#b lb

[hak]

oh this is a lot. this is so sad..

[goldfades]

baby shower! | JOE BURROW⁹ [003]

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | your baby shower gets a little overwhelming for you and joe.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | pregnancy mentions/descriptions, doting mothers, arguments, slight hurt to comfort, joe standing up for you like the man he is, a sweet little heart to heart at the end there.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐖��𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐍, but the second you stepped into Maisie’s meticulously decorated living room, you knew it was going to be anything but relaxing.

“Where’s the punch? Who put the finger sandwiches there? They’ll block the dessert table’s aesthetic!” Maisie’s voice rang out like a battle cry, cutting through the soft hum of conversation and the tinkling notes of an instrumental playlist she’d personally curated. She zipped by in a blur of pastel pink and blue, her hands clutching a checklist that looked more intimidating than your OB-GYN’s appointment schedule.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the nausea that had plagued you all morning still simmering low in your stomach. The room, while beautifully decorated with clouds of balloons and a sprawling “Oh Baby!” banner, felt uncomfortably warm.

“Sit down, sweetheart!” your mom chirped, swooping in like a hawk in a lavender sweater set. She wrapped an arm around your shoulder and guided you toward the plush loveseat near the fireplace. “You shouldn’t be on your feet too much, especially not with that glow,” she said, her tone sweet but with the underlying force of someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I’m fine, Mom,” you assured her weakly, but it was pointless. Robin, Joe’s mom, appeared out of nowhere with a plate of fruit skewers and a cup of sparkling water.

“You need to stay hydrated,” Robin said with the kind of motherly authority that left no room for argument. “And these are good for the baby—full of vitamins.”

You offered her a tight-lipped smile, though the thought of eating anything right now made your stomach churn.

“Robin, don’t hover too much,” your mom chided playfully, though she was already fluffing a throw pillow and tucking it behind your lower back. “She’s got to be comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” you lied, shifting awkwardly in your seat.

The truth was, you were anything but comfortable. Your dress—a flowy, neutral-colored number Maisie had practically forced on you—clung in all the wrong places. Your lower back ached from the extra weight you were carrying, and the wave of nausea that had become your constant companion wasn’t helped by the sugary smell wafting from the dessert table.

Maisie stormed back into view, muttering something about the confetti placement being “all wrong.” She paused just long enough to point a manicured finger at you.

“Are you feeling okay? Do you need a fan? A bucket? A full-on evacuation plan?” she asked, her tone frantic but laced with genuine concern.

You forced a laugh. “I’m fine, Maisie. Promise.”

Maisie narrowed her eyes at you like she didn’t quite believe it, but before she could press further, someone called her name from the kitchen. With a dramatic sigh, she marched off, her checklist clutched to her chest like a lifeline.

“I don’t think she’s slept in a week,” you murmured to your mom, who chuckled softly.

“She’s excited,” Robin said, sitting down beside you. “We all are. This baby is going to be so loved.” Her expression softened, and for a moment, you saw a glimpse of Joe in her—the same quiet intensity in her eyes, the same way her smile felt like a reassurance.

The thought of Joe brought a small pang of guilt. He’d been hesitant about the whole baby shower thing, mumbling something about how it was more of a “girl thing.” You’d convinced him to make a brief appearance later for the gift opening, but he’d spent the morning at the gym, promising to show up “cleaned up and ready to charm.”

A sudden wave of queasiness hit you, pulling you out of your thoughts. You shifted uncomfortably, hoping no one noticed, but of course, both moms were on you in an instant.

“Are you okay?” Robin asked, leaning forward.

“You look pale,” your mom added, her hand flying to your forehead.

“I’m just—ugh.” You rubbed at your temple, willing the sensation to pass. “I think it’s just the heat in here. Or the smell of those sandwiches. Or maybe the fact that I’m growing a whole human.”

Robin smiled knowingly. “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? The shower, the attention… It can be a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered, sinking further into the loveseat.

Your mom glanced toward the kitchen, where Maisie was now rearranging cupcakes with the intensity of a bomb squad technician. “Should we get you some fresh air?” she suggested.

You shook your head. “No, I’ll be okay. I think I just need a minute.”

Robin squeezed your hand. “Take all the time you need, honey. The important thing is that you and the baby are okay.”

The baby. The words still sent a jolt through you every time someone said them, a mix of excitement and terror that hadn’t quite settled. Across the yard, Maisie was now directing a small army of family members and friends, her voice rising above the chatter. “No, the games go over there! Do you want to ruin the flow of the whole party?!”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, despite your discomfort. “She’s really taking this seriously,” you said, nodding in Maisie’s direction.

Robin followed your gaze and let out a soft laugh. “She’s been texting me about this shower for weeks. I think she might have more anxiety about it than you do about the baby.”

Your mom leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s been calling me every other night. Last week, she spent twenty minutes debating the merits of a candy bar diaper game versus baby bingo.”

“God bless her,” you said, shaking your head with a small laugh. “She’s going to need a vacation after this.”

Just then, Maisie appeared at your side, clipboard clutched tightly to her chest. “Okay, so the photo booth is almost ready, but the props guy still hasn’t shown up, and I don’t think the centerpiece on the gift table is centered—”

“Maisie,” Robin interrupted gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Take a breath. Everything looks beautiful.”

Maisie’s eyes darted around the yard, clearly skeptical. “You think so? Because the balloons over by the cake table are kind of deflating, and I—”

“Maisie,” you said, cutting her off with a soft smile. “It’s perfect. Really. You’ve done an amazing job.”

She hesitated, then exhaled deeply, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Okay,” she said, though she still looked unconvinced. “But if you need anything—literally anything—you call me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said with a mock salute, earning a small laugh from her before she disappeared again.

The laughter was short-lived, though, as another sharp pang of nausea rolled through you. You set the water glass down, pressing a hand to your stomach and trying to breathe through it.

Robin noticed immediately. “Do you want to lie down?”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though the edges of your voice wavered.

Your mom frowned. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You need to rest.”

“Really, I’m—”

“Stubborn as ever,” Robin finished for you with a knowing look. “Joe’s going to lose it if he finds out you’ve been feeling like this all day.”

You shifted again, trying to find a more comfortable position, and sighed. This was going to be a long day.

┈┈┈

The presents were stacked like a small mountain beside the chair they’d designated as your throne for the day. Wrapped in pastel pinks, yellows, and greens, each box and bag felt like a tiny piece of your future waiting to be unveiled. Joe stood beside you, his tall frame just brushing the edge of the canopy Maisie had insisted on. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, a small furrow etched into his brow as his eyes flicked over the gathered crowd.

You could tell he was overstimulated. The constant buzz of chatter, the occasional bursts of laughter, the sharp crinkle of wrapping paper—it was all pressing in on him, but he stayed rooted to your side. Every now and then, his hand would brush against your shoulder, a silent reassurance for both of you that you weren’t in this alone.

“Alright!” Maisie clapped her hands together, clipboard abandoned for once as she orchestrated the gift-opening session. “Let’s see what this baby is getting spoiled with!”

The first gift was handed to you by Robin, who looked as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. The pink and white polka-dotted bag was adorned with delicate tissue paper, which you pulled away to reveal an impossibly tiny pink onesie. Across the front, in glittering gold letters, it read: Daddy’s Girl.

The room collectively cooed, but you caught the way Joe’s lips twitched into a barely-there smile. He wasn’t a big fan of being the center of attention, but even he couldn’t deny how adorable the onesie was.

Robin leaned in, beaming. “I saw it and couldn’t resist. Something told me it was just perfect.”

“Thanks, Robin,” you said warmly, holding it up for everyone to see before setting it aside.

The next gift was from one of Joe’s teammates, and as you pulled apart the wrapping, you found a set of miniature footballs—one of them signed by Joe himself. A wave of laughter swept through the crowd, and Joe shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little more.

“Thought the kid should start practicing early,” the teammate said with a grin.

The gifts kept coming, each one a mix of sweet, practical, and downright extravagant. There were blankets so soft they felt like clouds, a high-tech baby monitor that you didn’t even know existed, and enough stuffed animals to populate a small zoo.

One of your aunts presented a ruffled pink dress with matching booties, holding it up dramatically for everyone to admire. “She’s going to be the belle of the ball,” she declared.

Maisie, standing off to the side with a skeptical expression, muttered, “Or he’s going to look like a very fashionable dude.”

You tried to stifle a laugh as you moved to the next box, this one from your mom. The neatly wrapped package revealed a handmade quilt, each patch lovingly stitched with little images—stars, moons, teddy bears, and tiny footballs.

“Mom,” you said, your voice catching slightly. “This is beautiful.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening. “Every baby deserves a little piece of love to keep them warm.”

Joe reached out then, brushing his fingers over one of the patches. “It’s really nice, Mrs.—uh, Mom,” he said, the slip into the familial title earning a few approving murmurs from the crowd.

The pile dwindled down to the last few gifts, including one from Maisie, who handed over a bag that was conspicuously neutral compared to the sea of pink surrounding it. You opened it to find a set of gender-neutral onesies in shades of gray and white, each one emblazoned with cheeky slogans like Mom’s Favorite and Future MVP.

“Finally,” Maisie said with a mock sigh. “Someone acknowledges that this baby might not actually be a girl.”

Joe let out a small chuckle at that, his first real laugh of the day. You glanced up at him, grateful for the way he stayed close even though the chaos was clearly wearing on him.

The last gift was from one of your mom’s friends—a pale pink rocking horse, complete with a little saddle and reins. The room erupted into a collective “aww,” but you couldn’t help but notice the way Joe’s jaw tightened just slightly.

It wasn’t a big reaction, but you knew him well enough to catch it. He was overwhelmed, overstimulated, and probably thinking too hard about everything that was happening and what it all meant. You reached out, brushing your fingers against his hand, and he looked down at you, his expression softening instantly.

┈┈┈

The room was still a hum of chatter and laughter long after the gifts had been opened, everyone lingering in clusters to admire the pile of baby treasures and speculate about the baby’s future. At first, it was endearing—watching the people you cared about get so invested in the new life you were bringing into the world.

But as the conversations grew louder and the attention lingered, a familiar unease began to creep in.

Robin held up the tiny pink dress your aunt had gifted, spinning it in her hands as though she were imagining a little girl already toddling around in it. “She’s going to be the most darling thing this side of Cincinnati,” she declared, her voice carrying over the murmur of voices.

“Or,” your mom interjected, “maybe he’ll be the most handsome boy in town.” She shot Robin a teasing smile, but there was a sharpness to the exchange.

“You really think it’s a boy?” Robin asked, eyebrows arched.

“Mother’s intuition,” your mom replied with a confident nod.

“Don’t you think the pink onesie says otherwise?” one of Joe’s aunts chimed in, holding it up like it was a smoking gun.

Maisie, seated on the arm of a chair nearby, caught your eye with a subtle shake of her head, as if to say Don’t engage. You appreciated her silent support, but the voices around you were getting harder to tune out.

“I’m telling you, it’s a girl,” Robin insisted, crossing her arms like she was laying down a bet.

“And I’m telling you,” your mom countered, “it’s a boy. We’ll see who’s right when the baby gets here.”

Other voices joined in, speculating wildly about who the baby might take after, what their personality would be, whether they’d follow in Joe’s footsteps or carve out their own path. The noise was starting to press against your temples, the endless back-and-forth making the air in the room feel too thick.

Joe, still standing beside you, had gone silent. His hands were back in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the floor, and you could tell he was holding himself together for your sake.

“Alright, alright,” one of his teammates piped up with a grin. “How about a little wager? Fifty bucks says it’s a girl.”

“Make it a hundred,” someone else called out, and the laughter that followed was the final straw.

The knot in your chest tightened, and your hands clenched in your lap. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from sheer overwhelm. The room felt too bright, the voices too loud, and the well-meaning opinions too much.

Before you could say anything, Joe’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“Enough,” he said, his tone sharp but steady. The room fell silent instantly, all eyes turning to him.

Joe looked up, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with frustration. “This isn’t a betting pool. It’s not a game. Can everyone just… be considerate for once? She’s already dealing with enough without you all making it worse.”

The weight of his words lingered in the room, and the silence that followed was heavy but blessedly calm. Your mom looked sheepish, Robin muttered something about “just having fun,” and even the most boisterous of Joe’s teammates had the decency to look a little ashamed.

You glanced up at Joe, your heart swelling at the way he’d stepped in for you, even when you knew he was barely holding it together himself.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the quiet rustle of the room.

He looked down at you then, his expression softening as he saw the gratitude in your eyes. He gave you a small nod, one of his hands brushing against your shoulder again as if to remind you he was there.

The moment was brief, but it was enough to ground you. Even in the midst of all the chaos, Joe had a way of making you feel like everything would be okay.

The house finally quieted as the last of your guests shuffled out the door, their voices trailing into the evening air. Inside, Maisie and Ja'Marr were clinking dishes together in the kitchen, tackling the mountain of cleanup like the MVPs they were. You’d tried to protest earlier, but Maisie had waved you off with a glare sharp enough to make you sit back down.

Now, you stood on the back porch, the cool night breeze brushing against your face. The chaos of the day felt distant here—muted, softened by the hum of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves. You leaned against the railing, one hand resting absentmindedly on your growing belly, and let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for hours.

Joe was a quiet presence next to you, leaning on the railing with his forearms, his broad shoulders slightly slumped. He’d changed into a soft hoodie and sweats after the last guest left, his game-day persona stripped away, leaving only the guy you knew best—the one who rarely said much but whose silences spoke volumes.

“Hell of a day,” he muttered after a moment, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the last streaks of sunlight bled into the dark.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “That’s one way to put it.”

He glanced over, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “You okay?”

The question was simple, but the way he asked it—soft, almost hesitant—made your chest tighten. You hesitated, trying to figure out how to sum up the whirlwind of emotions.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice quiet. “Just… a lot. The attention, the opinions, the arguing. It gets overwhelming, you know?”

Joe nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Yeah, I get it.”

You tilted your head to look at him, studying his profile in the fading light. There was a tension in his jaw, a lingering weariness in his eyes, and you realized he was still carrying the weight of the day too.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For stepping in earlier. I know you’re not big on… all of this, but it meant a lot.”

He shrugged one shoulder, but the way his lips pressed into a thin line told you he was more affected than he let on. “It’s my job to take care of you. Both of you.” His voice was low, steady, but there was a hint of something raw beneath it—an edge of vulnerability he rarely let show.

Your hand drifted to his arm, fingers curling gently around his sleeve. “You already do, more than you know.”

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, the quiet stretching out between you like a warm blanket. The air smelled faintly of grass and the lingering sweetness of cake from inside, and you let yourself sink into the stillness.

“You ever think about how different life’s gonna be?” Joe asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Different how?”

He straightened, leaning back against the railing as he turned to face you. “I mean… everything. A baby changes everything. There’s no going back to how it was before. And as much as I’m ready to be a dad…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes it just… hits me, you know? Like, are we really ready for this?”

The honesty in his words tugged at something deep inside you. “I think it’s okay not to feel ready all the time,” you said, your voice gentle. “I don’t think anyone ever really is. But we’ve got each other, Joe. That’s enough.”

His eyes met yours then, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. He reached out, his hand brushing against yours before curling around it, his touch warm and grounding.

“You’re gonna be an amazing mom,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard against the wave of emotion. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”

Joe chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “I don’t know about that, but I’ll try. Guess that’s all we can do, right?”

“Right,” you agreed, your fingers lacing with his.

The night deepened around you, the stars beginning to poke through the inky sky, and you stayed there together, leaning on each other in the quiet. Inside, you could hear Maisie bossing Ja’Marr around as they finished up the cleanup, her voice a familiar, grounding presence.

For now, this moment was yours—just the two of you, standing at the edge of a new chapter, not knowing what lay ahead but knowing you’d face it together.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[theweeklydiscourse]

We’re going through this phase of fandom right now where people willfully ignore the sexist implications of female characters being shafted into housewife/mother roles or disempowered by the end of their stories. If you dare to criticize such writing decisions, you will be accused of sexism and be hounded for not “respecting their choices” as though these characters are actual people and not tools of storytelling. As if the cliche of female characters “sacrificing” their powers or having them stripped away exists in a vacuum and isn’t influenced by any larger cultural factors.

They’ll say: “Not every character has to be a girlboss!!” Or “Let women be soft and traditional!!” As if that’s some revolutionary way of thinking and not the norm. It’s an extension of choice feminism, dismissing any dissent about the quality of the narrative to make it make sense and avoid the uncomfortable truth. Diminishing the agency of female characters and cramming them into traditional roles is a common occurrence in many stories, and we should be allowed to criticize them without being silenced.

[sarah-cam]

"he was the best friend we ever had"

[v8mpvrse]

THIS is what the cup is all about. unrestricted public (physical.) affection. PDA IF U WILL!!!!

the lighting makes it look soooooo coming of age ‘life lesson is that it’s all about the friendship of it all’ movie core *sniffles*

[stolenkissesdiaz]

ofc after seven fucking szns the one time eddie’s gay ass listens and does something for himself is when a hot priest that resembles buck tells him to after seeking him out and flirting with him. like jfc diaz have some couth???

[usaac-official]

Jungle Queen, an LB-30 of the 397th Bomb Squadron in the Panama Canal Zone

[malinaa]

"you will die alone. and i will die in her arms." MY GOD THAT SHIT IS SO ROMANTIC AND ALSO THE SEXIEST THING TO EVER COME OUT OF MAL'S MOUTH

[morgansyorkie]

Some BTS snaps from team photo day for the TL. 📸

[pocketgalaxies]

"SUUUUZY! listen. i'm here with braius. he's a SHELL of a man. he misses you sooo much. but...he's become important! AND suuuuuper powerful! kay?"

[hak]

kinda love how sarasa taking on tatara as a part of her has this very interesting fallout of her being so comfortable being a boy despite sometimes (mostly at the start) having gender dysphoria. like it’s kinda nonbinary of her sometimes when she doesn’t mind it at all esp when everyone like asagi even thinks of her as a guy in his head. though I predict once this ends she’ll put tatara to rest for good

[goldfades]

surprise! | JOE BURROW⁹ [002]

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.8k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had just come back from your honeymoon in barbados, you may have had a little too much fun. when you see the faint lines in the little white stick, your whole world flipped on its axis.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | hurt to comfort, maisie being the bff we all want, joe being a little bitch but very much redeeming himself, accidental pregnancy

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐓, a sharp contrast to the warmth lingering from the honeymoon sun still clinging to your skin. The little white stick in your hand shakes as you hold it up to the light, as if a change in perspective might make the impossible go away.

Two lines.

Not one. Not a faint maybe. Two.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, though the words barely make it past your lips. Your stomach churns, a cocktail of disbelief and panic swirling with the remnants of the overpriced airport mimosa you’d barely finished that morning.

You set the test down on the counter, its presence looming over you like it’s about to sprout arms and legs and start screaming mommy. The mirror stares back at you with wide eyes and a flushed face, betraying the calm you’re desperately trying—and failing—to summon.

This wasn’t in the plan. Not yet, anyway. Sure, you and Joe had tossed the idea around like kids dreaming about what they’d do if they won the lottery. Someday, you’d both said, voices warm with the kind of certainty that comes with knowing someday was still miles away. Except now it wasn’t. Now, someday had packed its bags, booked an early flight, and was knocking on your front door with a freaking plus sign in tow.

Your phone buzzes against the counter, breaking the spell. A message from Joe. You grab it with shaky hands, hoping it’ll say practice is running late because you’re not ready to face him—not yet.

“Just finished. Home in 20. Love you.”

Your throat tightens. Love you too, you type back, fingers trembling, though it feels like a lie of omission. You toss the phone aside and sink to the floor, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you some divine revelation. It doesn’t.

"Maisie," you mutter, your voice steadier than your heart. You fumble for your phone, pulling up her number with muscle memory born from years of late-night calls about heartbreaks and bad decisions. She picks up on the second ring, because of course she does.

“What’s up, Mama Burrow?” Maisie chirps, the nickname rolling off her tongue like she’d been waiting all week to use it. “You finally settling back into boring married life, or is Joe still parading you around town like he’s the first guy to ever marry someone hot?”

You open your mouth to reply but nothing comes out. A beat of silence stretches long enough for her to pick up on it.

“Uh-oh,” Maisie says, her tone shifting. “What’s wrong?”

“I...” Your voice cracks, and the word sticks in your throat like glue. You take a deep breath, trying to sound normal, but Maisie’s already caught on. She always does.

“Spill it,” she demands, no-nonsense now.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

The words feel foreign, clumsy, like they don’t belong to you. There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and for a second you think Maisie might actually have dropped the phone.

“Holy shit,” she finally says. “Are you sure?”

You glance at the test on the counter, its little pink lines glaring back at you like a smug toddler. “Pretty sure.”

Maisie whistles low. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out. Deep breaths. Are you freaking out? You sound like you’re freaking out.”

“I’m definitely freaking out.”

Maisie’s sharp inhale is audible even through the speaker. “Alright, first things first—how the hell did this happen? And don’t give me the when two people love each other very much spiel.”

You let out a nervous laugh, your free hand rubbing at your temples. “Maisie, I don’t know! Everything was so... perfect on the honeymoon, and I guess we weren’t exactly strict about—”

“Girl,” she interrupts, “did you honeymoon baby yourself into a panic attack right now?”

“Maybe!” you squeak, voice climbing an octave. You glance at the test again, as if its tiny, pastel-pink lines might have disappeared in the past thirty seconds. No such luck. “Oh God, Maisie, I don’t know how to tell Joe. This was not in the playbook.”

Maisie snorts. “You mean Joe’s playbook? The one he probably memorized while you were still deciding on your wedding shoes?”

You groan, dragging your knees up to your chest as you sit on the floor, phone cradled between your ear and shoulder. “I’m serious! He’s going to come home and think we’re on the same page about unpacking, settling in, maybe rescuing a dog before we even think about—” You choke on the word. It’s too big. Too real.

“Parenting,” Maisie finishes for you, voice softer now. “Hey, listen at me—well, pretend you’re looking at me.”

“I’m on the floor, Maisie. I can’t even listen at myself right now.”

“Drama queen,” she mutters, then clears her throat. “Okay, listen. Joe Burrow is, like, the definition of cool under pressure. Super Bowls. Heisman speeches. The guy even pulled off that stupid cigar picture—”

“It was kind of hot,” you admit weakly.

“Exactly my point. If anyone’s going to handle surprise baby news like a champ, it’s him.”

You press the heel of your hand to your chest, trying to calm your heart, which feels like it’s attempting a touchdown dance. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s not ready? What if I’m not ready?”

Maisie scoffs. “Girl, you’ve been ready since we were, like, fourteen and you made me play house with you and pretend our dolls had perfect marriages.”

“That was your idea,” you mumble, cheeks flushing despite yourself.

“Details,” she says breezily. “Point is, you love Joe, right? And he loves you. Like, disgustingly so. This is just... an early plot twist in your love story.”

You nibble on your bottom lip, her words seeping in despite the chaos in your head. “A plot twist,” you echo softly.

“Exactly. You guys are basically the rom-com of the century. This is the part where you freak out, but then you tell him, and he gives you that stupidly dreamy look he always gives you, and everything’s fine. Better than fine. It’s Burrow-level fine.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, shaky but genuine, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosens. Maisie always has this way of dragging you back from the ledge, even if it’s with an eye roll and a smack of reality.

“Okay,” you say finally, exhaling. “Okay. You’re right. I can do this.”

“Damn straight, you can.” There’s a pause, and then Maisie’s voice is smug. “You’re not gonna, like, practice how to tell him, are you?”

“I might.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“Shut up, Maisie.”

Her laugh is warm, grounding, and you lean your head back against the cabinet, clutching the phone like a lifeline. The thought of Joe walking through that door still sends your stomach into somersaults, but Maisie’s words cling to you like armor.

“You’re going to be an amazing mom,” she adds softly after a moment.

Your throat tightens again, but this time, it’s different—like the panic is starting to make room for something else. Something softer.

“Thanks, Maisie,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Anytime. Now go splash some water on your face before Joe comes home and thinks you’ve been crying over a pet shelter commercial or something.”

“I don’t do that!” you protest weakly.

Maisie snorts. “Sure you don’t. Call me after you tell him, okay? I’ll be waiting with popcorn.”

You hang up, her voice still echoing in your ear, and stand on shaky legs. The test is still there on the counter, quiet and unassuming, like it didn’t just upend your entire universe.

You stare at it for a moment longer, then glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until Joe walks through the door. Fifteen minutes to figure out how to tell him the most life-changing news of your lives.

No pressure.

And like clockwork, fifteen minutes pass and the door creaks open. You immediately straighten up from where you’re perched on the edge of the couch, legs tucked underneath you. You’ve spent the past fifteen minutes trying to look casual, which is surprisingly difficult when your insides feel like they’ve been twisted into a pretzel.

Joe steps into the house, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, his usually confident posture slightly slumped. His hair is damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and the moment you catch sight of his expression, your rehearsed speech evaporates into thin air.

“Hey,” you call softly, plastering on a smile. “How was practice?”

Joe groans in response, dropping his bag by the door and toeing off his sneakers with more force than usual. He doesn’t answer right away, just runs a hand through his hair and flops onto the armchair across from you, his long legs sprawling out in exhaustion.

“Terrible,” he finally says, dragging the word out like it’s physically painful.

Your stomach sinks. This is not the Joe you were expecting to walk into the room. You were braced for smiles, maybe a kiss hello, and definitely a much lighter mood. But this version of him—frustrated, clearly in need of venting—throws all your plans into chaos.

“Terrible?” you echo, hoping he’ll elaborate so you can stall a little longer.

“Terrible,” he repeats, throwing his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. “Nothing clicked today. The line wasn’t holding, the receivers were off, and I couldn’t hit a damn target to save my life. It’s like the entire offense forgot how to play football overnight.”

His voice is tight, his usual even-keeled tone replaced by an edge of irritation. You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose, the familiar gesture making your heart ache a little. He’s so rarely like this—usually the calm in any storm—but when he does get frustrated, it hits hard.

You shift on the couch, unsure of what to say. Normally, you’d jump in with words of reassurance, tell him it’s just one bad day and he’ll bounce back like he always does. But right now, your mind is too preoccupied with the secret still tucked away behind your lips.

“You okay?” he asks suddenly, cracking one eye open to look at you.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “Me? Oh! Yeah. Totally fine. Why?”

Joe squints at you, like he’s trying to read something between the lines, but after a moment, he lets it drop. Maybe he’s too tired to push. Maybe you’re better at faking normal than you thought. Either way, he slouches further into the chair, his head lolling to the side.

“I’m just over it,” he mutters. “Sometimes it feels like everything has to be perfect, you know? Like, I can’t afford to have a bad day. Not with the season coming up. Not with everything riding on me.”

The weight in his words makes your chest tighten. You know he puts so much pressure on himself, even when no one else is. It’s one of the things you love about him—his determination, his drive—but hearing it like this makes you want to wrap him in a hug and take some of that burden off his shoulders.

Instead, you sit there silently, because your secret feels like a tangible wall between you, keeping you from saying what you really want to.

Joe lets out a humorless laugh. “Can you imagine throwing a kid into the mix right now?” He shakes his head, running a hand down his face. “I’d lose my mind.”

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t mean anything by it. You know that. He’s venting, speaking off the cuff, probably not even thinking about what he’s saying. But the words hit you like a brick anyway, sharp and unyielding, and suddenly your palms feel clammy against the soft fabric of your leggings.

You manage a small laugh—weak and wobbly, but hopefully passable. “Yeah, that’d be... a lot.”

Joe doesn’t notice the crack in your voice. He stands, stretching his arms over his head with a groan before glancing down at you. “I’m gonna hit the shower. Try to shake off the rest of this day.”

“Good idea,” you say quickly, nodding like a bobblehead.

He leans down to kiss your forehead—a brief, automatic gesture that still makes your heart flutter despite the weight in your chest—and then heads toward the stairs, his footsteps heavy against the wood.

The moment he disappears, you sag against the couch, letting out a shaky exhale you didn’t realize you were holding. Your eyes dart to the bathroom down the hall, where the pregnancy test is still tucked away in a drawer like some kind of incriminating evidence.

What are you supposed to do now? How do you tell him something this big when he’s clearly already carrying so much?

You pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as your mind races. Part of you wants to march upstairs, blurt it out, and deal with the fallout. But another part—the louder, more terrified part—wants to bury the news under a mountain of throw pillows and pretend it doesn’t exist.

Joe’s words echo in your mind, sharp and unshakable. I’d lose my mind.

Maybe Maisie was wrong. Maybe this plot twist wasn’t something Joe was ready for. Maybe you weren’t ready for it, either.

And yet, deep down, you know you can’t keep this to yourself forever. This isn’t just your story to tell; it’s his, too.

You just have to figure out how.

┈┈┈

The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the kitchen, warm and inviting, a small comfort in the midst of the chaos swirling inside your head. You’re standing at the counter in your robe, staring at the dark liquid as it pours into your mug, willing the caffeine to work its magic and steady your nerves.

Maisie’s already at the table, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone as she sips from her own cup. She’d shown up at 7 a.m. sharp, a whirlwind of energy even in yoga pants and an oversized hoodie, the perfect distraction from the tangled mess of your thoughts.

“So,” Maisie says, finally looking up. “Did you tell him?”

Your heart skips a beat. You turn back to the coffee maker, suddenly fascinated by the machine’s little blinking light. “Not... exactly.”

Maisie groans, setting her phone down with an exaggerated thud. “Girl. What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? That was the whole point of last night!”

“I tried,” you say defensively, glancing over your shoulder. “But he came home in a mood, and it just didn’t feel like the right time.”

Maisie gives you a look—a mix of sympathy and exasperation that only a best friend can pull off. “Okay, but there’s never going to be a perfect time. You know that, right? You just have to rip off the Band-Aid.”

Before you can reply, you hear the familiar creak of the stairs, and your chest tightens. Joe’s footsteps are heavy as he descends, his presence filling the kitchen even before he appears.

When he finally walks in, you can tell immediately that he’s still carrying yesterday’s frustration. His jaw is tight, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, and his movements have that sharp, impatient edge that screams not a morning person.

“Morning,” you say tentatively, hoping the coffee might soften his mood.

Joe grunts in response, heading straight for the counter without sparing a glance in your direction. He grabs a mug and pours himself some coffee, his shoulders hunched as he takes a sip.

Maisie watches him with raised eyebrows, her own cup paused halfway to her lips. “Wow,” she says dryly. “Good morning to you too, Sunshine.”

Joe doesn’t even acknowledge her, his focus fixed on the steam rising from his mug. You wince, already anticipating what’s coming next.

Maisie sets her cup down with a clink, crossing her arms. “Alright, what’s your problem?”

Joe finally looks at her, his expression dark. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Uh-huh,” Maisie says, leaning back in her chair. “Because stomping around the kitchen like a grumpy giant definitely screams ‘everything’s fine.’”

“Maisie—” you start, but she holds up a hand to stop you.

“No, seriously,” she says, her voice gaining heat. “What’s with the attitude? You’re acting like the world’s ending, and she—” Maisie gestures to you with her free hand, “—is bending over backward trying not to stress you out.”

Joe frowns, glancing at you for the first time that morning. “I’m fine,” he says, but it’s clipped, like he’s trying to end the conversation before it starts.

Maisie narrows her eyes. “Well, maybe you should try being a little more considerate. Especially with her condition.”

The room goes silent.

Your blood runs cold, and Maisie freezes, her face paling as she realizes what she’s just said. You stare at her, wide-eyed, your heart pounding in your chest.

“What condition?” Joe asks slowly, his brows furrowing as he looks between the two of you.

Maisie presses her lips together, looking like she wants to melt into the floor. She flicks her gaze toward you, silently pleading for help, but your mind is too blank to come to her rescue.

Joe’s eyes narrow, his focus shifting entirely to you. “What’s she talking about?”

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, and you can see the wheels turning in Joe’s head as he pieces it together.

“Wait,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you...?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the look on his face says it all. Confusion, realization, and a flicker of something else—something you can’t quite read—flash across his features.

Maisie clears her throat, breaking the tension. “Well,” she says awkwardly, standing up and grabbing her mug. “This feels like a good time for me to leave.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, practically bolting for the door. The sound of it closing behind her echoes through the suddenly too-quiet kitchen.

Joe’s still staring at you, his coffee forgotten on the counter. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like the ground is shifting beneath your feet.

“Is it true?” he asks, his voice softer now but no less intense.

And just like that, there’s no more hiding.

Your hands tighten around your coffee mug as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Joe’s gaze is locked onto you now, his exhaustion melting into something else entirely—a mix of confusion, worry, and a dawning realization that leaves no room for escape.

Your throat is dry, words caught somewhere between your heart and your mouth. The longer you stay silent, the heavier his question hangs in the air.

“Y/N,” he says again, more urgently this time. “Is it true?”

You set your mug down carefully on the counter, afraid it might slip from your trembling hands. His eyes follow the motion, then snap back to yours, searching for confirmation in your expression. You can feel your heartbeat thudding in your ears, loud and insistent, drowning out every coherent thought.

“I—” you begin, your voice cracking. You clear your throat, trying again. “Yes. It’s true.”

Joe takes a step back, blinking as though he’s been physically struck. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment, he just stands there, staring at you like he’s trying to process a foreign language.

“I’m pregnant,” you add, the words tumbling out in a rush before you lose your nerve completely.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Joe drags a hand down his face, his features tense and unreadable. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, that the connection you’ve always shared feels out of reach in this moment.

“How long have you known?” he finally asks, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist.

“A few days,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Since we got back from the honeymoon.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I was going to!” you say quickly, stepping closer. “I just—” You falter, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know how. And yesterday, you were so upset, and I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“Make things worse?” Joe repeats, his tone incredulous. He sets his own mug down a little too forcefully, the sound making you flinch. “You thought this would make things worse?”

You swallow hard, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “You were so frustrated about practice,” you say, your voice trembling. “And then you said that thing about how everything has to be perfect right now. I didn’t want to drop this on you and have you feel like—”

“Like what?” he interrupts, his eyes narrowing. “Like I wouldn’t want this?”

Your breath hitches, and you look away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly.

The room feels too small, the air thick with the weight of everything unspoken. Joe runs a hand through his hair, his frustration giving way to something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice gentler now, “I’m not mad that you’re pregnant. I’m mad that you felt like you couldn’t tell me. That you thought I wouldn’t be ready for something like this.”

You glance up at him, tears slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you,” you say, your voice cracking. “I was scared. This wasn’t part of the plan, Joe. We just got married. We’re still figuring things out. And I know how much pressure you’re under right now—I didn’t want to add to it.”

He exhales slowly, stepping closer until he’s standing right in front of you. His hands find yours, pulling them away from where they’re wringing the hem of your robe. His grip is warm, grounding, and you cling to it like a lifeline.

“Look,” he says, his voice steady now. “I won’t lie—I wasn’t expecting this either. And yeah, it’s not perfect timing. But when has anything in our life ever gone exactly according to plan?”

You let out a shaky laugh, and he smiles, just a little, the tension in his shoulders easing.

“We’ve always figured things out together,” he continues. “This isn’t any different. It’s just... a bigger adjustment. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that there’s nobody I’d rather figure it out with than you.”

His words hit you square in the chest, and you feel a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. But this time, they’re not born of fear—they’re from relief, from the overwhelming love that’s been there all along, even in the moments of doubt.

Joe reaches up, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “We’ve got this, okay?” he says softly.

You nod, a small smile breaking through despite the storm of emotions still swirling inside you. “Okay.”

And for the first time in days, you believe it.

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[theweeklydiscourse]

I don't understand WHY Bardugo wrote Alina's ending the way she did. Did she think it would make for a bittersweet, satisfactory ending? (It did not.) Did she think it would be sharp and realistic? (It unfortunately was a bit.) Did she think she'd be subverting expectations?? Did she love Mal so much she went insane?? I just don't get it. I just don't get it. If by the end of the series she forgot to add in more love interest for Alina (because she obviously didn't want to consider the other two despite being fascinated with Aleksander) she could just have. Let poor Alina be alone. Why condemn her to such a fate? I think everyone I've talked about this has unanimously agreed they'd cease to exist if they were in her place. It's so. So strange

It’s all a consequence of the underlying conservatism and misogyny of the series. This is best illustrated through the fact that even in Alina’s “happily ever after” she is still regarded as a weird outsider while Mal is beloved by their new community. It isolates Alina in a way that the Darkling never could, it’s representative of Alina’s permanent dependence on Mal as a consequence of their marriage. Mal is allowed to have a life outside of his marriage, while Alina has to depend on him for emotional connection. She can only find fulfillment in her husband while Mal is afforded the freedom (and means) to seek fulfillment from other places.

What I imagine Bardugo thought, was that it would be heartwarming and pleasant for the “boy and the girl” to return to simplicity and live happily ever after. Hence the line: “They had an ordinary life, full of ordinary things—if love can ever be called that.” In isolation, it’s certainly a sweet sentiment that one might smile at in a different story. However, in this story, it’s a clear attempt to romanticize the dire (and downright depressing) circumstances of Alina’s so-called “happily ever after”. It looks like a happily ever after, but readers with a critical eye can see it for what it truly is. They are able to see the way Alina is disempowered at nearly every level, that she had been relegated to this role because she dared to want more out of life.

This gestures towards the fundamental reason why Malina is far more disturbing than the likes of Darklina. It’s disturbing because it reflects the ways women are pushed to settle down and sacrifice themselves for their man and glorifies that sacrifice as the healthy alternative to “greed”. Sure, the Darkling is villainous, but his actions are so beyond the normal scope of everyday relationships that they fail to land the same impact as Mal’s mundane assholery. Alina is considered greedy for wanting to excercise her power and influence for a noble cause, but somehow Mal isn’t greedy for wanting Alina’s full undivided attention despite her many other responsibilities? The narrative validates his unreasonable requests by presenting the ending as something wholesome and heartwarming. Mal’s selfishness and greed is validated by the text because it is societally acceptable and encouraged men to have those traits. He has to be the more powerful one in the relationship for this traditional happy ending to work.

Bardugo condemned Alina to a depressing fate because she was so fixated on the image of a fairy tale happily ever after that she ignored how Alina would be impacted by it. I think this reveals Bardugo’s strange affection for Mal, but it also shows how she failed to see how the realistic mundanity of Malina would not work in her favour. Because…yeah it’s realistic all right, realistically misogynistic that is.

[teardroops-world]

Avril Lavigne 🖤

[normalgoalie]

I’m crying at Brad’s drawing of Bergy