she'd respond. It was hard to tell what the vibe was, especially since he'd never actually seen Tiff and Dewey hang out in the past. He smiled as she denied flirting, sort-of relieved but also planning to keep pushing a little bit, just to make sure. "Friendly? Well, I can be friendly too," he replied, smile still present. He wasn't even sure what to do, normally not so awkward as himself, but he wasn't himself. He didn't know what to do with his hands, unsure of how to be natural around his girlfriend when she thought he was someone else. Maybe he should put them in a different environment, something almost date-like. "Uhh .. Wanna get some fro-yo? I've kinda had a sweet tooth all day."

After waking up with a terrible hangover, Randy’s mood had changed remarkably fast, bouncing back way quicker than Tiff was used to seeing. He’d surprised her by wanting to spend the whole day together and he’d been so uncharacteristically doting and excitable that it was a breath of fresh air compared to the state of decline their relationship had been in for longer than they cared to admit to themselves or others. It was hard to deny now—and maybe they truly hadn’t even seen it at first because they’d been together so long and the issues were too deep-seated—but for a long time they’d been acting like the tension, jealousy, arguments and growing resentment between them were totally normal and acceptable in a relationship.

Dewey was someone who had been challenging that status quo lately, making Tiffany question what it was that she deserved from a partner, what she wanted, and whether those needs were being met with her current boyfriend. It wasn’t him saying anything along those lines directly to her, but just the way he treated her that made her feel so different from Randy. By the time he messaged her to meet up today, she had actually been feeling more content than she had in a while with Randy, but he’d had to go meet a friend himself, so they planned to get back together later and Tiff was free to hang out with Dewey for a bit.

Of course she knew he was interested in her, but he was turning up the direct flirtation even more than usual, pushing the boundaries of what was justifiable banter between two friends before she’d actually have to put her foot down and remind him that she was taken. If Tiffany was truly honest with herself, deep down she didn’t want to reject Dewey. She wanted to keep this—whatever this light, fun thing was between them—going for as long as possible, despite being with Randy at the end of the day…It was selfish, but she wasn’t ready to leave him yet, wasn’t one hundred percent sure beyond a doubt that it was the only option, and today of all days had proven that with how happy Randy had been making her so far. Even if Dewey was something special on his own.

“Mm, I could go for some fro-yo,” she agreed, deciding not to address his comment about how he could be friendly too. She wasn’t sure whether or not that meant he was going to ramp up the flirting he seemed to think she was guilty of, but his tone certainly suggested it. Subtlety wasn’t really in his nature. “Do you wanna go to the same place as last time or try something new?”

[mystic-kentah1]

Your consciousness has been completely transformed with Spiritual Awakening. Now what?

Congratulations! You have gone through the storm and the veil has lifted in front of you. You feel like the world has gone through a spiritual awakening and allow me to say this for you, your consciousness feels forever changed. 

Your heart is in a different realm now and so is the world around you. It beats with a gigantic connection that is yet to be discovered. But If I state my assumption that you are right now pondering at what is next, I would not be wrong.

At Mystic Kentah, we believe a lot of synergy is present after one achieves a state of awakening. After talking about the phenomenon in detail, we are now here to talk about solutions to how to stay strongly grounded. After mystical #ProTips below, you will be ready to explore the world with beautiful purpose after spiritual awakening.

Step 1: Integration of Awakening

I completely resonate with you as my awakening consisted in my case the feeling of being sucked out of the Matrix while you start floating. With no help reciprocation, an easy process that is blissful confusion can be achieved where spiritual bypassing will become the new norm.

Integration is a fancy word that can mean bringing temporary higher awareness to your hyperactive lifestyle which in other words does not help and support slip into routine life. You can make plans around getting in the middle of nature to do activities like hiking and camping.

Tip: I highly recommend journaling as it creates an option to reflect and also gives immense space of quiet moments that has the potential to aid your entire systems. Allow me to caution that it will also offer perspective change in the new age moments that follow.

Step 2: New Me

 It is not hard to notice that most people do completely evolve as different beings and I did mention the fact your spiritual state evaporated and added them after your awakening does eliminate you completely. This pep talk is intended to remind you there is a possibility if not simply enabling hope or your pre-existing state do make you upside down. Now is the moment to embrace this shift. That entails living your truth—not merely speaking of it.

Consider these questions:

What ignites my passion today?

What is not aligned anymore?

What is my unique purpose I am meant to create, share or heal?  

At Mystic Kentah, the shifting and integration of the self sessions we offer facilitate this energetic integration from an anchored awareness so that you may ground it into reality.

Step 3: Don't Go It Alone  

The new route you’re taking is one less traveled. This can feel heavily lonely at times, especially when your inner circle fails to comprehend everything you’ve witnessed.

Your soul tribe is just a click away.

Make sure you cultivate a conscious community: some who’ve set aside their egos and done deep inner work to heal and transform themselves.

You can take advantage of our mentoring sessions or participate in healing circles and community gatherings designed to allow safe sharing and growth in a sacred space.  

Step 4: Keep Doing the Inner Work  

Receiving insight is not a point of completion, rather one of many milestones. Following through with the embrace of your true self: the offer is the ‘what’, and everything else after is the ‘why’.

It is now time to accelerate your healing techniques:

Breathwork for releasing emotions

Shamanic healing to recover fragmented souls

Meditation and mindfulness Practices for staying in the now

Shadow work to confront the aspects of yourself that still harbor pain or fear

You keep transforming as you evolve, layer after layer.

Step 5: Serve and share

Once your cup starts overflowing, it is natural to give back. You do not need to become a guru or ointment (unless you call you) -But whatever role you choose, you can live in the form of light.

Supposed to mean:

Showing with love and patience to others

Making something that inspires others

Speaking your truth in your work, family or community

Supporting others who are waking up now

A spiritual awakening gives you a gift - but also a responsibility. Live what you have learned.

Step 6: Stay grounded in human experience

One of the largest traps after awakening is trying to avoid reality. But here is the truth:

You woke up to be more present, no less. This human life is sacred. Pain, happiness, anarchy, beauty - this is all part of the spiritual path.

Base yourself:

Daily routine

Movement and physical activity

Spend time with loved ones

Eat well and respect your body

The goal is to be both spiritual and real. This is the Mystic Kentah path - Moulaise, Truth and Avatar.

Step 7: Keep learning, keep searching

Awakening opens you to a lifetime path of search. Now you can feel that it is said to find out:

Astrology, energy healing, or sacred ceremonies

Plant medicine (where legal and guided)

Ancestral healing or past-life work

Creative expression through art, music, or writing

At Mystic Kentah, we offer tools, workshops, and guidance to help you navigate this expanded state of consciousness in a safe, grounded, and empowering way.

Step 8: Trust the Cycles of Transformation

Spiritual growth isn’t a straight line. You’ll have highs and lows, breakthroughs and breakdowns. There may be moments when you feel “lost” again, but this doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it just means you’re leveling up.

Just like nature, your journey has seasons:

Moments of clarity and action (summer)

Moments of rest and retreat (winter)

Times for planting new intentions (spring)

And releasing what no longer serves (autumn)

At Mystic Kentah, we honor these natural cycles through rituals, ceremonies, and healing practices that help you stay in tune with your inner rhythm.

Pro tip: When things feel off, don’t resist. Pause. Listen. Something new may be ready to bloom.

Step 9: Set Energetic Boundaries

After a spiritual awakening, you become more sensitive to energy—your own and others’. You may notice when someone’s words feel off or when a space drains you. That’s your awareness expanding.

To protect your peace, learn to set clear energetic boundaries:

Say no when your body says no

Cleanse your energy regularly (sage, sound, salt baths)

Avoid people and spaces that pull you into old patterns

Don’t absorb others’ emotions—observe and release

Our energy healing sessions at Mystic Kentah can help you identify energetic leaks and teach you how to seal your field with love and power.

Step 10: Develop a Personal Spiritual Practice

Your awakening may have started with a sudden shift—but the long-term growth comes from daily commitment.

You don’t need a complex ritual. Just consistent intention.

Create your own daily spiritual practice:

Morning breathwork or gratitude

Evening reflection or oracle card pulls

Weekly journaling to track your growth

Regular connection to Spirit—through prayer, meditation, or nature

In the Mystic Kentah, we can help you prepare a personal routine that fits your lifestyle and enhances your spiritual path, whether you are just starting or diving deep into mysteries.

Final view: The journey continues

If your consciousness has moved through a spiritual awakening, then congratulations - you have just opened the door to your real power and ability. This moment marks the beginning of a deep journey, not the end. Awakening is a spark, but awakened - with awareness, appearance and purpose - the real challenge and gift.

Now, it is about embodiment and its truth every day. It is about healing chronic lesions, aligning with the calling of your soul, and the path remains in the present. Surround yourself with those who understand this change-a troupe that is walking on the same path, treaters and conscious spirits.

Keep doing internal work. Keep selecting development. Live in their humanity, but open to the divine. In the Mystic Kentah, we walk next to you on this holy journey - treatment practices, spiritual guidance and community support to help you integrate, develop and flourish in support of the community.

You are not alone. This is just the beginning.