#just because you are seeing less news about palestine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldfades · 6 days ago

Text

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

#joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe shiesty #joey b #jb9 #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #nfl fic #nfl players #nfl imagine

888 notes · View notes

autumnalhalcyon · 11 months ago

Text

Grow some reading comprehension. Me mentioning news outlets was a means of expressing exactly how mainstream the idea of not forgetting the Oct 7 massacre is.

As in "Tumblr Users Could Not Forget October 7th Even If They Wanted To". As in, "If Tumblr Users Were Antisemitic Enough To Disregard October 7th, Mainstream Media Would Never Allow Anyone To Forget".

I don't see how so many people find it difficult to comprehend that some people just want the fighting to stop, and that Palestinian civilians have nothing to do with Hamas, no matter how many starving refugees the IDF decide to gun down in front of an aid truck.

Some of us desperately want to see some fucking reason why Israel, a nation born from the trauma of the fucking Holocaust, would be okay with the idea of funneling millions of civilians into one corner of the city only to prep a ground assault on the very same corner they were funneled to.

Some of us are struggling to fight of the notion that the Israeli government has no intention of rescuing those hostages and just wants to use them as an excuse to wipe out gaza and kick the Palestinians out of West Bank to have the land for themselves to like their government officials keep claiming they want to do.

I can't see any other reason why Israeli negotiators would insist on invading Rafah regardless of whether a ceasefire gets negotiated. Not like they've brought back more than a handful of the Hostages anyway, the rest of em? Gunned em down, or made efforts to flood the very tunnels they claim to be holding the hostages in.

So now, how else do you intend to twist my words to suit your worldview of a website devoid of any concern for 10/7 victims? You gonna claim my sources are "hamas propaganda" despite them all being mainstream news sites? Though I guess you don't seem the type to want to actually research your claims, unlike myself. Gets in the way of mob mentality, I've heard.

#discourse #keep in mind you all decided that the news of jkr denying that trans ppl weren't targeted in the holocaust was the perfect time to-#-insert your frigid takes about condemning the slaughter of tens of thousands of civilians being tantamount to antisemetism.#side by side with others straight up agreeing with her straight up denial of nazi crimes because this one in particular wasn't the shoah.#ill agree with tagging me as 'blocklist' though. the less of you clowns i see the better.#opposition to genocide is not antisemitism.#i literally said i want hamas gone. i just don't want the entirety of Palestine slaughtered to accomplish that.#combat clowns #<- tag to block if you don't wanna deal with this shit.#literally went to see what horrible thing got jkr trending. found awful trans take. found gazan genocide supporters using it to peddle bs.#'hurrbdurr NO ONE on tumblr cares about October 7th' disregarding the little fact of.#yknow. the fact that the palestinian death toll has now surpassed that by nearly 30x and thus is the currently more pressing issue.

595 notes · View notes

cuntressgoingdigital · 3 months ago

Text

BAD HABIT | abby anderson x reader - college au!!

free palestine! click this link for more info

synopsis: you catch abby's eye during class and she becomes determined to make you her's. unfortunately, she can't bring herself to just outright admit her feelings, forcing herself through weeks of yearning and agony.

notes: i have been sitting on this since early october. finally finished it up! gets kinda rambly midway through. can you tell i love writing abby as a gay loser? titled after bad habit by steve lacy :P

cw: 18+ content MDNI, reader referred to as a girl, alcohol ment, dom! reader (if you squint), inexperienced! abby, no smut technically (but def not sfw), abby doesn't know how to communicate

word count: 4.9k

it was abby’s final year of college. she was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. the last three years had been a horrendous rollercoaster of trials and tribulations. all of her classes were rigorous and extremely involved. it felt like she never slept, ate, or had any time to herself. she had a couple friends, but nothing too serious. in reality, they were probably closer to acquaintances. she made the mistake of following her boyfriend halfway across the country to attend the same college as him. all of her friends were his friends and their breakup, while semi-amicable, set her back as far as friendships go.

it wasn’t that she wasn’t good at making friends, she just didn’t have the time. making friends in your senior year of college was its own special beast. nobody wants to go out of their way to foster new friendships because of their temporary nature. everyone was applying for grad school, hoping to get as far away from home as possible. living off campus isolates you, ripping you away from the forced community that comes with living in a dormitory.

none of that mattered. abby was perfectly fine by her lonesome.

she had never felt compelled to establish a connection until she stepped foot into her french romantic literature class. everyone called it a gimme class. do the readings, write your reviews and reports, easy A. it was a low level class and she needed the elective credit, so why not? it was an 8AM, but she had dealt with worse.

she was setting up her ipad and pencil when she felt someone brush past the back of her chair. she looked up and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. she swears she had never seen a girl more beautiful than you. it felt like one of those cheesy rom coms where all the sound in the room dropped out, the entire world slowed, and your smile lit up the room.

“sorry!” you whispered, making your way a few chairs down and getting as comfortable as possible on those horrid plastic chairs.

every day for two weeks she just watched you from afar. abby perked up every time you raised your hand to give insight on that week’s readings. you were intimidatingly smart. everything you said, she couldn’t have possibly come up with. she hadn’t missed a single day of class so far.

but, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to you. a simple “hi, nice to meet you” wouldn’t cut it. she didn’t want to come off as creepy or nonchalant. she needed a plan.

one day you had left your bag open on your desk and abby caught a glimpse of a novel. it wasn’t one of the books that was required reading for class. was it a leisure read? immediately, she looked up the title and read the synopsis.

she couldn’t fathom any way to make a book sound less interesting.

alas, at this point she was committed.

that afternoon, during a small break between classes, she made her way to the library. after wandering on one of the floors for too long, she finally found the novel in question. the plan was to read it, hope that you left your bag open again, and ask about it after class. simple enough.

she took the elevator down to the first floor and brought the book up to the check out desk. there was no one behind the desk and she wondered if she should come back later.

“sorry!”

abby knew that voice.

you sauntered out from the hidden staff area behind the desk. abby felt stupid for letting her crush affect her like this. her face was hot, she had to make a concerted effort to breathe evenly, and suddenly she forgot how to socialize. all she could do was stiffly set the book on the desk.

“aren’t you in my class? french romantic lit, right?” you took the book in your hands and flipped it to the back cover to scan the barcode on the corner.

“uh, yeah. i think so?” she had never felt more awkward in her life, sliding her student ID across the desk.

“well, it’s nice to meet you…” you pick up the plastic card and read over it. “abby.”

there was a quiet beep and abby stood there awkwardly trying to think of something to say. “have you read this book before?” she blurted out. “i just…the reviews seemed to be pretty split. people either love it or hate it, y’know?”

a smile stretched across your face. you were clearly more than delighted to give your thoughts, recommendations for other books, and authors who had a similar writing style. abby thought your enthusiasm was adorable. she had absolutely no clue what you were talking about, but was happy you got to share your ideas with her.

she cleared her throat. “i guess i’ll give you my thoughts after class one day?”

you nod excitedly. “i would really love that.”

abby collected her items and turned on her heel to leave the library. she felt accomplished, only to realize a few moments later,

fuck.

she didn’t even ask for your name.

that night abby started the novel. she was determined to finish before she saw you again on wednesday. homework was suddenly tossed onto the backburner. her childish crush took precedent. for the next day and a half she did nothing but read this novel, even going as far as making annotations and talking points for you.

she woke up bright and early on wednesday. the sun was hanging lowly in the sky. she couldn’t go back to sleep even if she wanted to. she drug her body out of bed and pulled on a black tshirt and grey sweatpants for her early morning workout. she preferred to get her workout out of the way during the early morning hours to avoid the crowd of people in her apartment’s rec center and lower her chances of social interaction.

her workout was a little more rushed than usual. she wanted to make sure she looked well put together when she approached you after class. she was meticulous with her shower routine, pairing the scent of her body wash with her lotions and deodorant. pine and amber with a hint of lavender. next was her hair that she braided and re-braided at least three times in front of her slightly fogged up bathroom mirror. she peeked at her phone and noticed it was way later than she thought. she ripped a black short sleeve button up and olive green corduroy pants off of their hanger and slipped on some shoes before she ran off to the bus stop.

she made it into the classroom right as the professor was reading off the first slide. the feeling of several pairs of eyes on her was unbearable.

for the entire seventy five minutes of class she could only stare at you. you were feverishly typing on your laptop while also scribbling something down in your notebook. the clock seemed to tick slower than usual.

“alright, that covers everything i wanted to address today. i’ll let y’all out a few minutes early. go enjoy the weather outside.”

abby couldn’t pack up faster. she prayed you weren’t in any kind of rush.

“hey!”

abby spun around to see your face. thank god, you had approached her. this eliminated the possibility of her chickening out.

“oh, hey!” this had thrown off abby’s entire script. “sorry i ran off yesterday. i didn’t catch your name?”

you chuckled at the realization. you hadn’t noticed either. after you properly introduced yourself, abby offered a “nice to officially meet you.”

you waste no time getting to your initial reason for approaching her. “did you start the book?”

the sound of your voice had butterflies swarming about in her stomach.

“yeah, i finished it actually.”

you slung your backpack over your shoulders. “which way are you going?”

the two of you set off in the direction of the coffee shop on campus. abby went over her talking points and luckily you two shared a lot of the same ideas about the themes and writing style of the book. abby made a mental note to read more of your recommendations.

the coffee shop was coming up on the horizon and abby had already completely derailed her walk to her next class. she had to wrap this up.

“did you maybe wanna study together sometime? you looked really into today’s lecture.” was that a weird thing to say? now it sounded like she was watching your every move.

she was.

but, that wasn’t your business.

“oh god, no. i hated this week’s reading. way too dense and the translation was clunky.” your head dropped in embarrassment. “i was actually playing sudoku.”

god, you were the cutest thing.

“dinner, then?” she ground her fingernails into the fabric of her backpack straps. “i just think it would be nice to have someone to talk about the homework with.” there was a beat of silence and immediately she felt the need to backtrack “it’s okay if not! i’m sure you’re busy and all.”

“dinner sounds fun! i can do tonight? maybe around seven?”

the two of you exchanged phone numbers and abby said a quick goodbye before rushing off in the opposite direction, praying she wasn’t late to her next class.

you mentally high fived yourself. you had only made one friend during your time at college and that was your first year dorm roommate. she was great and all, but a senior with only one friend felt sort of pathetic. you were positive the two of you only ended up being friends because of your forced close proximity. you both loved each other to death, but you weren’t so sure you would have found each other otherwise.

this time you made a friend all on your own. well, maybe you two weren’t quite friends yet, but you’d try your damndest to make your friendship status official. she was nice enough so far.

and really pretty.

like, really pretty.

an hour or so later, abby sent a text with a link to a restaurant menu. you couldn’t help but open the message immediately.

abby a.: is this good?

you clicked on the link and your eyes grew wide. this was one of the places you would only eat at for special occasions. the cheapest entree was thirty dollars. there was no way you could afford that. you were a full time student living off of your need based scholarship and the meager wages you received from your work study job. if you looked you would probably see double digits in your checking account.

you: this looks rlly nice but idk if i’ll be able to afford it

you: i’m srry!!

before you could lock your phone, the grey bubble appeared again.

abby a.: don’t worry i invited you. i’ll grab the check.

the idea of being indebted to her made you uneasy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to disagree with her. you didn’t want to seem high maintenance.

your 8AM was your only class of the day, so in normal fashion you gallivanted around campus and sat in front of the library, people watching, until your shift started. the older woman who worked the same desk shift as you helped you on the daily crossword, forcing the time to pass faster.

it was a little more than an hour before you and abby were supposed to meet up when your phone vibrated.

abby a.: i’ll pick you up. send me your address.

you had fully intended to take the twenty minute bus ride over to the restaurant. you knew the bus routes like the back of your hand on account of you not owning a car. it wasn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be.

abby pulled up at 7PM on the dot. once you received the “outside” text you grabbed your bag from it’s designated hook near the door.

“where ya goin’?”

you looked back to see your best friend and roommate, liz.

“dinner.”

“like a date?”

“nah. just some girl from my class.” your hand reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open. “i’ll see you!”

“have fun. make good choices!” she called out before you could shut the door behind you.

you peered around the parking lot, trying to find her car. you pulled your phone from your bag and unlocked it, preparing to call abby to play hot and cold until you found her. then, you heard a voice call your name.

abby was hanging out the sunroof of her car, waving at you. you approached her car and caught the brand sigil on the front grille. it was a BMW. you didn’t know much about cars, but you knew those were expensive. you opened the doors to see a custom leather interior and a high tech touch screen on the center console. it felt like you weren’t even allowed to sit down in this car.

“hey, sorry it’s kind of messy.”

there were maybe a dozen crumbs on the floor mats and a couple straw wrappers in the cup holder.

“if this is messy for you, you’d hate to see my room.” you awkwardly tried to laugh off the tension you felt. “nice car.”

abby moved the gear shift into drive and started to pull out of the parking lot. “yeah, it’s an early graduation present. i was hoping for something a little more practical. like a subaru or something.” she immediately bit her tongue. she probably sounded so stuck up right now. “i mean, this is perfectly fine! i just…what if i have some furniture to move, y’know?”

smooth recovery.

“no, no i get it!” you, in fact, did not get it. you would kill to be able to drive yourself across town and not have to haul your groceries along with you on the bus.

abby’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “you can take aux if you want.” she motioned to the wire hanging out of the charging port.

this was one of the worst things you could ever hear. now you had to carefully curate a few songs to last the duration of the short drive. shuffling your liked songs would surely end in embarrassment and you couldn’t tell what music abby would be into. you haphazardly queued a couple songs and analyzed every change in abby’s face, trying to decipher whether she liked the songs or not. to your delight she began humming along to one of the songs.

“didn’t expect you to be into this sort of music.”

abby shrugged. “i’m full of surprises, i guess.”

you made small talk about your major and your class load for the semester. all of the typical stuff you go over with anyone you meet in a college town. then, you discussed plans for grad school.

“i think i’m gonna take a year or two off and travel for a while. see the world and all that.” you picked up on the way abby’s eyes sparkled when she talked about it.

“what are you gonna do about money and stuff?” finally, you had an excuse to ask how rich she was.

“my dad’s a neurosurgeon. he rolled right through undergrad into medical school with no time off. he wants me to take some time and find myself. make sure i’m committed to whatever my next step is.”

you wordlessly nodded. the puzzle pieces fell into place. now you were almost embarrassed about not being well off. what could you possibly have in common with some uppity rich girl?

once the two of you started talking over dinner, it seemed like you actually had a lot in common. you both held a passion for the same movies, had slight overlap with your music taste, and held similar political beliefs. you had judged her a little too fast. you let her go on about her coin collection and in exchange she let you beak into a tangent about your hobbies. before you knew it one of the servers came up to your table.

“hey folks, i brought the check over for you. take your time.”

you were mortified when you saw it was thirty minutes after close. if your server hadn’t practically run off you would’ve offered an apology.

you instinctively peeked at the check and saw three digits. your shock must’ve been obvious as abby snatched the receipt holder from you.

“i told you, i’ve got it.” she put down a heavy metal card and you were once again reminded about the difference in your tax brackets.

dinner had gone so well it became a weekly endeavor. every wednesday you met up with her so she could show you a couple different spots around town. every time she paid the bill before you could even say anything. whenever you mentioned wanting to read some newly released book that the library hadn’t ordered yet, she would shyly present it to you the next time you two saw each other. weekly dinner dates turned into coffee dates between classes, which turned into study dates at home. she learned your coffee order and work schedule so she could occasionally pop into the library while you were working and deliver you a treat. you became inseparable rather quickly. often walking hand in hand across campus after your seminar.

liz caught you smiling at your phone and peered over your shoulder.

“hey, hey! what happened to privacy?” you scolded.

liz looked you up and down. “what’s going on between you two? always texting, always facetiming, always hanging out.”

“nothing! we’re just friends.”

it was clear she didn’t believe you. “there’s no fucking way y’all are ‘just friends’.”

“i can be just friends with a girl!”

“mhm. sure, sure.” liz left you to study (read: spend your entire night texting back and forth with abby).

that night when you laid in bed, you finally gave your relationship some thought. were you two “just friends”? you were used to burying your semi-romantic thoughts about your female friends. that had been your MO ever since you discovered you were gay. you tried not to think about abby in that way. you were so excited to make a new friend, you couldn’t bear potentially ruining things with those thoughts.

you two were just close friends. that’s it.

that’s all it would ever be.

abby a.: goodnight see you in the morning <3

unbeknownst to you, abby was also spiraling about your relationship. had the little heart been too much? she was trying so hard to be subtle. either you were completely uninterested or she wasn’t being obvious enough. what was she supposed to say? “i think i have a crush on you” was way too forward. what if you didn’t feel the same way? now she would look like an idiot and have to bear the next couple months showing up to the same class as you three times a week.

even worse, you were the first girl abby had ever properly pursued. her breakup with owen forced her to finally contemplate if she ever actually loved him. well, of course she loved him, but was she ever in love with him? after a month she had decided it had never been the latter. that had been nearly a year ago and in that time she had never actually made an effort to seek a relationship with anyone romantically. she made out with girls at parties, hooked up with one girl months ago, but this was different. she wanted your dinner dates to be real dates. to sleep with you in her arms. post you on her story with a caption that said ‘my girlfriend is so beautiful’.

how the fuck was she going to make this work?

she laid awake drafting different text messages and formulating different scenarios where it would be appropriate for her to confess to you.

that weekend abby invited you over for a sleepover. nothing too crazy. just wine, takeout, and a movie. the hour it took for you to respond was possibly the worst hour of her life.

you: omg sounds fun!! i’ll finish up my work at 8?

abby breathed a sigh of relief. she spent the next several hours stress cleaning. her entire house was pristine by the time she was meant to pick you up.

confessing to you over text almost felt disrespectful. the wine would compensate for her intense fear of rejection. if you didn’t reciprocate, she’d just politely call you an uber and that would be that. the prospect of ignoring her feelings for you until the end of the semester trumped her fear of having to be in the same classroom with a girl who rejected her.

she just couldn’t take it anymore.

when she pulled into the driveway of your apartment she saw that you were already waiting outside, a small duffel bag in hand.

you happily trotted over to her car and hopped in. the seat was perfectly adjusted for you as always. you took over aux without abby prompting you to.

you always got the passenger princess treatment.

abby listened to you tell her every intricate detail of your day. the dog you got to pet on campus, how the coffee shop messed up your order and you were too scared to tell them, and the crossword you weren’t able to finish because your usual coworker wasn’t on shift.

while she was happy to listen to you, all she could think about was the fact that this may be the last time she got to hear your daily musings.

“you okay, babe?”

the hairs on the back of her neck always stood up when she heard you call her that.

“i’m fine. just thinking about this assignment i forgot to finish.”

“i can help you when we get home. as long as it’s not your orgo chem class. you’re on your own with that.”

no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you could feel the tension in the air. something was off, but you couldn’t tell what. abby was speaking less and just seemed out of it in general. every time you asked if she was okay it was always the same

“i’m okay. don’t worry.”

you brush it off and carry on with the night as if all was normal. you ordered chinese food from your favorite hole in the wall restaurant and plopped down on her couch. it took you thirty minutes to decide on a movie, the two of you debating the pros and cons of every option. it didn’t take long for the food to be delivered and after abby gave you permission to eat on the couch you dug into your food.

“is this your first meal of the day?” abby knew you were terrible at taking care of yourself. not that she was much better.

“shut up.” you uttered through the food in your mouth.

a few minutes into the movie, abby offers you a blanket which you eagerly take. you rest your legs over her lap and lay back against one of the throw pillows. abby almost felt wrong touching you. she had plans to irrevocably change your relationship before the night was over.

would you be able to stay friends with her after?

“do you want wine? i figured rosé would be a safe choice.”

you affirmatively hummed, prompting abby to rush off into her dark kitchen. she just needed a few moments to breathe.

“can i ask a stupid question?” you called from the living room.

abby felt the need to dry heave. “maybe.” was all she could offer as a response.

there was a few moments of uncertain silence before you spoke again. “liz is convinced we’re like…dating, or something? is there something going on between us?”

you were always so forward. it was a trait of yours that abby admired. except this time.

like the day you first spoke after class, you had completely derailed her scripts and scenarios.

“i…don’t know?” the question had her hands shaking so bad she couldn’t pull the cork out of the wine bottle.

you hummed once more. “i don’t know either.”

the movie filled the uneasy silence between the two of you. abby was panicking and you surprisingly weren’t.

“i think i like you.” you were the first to break the silence. “wait, that sounded really childish. i just…you know what i mean.”

finally, abby could exhale.

“i’m sorry. did i make things weird?”

abby rushed back into the living room and saw you cocooned in her blanket, partially shielding your face from her.

“holy fuck. no, no!” she tripped over her words, trying to skip to whatever part of the script she intended to use for this exact moment. finally, she cleared her throat. “that’s kind of why i approached you the first time. i mean, i’m glad we became friends!” once again, she felt the need to backtrack. “when i first saw you in class i thought you were really pretty. i’ve been trying to work up the nerve to say this from the first time we met.”

you finally met her gaze. abby was shocked to hear you giggle. “that’s sweet.” you reached out for her, beckoning her to come sit next to you. “i wish i had known. you’re always acting so mysterious about your feelings.” you teased.

you sat up and loosely wrapped your arms around her shoulders. “so…was your plan to corner me here and bombard me with your confession?”

“okay, it sounds weird when you say it like that.” how had you read her intentions so accurately?

“i don’t hear any denial.” abby refused to answer. she had suffered enough tonight. “enlighten me, what was your plan if i said i liked you back?”

abby shrugged. she really hadn’t expected to get this far. she spent more time planning for a rejection than reciprocity.

you leaned into her. “well, i think you should kiss me.”

abby had been dreaming of this moment. quite literally. whenever she had vaguely scandalous dreams it was always about you. she’d wanted this for so long and here she was awkwardly fumbling as she pressed her lips against yours.

you delicately brushed a few fly away hairs behind her ear and leaned into the kiss. you could feel the hesitance in abby’s body language and knew you’d have to be the captain of the ship for the time being. you closed the space between the two of you, now chest to chest.

“you don’t have to be nervous.” you whispered in her ear while you moved to straddle her lap.

abby placed her hands firmly at your hips, finally working up the courage to just touch you. the movie was long forgotten when she lost herself in your kiss. her hand made it halfway up your shirt before she broke the kiss.

“is that okay?”

you giggled against her lips. “yeah, have at it.”

the joking tone eased her mind and emboldened her. her hand found its way fully under the fabric of your shirt, cupping your left breast. her thumb brushed against your nipple, making you sharply inhale. you grinded down against her crotch and abby whimpered against your lips.

you couldn’t tell how much time had passed. the both of you were feeling sensitive and hot all over. you were desperate to draw those sweet mewls out of her.

“okay, fuck this movie.” all at once you pulled away from her. abby looked like she could’ve cried at your sudden absence. “do you wanna…like…”

“yeah,” she took a moment to catch her breath. “yeah. the bedroom is this way.” she took your hand and led you past the kitchen to her bedroom that was bathed in moonlight from the wall length windows. she rushed to close the curtains before she pulled her shirt off, revealing her black sports bra. you took her hand and collapsed against her bed, tugging her down with you.

your fingers reached for the string of her sweatpants, working them down her thighs and tossing them to the side.

“have you done this before?” you whispered in between kisses to her neck and collarbones.

“sort of. a while ago.”

“well i’m happy to give you a refresher course.” you flipped abby onto her back so you could be on top. “just relax.” you hooked your fingers into the waistband of her boxers and pulled her thighs apart.

the sex lasted for an absurdly long time. for a beginner, abby was surprisingly adept. she was a quick learner. by the end of it, neither of you had the energy to go back to the movie. you slept soundly in her arms, not even bothering to redress.

the next morning you were harshly pulled from your sleep by an alarm. it was saturday. there was no way it was your phone.

abby shot straight up in bed and hastily pulled her phone off of the nightstand.

“fuck. i’m sorry. i forgot i have rugby practice.” she leapt out of bed and started digging through her closet for fresh workout clothes. “for the record, i had plans to make you breakfast and everything. the whole nine yards.”

you stretched out in her bed, missing her warmth. “oh, i’m sure.”

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #nisa writes #leaving it open ended so i have an excuse to write rugby captain abby #i will be terrorizing yall with more college au #idk i kinda hate this but i wrote it so its getting posted #divider by cafekitsune

322 notes · View notes

uh-velkommen · 28 days ago

Text

Anyone who knows me knows that I have ALWAYS been a very politically vocal person. I also used to spend a majority of my time on Instagram. But when 2020 hit I became such an unrecognizable person that I had to delete Instagram and cut myself off from everyone just to regain my center and sense of self.

I didn't know it at the time but I think with my autistic sense of justice coupled with my paranoia (like diagnosable, serious paranoia) and how stressful my living situation was at the time, it was the perfect blend for a ticking time bomb. I became so uncontrollably consumed with politics that I would attack anyone and everyone. I was experiencing full mania, posting nonstop on Instagram, arguing with people I followed, cutting off family members, not sleeping, overworking myself protesting, and when I wasnt protesting, I wouldnt leave my bed, all while dealing with the stress of the pandemic, a subpar diet in my neglectful choldhood home, and a lack of space to call my own. Even if I seemed collected on the outside, my insides felt like boiling water. I never got a moment of calm. It was autistic overstimulation amplified. I also felt such a sense of hopeless and really rathered Id be dead than continue trying. All these emotions but I just couldn't stop. I wasn't in control.

After some time, I found my normal again, but it made me so scared to speak out about anything because I didn't want to spiral again. I ignored the news, I muted people who talked about politics, I avoided all things political and any semblance of a political conversation at all costs. I'd never been so quiet before. This was around the time Ukraine and Isreal started becoming the hot topic. You can see it here. All my political posts just stop sometime around 2021. And even though I chose to stop "spreading awareness" about things, I started to feel this immense guilt that I was seemingly not doing my part. Or that my IG account now looked like BLM was a fad I participated in, and I couldn't care less about those pesky Palestinians /sarcasm. All the while, I was dying inside NOT talking about it.

I used that time to read up on the history of the Israel-Palestine conflict, I was reaching out to my high school friends who were now growing families in Palestine, I was trying to think of way to engage in the movement that didn't involve reposting the same 5 Instagram posts that everyone was already sharing, and that didn't involve financial investment as that was SO not a possibility for me. I boycotted what I could, but I was living in Sweden by that time, so it was a boycot by circumstance.

Now, with this whole Banning TikTok debacle, I am just so mad that no one can see that it's a political attack. Ever since 2020, the government has been mad at us for using it as a means of education and organization. That's when the whole subject of banning it arose. We -as in American people - are being punished for utilizing our First Amendment right. That of protesting and organizing (not the stupid misinterpretation of "I can say whatever I want" used by right wingers). It seems like everyone has forgotten that and are just whining about their brainrot being taken away or getting on Twitter to rave about what social media is doing to us. People outside of the US are laughing as if this isn't a modern-day example of mass censorship happening right in front of our eyes. And suddenly, I can feel the boiling water moving up from my toes. Suddenly, I want to slap everyone across the face and get them to wake up. Open your eyes, people! I'm tired of sitting back with this, "we'll there's nothing we can really do that we haven't been doing already" attitude. I want to burn down the white house. I want people to stop treating Luigi Magione like some Robin Hood sex image. I don't want to just settle for this loss of autonomy and progress. I don't want to feel like a minority within a minority within a minority within a minority. What else is there to do when everyone has settled for just dealing?

#us politics #tiktok #tiktok ban #instagram #2020 #Palestine #protest #mental health #trump #censorship

159 notes · View notes

sissa-arrows · 10 months ago

Text

If what’s happening in France right now was happening in the Global South there would be talks about sending troops to bring democracy in France.

The leaders and big figures of the opposition who support Palestinians are getting summoned by the police one by one for refusing to call October 7th a terrorist attack (for the record a lot of them say that it was a war crime because it targeted civilians but not a terror attack so they don’t even support what happened).

All while letting Zionist who actually called for mass murder on live TV get away with it.

But you know what? As strange as it sounds it’s actually a good sign. One of the most violent day for Algerians during the war of liberation (17 October 1961) happened less than a year before the independence just a couple months actually (the independence was on July 5th 1962 but it was signed in March 1962). Because that’s how the colonizers behave and think. The crackdown in France, the new German law forbidding the use of Arabic and Hebrew at pro Palestinian protests, the crackdown in US universities… a wounded dying beast always get more violent. They are scared so they try to silence us harder. They know that it’s a matter of time that the fall of colonialism, imperialism and white supremacy will happen in our lifetime so they try to scare us into stopping the fight.

Don’t get me wrong it will be hard and won’t happen overnight but their reactions are convincing me that we will see a Free Palestine a Free Global South a Free world in our lifetimes.

(P.S: tagging the post with Palestine because my previous post being positive about the outcome seemed to help some people who felt hopeless so I hope this one will help too. That being said we don’t have the right to give up the fight and we shouldn’t give up hope either. None of us is free until all of us are.)

#Palestine #free Palestine #global liberation #imperialism #french politics #anti imperialism

393 notes · View notes

aeolianblues · 1 month ago

Text

I love that we have a generation of young bands who, right from the offset are so vocal about their political causes, through speaking up, fundraisers, working with charity organisations and all. And now these bands are getting big. Fontaines D.C. can’t ’lose fans’ because of their constant and vocal support for Palestine, you’d get laughed out of the venue. Who was surprised when Carlos called everyone else out at the Rolling Stone UK Awards and expressed his strong support for Palestinian independence? They’d have said you’re out of the loop.

Lambrini Girls made it a point early doors: Phoebe has talked about how they were playing a venue in Germany and said if you’re a zionist, leave, and it was half the crowd back then. They’re now one of the most anticipated releases of 2025. They’ve stuck to this principle throughout their rise: their songs are anti-misogynistic, anti-transphobia, anti discrimination. By the time Phoebe scaled the top of a Glastonbury tent to plant a Palestinian flag, there were only cheers.

Bands like Kneecap. They opened their show at Glastonbury, a televised slot shown on national television on the BBC, with a message about imperialism by Britain in Ireland and Palestine. They have gone around with their projectors and projected this fact on public buildings. They’ve talked on stage about how more people were killed in Gaza in 6 months than the entirety of the Troubles. And now, their film is going to the Oscars. They swept the British Independent Film Awards, they’ve been nominated for a BAFTA too. And at that late stage if you complain that Kneecap are being political? Hahaha mate, you’re having a laugh.

Fans of all these bands tend to also follow their beliefs. It’s what draws you into their music, right? When you hear the lyrics to Lambrini Girls’ TERFs Out, or God’s Country, or Bob Vylan’s He’s A Man or We Live Here. Kneecap’s CEARTA, Enola Gay’s PTS.DUP or Through Men’s Eyes. Amyl and the Sniffers’ Knifey or Comfort To Me. Unless you’re actively stuffing a finger in your ears going ‘la la la I can’t hear you’, you must know.

And so I love that I see Fontaines fan accounts, ones with pretty large followings and engagement with a description that basically says ‘Fontaines D.C. fan account. Free Palestine.’ (And it’s not just performative, they too have used their platform to organise fundraisers and work with charity organisations to make sure their action is as direct as can be.) Fandoms can sometimes be places where it’s almost taboo to break the veneer of pretending your time spent loving a band somehow doesn’t exist in the real world, and I see this a lot with older fandoms/older bands’ fandoms. ‘Just stick to the music’, ‘we’re all just here to love this band, let’s leave the politics out of it’ okay grandma. Your band themselves have spoken out but just because they do it less frequently doesn’t warrant the ‘no politics’ rule of your fanclub.

So I’m glad to see how actively involved our new bands are, they were vocal before they had a platform and a big chunk of their listeners are now either people that came up with them, supporting this, or those who even learned something along the way. And as we’ve seen from Taylor Swift fans, mobilised fandoms can do a LOT, that’s really where the power of music to make difference lies, so I’m glad to see how fandom in music by these young bands is not resistant to it!

#Thoughts #Music #Politics #fandom #fontaines d.c.#kneecap #lambrini girls #Bob Vylan #Enola Gay #musicians #amyl and the sniffers #Kneecap band #fontaines dc #Just one example would be the bigger social media muse fandoms. Girl. This band has been political since like album 2 #Wtf do you mean ‘why did you guys get political’ are we listening to the same band??#muse band

52 notes · View notes

theroundbartable · 4 months ago

Text

My position on the war in Israel/ Palestine

Below the cut, because this is my opinion, and you are, of course, not expected to share it, or even care about my position at all. You might not even like what I have to say.

This is for myself and for the people who decide whom to follow based on the flags I raise in my bio (which is none).

It's a bit long, sorry.

The war in Israel/Palestine has now been going on for over a year and I keep seeing blogs that are entirely pro palestine, and then others who are entirely Israeli, accusing each other of rape and murder and genocide, of antisemitism and zionism, etc. etc. Most of these accusations were fact checked and true. Some arguments I heard of people were quite obviously formed through what their government told them, might even lied to them about. I cannot blame these people for clinging to faith, to clinging to the vague idea that there is a sense to their suffering, or who are trying to deflect of their own guilt.

I am German. I know the arguments. I know why they exist and I cannot blame people who's life might be depending on that hope, who's sanity might depend on that faith.

So far, I have not really posted my own opinion on it and I understand that my position on this is not a common one. Nor is it one that many people will accept or find satisfying. Never the less, this is my point.

Under normal circumstances, I would never have made a post and I already am very late to the debate, but since elections in the US are up and more dangerous than ever, since the debates and the war lead to attacks on people online and world wide, since all this enables the same fascistic views that once dominated my country and are threatening to dominate the field once again, I think I should at least say something.

I need to, in order to make up the the past my grandfather took part in as a German soldier, to honor my grandmother's memory who welcomed refugees of war and "war criminals" who were stationed in the neighboring Arbeitslager in her home; in her home where she was all alone with her sick father and waited for the news of her brothers falling in the war while the polish captive cooked them dinner and taught her to read. I need to, as someone who's ancestors were both shooting and housing their enemies. As someone who carries both the guilt and the pride into the next generation.

This is not a football game.

I can't go and pick a side and root for their win. I can't go out on the street with other students and hold up "free palestine" signs, when I know that the words are war propaganda from a group of terrorists. I can't go and side with Israel and justify a genocide by telling people they are being antisemitic if they criticise the Israeli government.

It is the Israeli government under Netanjahu, it is the Hamas who are fighting this war, and to say that the people under their leadership aren't in on it is naive to a degree.

We are not talking about winning and losing here. Because there are no winners in war. I CANNOT debate on who's human rights are worth more than the other. I CANNOT ignore that the Hamas started the war, I cannot ignore that they abuse their captives, I cannot excuse that the Israeli government shoots back at hospitals and abuses their own captives as well.

I can't choose between the grays, because to me, they are the same shade.

But to say they are all supporting those leaderships, to say that not most of them are just trying to survive is terrifyingly cold. That would be like saying they deserve what is happening to them and that can never be the truth.

This doesn't mean I'm not judging between the two. I judge the obvious violence on both sides, I fear for the victims on both accounts, I hate the idea that categorises who is allowed to live where in the country, I despise the idea that Israel alone is to blame.

"You can't not pick a side."

I did. Because there is not just two sides to this war. There is three or four, perhaps even more than that.

There is the terror organisation, there is the government, and then there is the people stuck in the crossfire. I refuse to side with the criminals. I refuse to side with the abusers. They are both wrong, they are both murderous and violent, and siding with one would be - for me - like pointing the gun at the other.

That said, I do not believe that people who raise the palestine flags are wrong, neither do I judge the Israel one. Both sides deserve justice for what happend and what continues to happen. But to a German who only raises the flag once every four yeara at soccer games, worshipping the government that is doing all this, that feels wrong. I know that my view is distorted because of my family's Nazi history, but I can't help feeling that way.

If we're talking about violence, justice would mean that more violence is the answer. An eye for an eye is justice too, but this will never result in peace.

Quite honestly, I don't even think a two state solution would be the answer either. It could be, if Hamas and Israel wanted peace. If Natanjahus war wasn't a ploy to keep himself in power. As it is right now, with the war expanding, even if they managed to somewhat put down their weapons, they will continue to be neighboring enemies, they will continue to hate each other and they will continue to never forgive, to never forget, justifying future reasons to war.

Honestly, I'm not arrogant enough to say I know the solution. All I know is that I know where I stand. And I will never, under any circumstances, judge you if you live in Isreal or in palestine. Nor will I judge you for fighting for each of their rights. Because unless you wish for the complete destruction of the other, unless you justify a genocide, then I am on your side. Because you are, in this war, on your own. And I don't want to see you there alone.

And I will not raise your flag, I will not raise the flag of your enemy, I don't even raise my own flags because I'm honestly not that much into soccer. Because I separate you and your life from the system you live in.

All I can do is tell you that if you flee to Germany, I will be one of the people voting for your safety, for your right to stay, and for being properly integrated. I will not side with the right wing fascists that dominate this country. I will not side with people who simply picked their favorite oppressor. It's not enough to save you. But I'm not a hero. I can only refuse to be the villain.

This makes my position obviously debatable, to some even unacceptable, and I understand that it's not very satisfying to read this from someone who is lucky and priviledged enough to watch from the sidelines.

But I simply cannot support either of these systems. Because neither of them value human life, let alone human rights.

#politics #delete later #unpopular opinion #palestine #Israel

57 notes · View notes

cartoonistcoop · 4 months ago

Text

ShortBox Comics Member Interview: Otava Heikkilä

Throughout the month of October, the Cartoonist Cooperative will be sharing interviews with members of the Co-op who have a new comic available at the ShortBox Comics Fair 2024!

NOTE: The Cartoonist Cooperative is not affiliated, associated, authorized, endorsed by, or in any way formally connected with ShortBox.

Today’s spotlight is Otava Heikkilä and their new comic for ShortBox, Home by the Rotting Sea

We’d love it if you could introduce yourself and tell us about your background in comics.

Otava Heikkilä: Hey, I’m Otava, a thirty-something comic artist from Finland whose work focuses on narrative, usually historically inspired, usually dark fiction, for queer adults. I’ve been self-publishing comics online since 2010, and my works have been published by indie publishers like Iron Circus Comics and Quindrie Press from 2016 onwards. My piece for ShortBox Comics Fair 2024 will be my 14th comic to see a release. I don’t really know why I make comics, but it’s the primary driving compulsion I have in life. Sad, or awesome, or both!

Tell us more about your new comic?

OH: Home by the Rotting Sea is about two former playthings from the Human King’s harem. This world has ended after a climate event, and the ice caps have melted, and everything that’s left is this hot, rotting world without trees. The usual things still thrive there: Kings with big enough armies to confiscate land for themselves. But after the ice caps melted, humans have gotten in contact with another humanoid species who used to live behind the glaciers: the Väki, who the humans call giants, because they’re bigger than us. The territories are under dispute, and to smooth over the latest injury, the Human King sends those two former playthings, Ilta and Laulu, and a cart full of jewelry and furs, to the Väki as an appeasement. The comic itself starts here, and we see Ilta and Laulu learning to live among the Väki. It’s an existential slice of life.

Tell us about your creative process; how did you develop this comic and what are the steps you took to bring it to the final stage?

OH: While developing a new comic, I usually have a few interests that compel me, and a few more that bother me, and I end up alchemizing those together. In recent years I’ve been interested in prehistory and the other humanoid species that lived alongside us in the past. Everybody wants to make a story about how we might’ve felt about the Neanderthals, and I think I’d like to make it too. This is kind of a go at that story, but I wanted to make it fictional and unrelated to our real world relatives. Chasing historical accuracy with a story about prehistory is inherently kind of an impossible, funny thing anyway, and I’ve understood I’m not well-read enough for it (If you are, and would like me to illustrate it for you, hit me up).

So the speculative anthropology was the compelling part. The bothering part was/is the genocide in Palestine that broke into a hell on earth while I was developing the comic. I want to make it clear that my comic doesn’t matter in any meaningful way under this terrible light, but the events are inside all of us and making us sick; my comic is about the death of a people and a land because somebody at the top can’t stop eating the world until there’s nothing left. It’s impossible to make it and have it be unaffected by what’s happening. This was the hardest story to make for me because I’ve bagged so much grief inside it, and hope too.

I’ve also been through chronic pain this year, and I made a lot of the backgrounds of the comic with my left hand, which is in somewhat less pain than my right one. It’s kind of stupid to suffer for pictures, and I will try not to do it going forward, but probably I will.

Does a sense of audience, even if it’s just an audience of one, enter into your creative process? If yes, how so?

OH: Yeah, of course. It’s the need to make a connection to somebody and to feel and see the same thing with brief but great precision. It’s a kind of truth-sharing, because I find it hard to share my real self in my personal life. Or maybe those two things aren’t connected, I don’t know. I’m always thinking about the individual on the other side.

Can you talk about your visual style? How did you develop it?

OH: I think art comes to me easily and because of that I’m lazy about it. I don’t use as much reference as I should, and there’s a general ground floor chaos to everything; my work is worse for it. I’ve tried to tighten the ship and learn better fundamentals as I’ve gotten older, and the result is, I guess, interesting. I do big compositional color blocks first, then lines and detail. I went to art school for my Bachelor’s degree and retained nothing from there except a general superiority complex about having an art degree and some painting fundamentals, which make my workflow slower than it should be for digital comics. Sense of dimensions and scale, color, and clarity of the reading experience are important to me.

Read the rest of the interview HERE! And dont forget to check out the Shortbox Comics Fair to support these lovely creators!!

#cartoonist cooperative #comics #comic art #comic artist #comic books #cartoonist #comic recommendations #shortbox #shortbox comics fair #sbcf2024

60 notes · View notes

nonbinarypirat · 6 months ago

Text

Okay, I’ve been collecting my thoughts on the many-ears demon race and their subservient stance in the Netherworld. And I think this is a perfect time to make a post since chapter 361 just came out and we are getting the main conflict of the arch: conservative older generation vs progressive younger generation. Plus also the fact that the forming country and school still isn’t stable and all that. Spoilers for chapter 361!

So it’s becoming more and more clear that the main conflict will be changing the minds of the older more fearful generation of the many-ears race. Which makes perfect sense, a newer kid comes into this area with ideas of making them equals (something they have never been in their race’s history from what we know) and with the help of one of their own, starts influencing the minds of their children. Obviously the elders would be scared and want to shut this down. It looks like the many-ears can’t remember or see a past or future where they didn’t have this class system in place and the idea of it shifting could very much lead to pain and suffering. It kind of reminds me of the civil rights movement in America, like sure it lead to the many laws that protect marginalized people today, but it came at the cost of many injuries/deaths, fights, and years of activism. The road isn’t an easy one and similarly to the movement, many people didn’t see a point. There’s a few mindsets that you can fall into for this, either you don’t believe change is possible or you do believe it is possible but ultimately would not be worth pursuing because of the consequences. It seems like most fall into the “it’s not possible” with maybe some believing that even if it could change, why change something that has works for generations. The elder in particular seems to believe the second one, that maybe life could be better for them but refuses to change anything on a chance.

It’s understandable why they wouldn’t want change to happen, especially at the expense of their children. But at the same time, younger generations are typically the ones who are less willing to stick to the status quo (queue high school musical) and engage in activism. That’s why student activism is so prevalent, you become aware of new cultures, ideas, and history and are less willing to settle with what’s “worked.” Think about the recent college activism for Palestine or the student walkouts in Florida against the “don’t say gay” bill. A few examples of a much larger trend. However, as you get older you are less willing to see things change, you become compliant and many ways, complicit. Things that seemed like there wasn’t an issue or shouldn’t be an issue are now being questioned and that forces you to question your whole system. And many don’t want to confront that.

In the case for the many-ears, they have survived off of honing their hearing skill to careers that would best benefit from having superb hearing. However, what about many-ears who don’t have incredible hearing like Nova or you simply don’t want the jobs you are trained for like the children in chapter 360. What happens if someone wants to be a florist like the Monmo-chan that doesn’t require good hearing to succeed? If you base your value on your hearing alone, does someone who doesn’t want to base their worth on that lesser in their society? Are they seen as misguided, helpless, or even traitor to your race? It seems chapter 361 confirms that fear. If you don’t have great hearing, you do not have value or worth. And sure, we can argue that he was just saying that to get him to quit teaching the students, but no matter what, his statements were ableist. There’s no other way to slice it. He literally told Nova he has no value in their society because he doesn’t have the many-ears hearing skill. He may be able to hear like most other demons, but in reference to the many-ears, he has a disability that makes him “worthless” in their eyes.

I think another thing I find interesting is that they believe (probably based on a fact(s) of some kind) that they are weak. Weak in body and weak in magic. First, weak in body is something that we can, for the most part, can agree about because of their stature. They are very small compared to most demons and this easily makes them prey to many other demons. But why do they believe that not training your strength and combat isn’t at least worth pursing? Same for magic. Right now we haven’t seen much evidence this is true since we have only seen Nova sucessfully do magic, but let’s say this is true. Does learning some easy or basic spells not seem worth it? On some part the lack physical and magical prowess seems to be innate in the many-ears, but I believe a larger issue is them internalizing this perceived weakness and deciding it’s not worth learning to better themselves. We know that there does exist spells that doesn’t require much magic from Momonoki’s flashback when she was a newbie teacher. Demons come in many shapes and sizes, including magic. This wouldn’t be a new issue that there exists a demon who has small magic reserves (like Kirio for instance). There has to be more spells that exist that you can use if you fall into this category. And just because someone is smaller doesn’t mean that can’t learn how to fight or train athletically. Sure you may not be as strong as other demons, but you can always learn how to use a weapon. At the very least, learning the theory could protect them if nothing else.

At this point, it seems like the many-ears are just shooting themselves in the foot because they’d rather not even try to learn another skill that could benefit them in the future. Sure the jack of all trades may be the master of none, but as the end of the saying goes, it’s still better than the master of one. This really feels like home schooling verses public school debate too. Like sure, the school that the love trio made isn’t perfect by any means, but it provides them with a more well rounded education that doesn’t just focus on the one. The elder talks about how mastering magic isn’t guaranteed, but couldn’t we say the same with their hearing? Just because others have succeeded doesn’t mean the children are bound to accomplish greatness just because of their hearing. You can’t ever know that.

Children are full of potential and as a teacher you are supposed to give them a plethora of chances to do new things and learn new skills. By stifling them, you essentially are saying they don’t have any other potential to grow. And as a future teacher, it really makes me mad to see that their parents don’t also see their children’s potential. Not to mention that even if you are good at something, it doesn’t mean you are destined to be happy. In fact, I think many of the skills we have are better left as hobbies or something you do for fun. Making a career out of every little skill you’ve honed makes it just that, a job. And maybe not a fun one. They are just repeating a cycle that makes everyone miserable but “works” not for their children’s benefit but for their own because well, at least they are “safe.” Idk, I’d rather be happy but that’s just me.

This is also not to say that the many-ears’ issues are all created by them, clearly other demons are also to blame for this problem. A broken system doesn’t just sprout from no where, it is created by years of oppression and oppressive thinking. What demon wouldn’t take advantage of a race that seems powerless without the strength of the powerful? It creates a back and forth systemic issue that works in theory but is broken if you even think about it for two seconds. The many-ears cannot base their entire worth on their hearing, it just causes unaddressed pain and self worth problems. And not to mention, while it may be working out for them now, it isn’t sustainable. What if at some point demons decide they no longer want to rely on the many ears and start training others for the jobs they are known for? What if a disease or virus spreads that attaches their hearing? What if a large majority of them get hurt or injured, damaging their ears? Not to mention, on a small scale everyone can be disabled in their life time. If you become disabled with your hearing, you wouldn’t be able to fall back on anything. Because you based your entire existence on being able to hear well.

Ultimately, I think this is why it needs to be Nova or Nova in the future that needs to rule the many-ears because he’s living proof that your hearing not only doesn’t define you, but also that the system is built off ableist ideals. Nova should be seen as less valuable because he was born without excellent hearing, especially when he clearly loves and cares for his people. Change is built off the backs of not those in power but by those who’s been suppressed, who want to see change for themselves and for others like them. I hope Nova can see his own value even if his people don’t right now

#nova you are beautiful I’m sorry they don’t see it yet #but they will baby boy #you deserve better #mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #m!ik #mairuma #mairimashita iruma kun spoilers #nova Iruma #iruma suzuki #me overanalyzing characters #character analysis #overcoming societal norms #abliesm

88 notes · View notes

hero-israel · 1 year ago

Note

How can you claim that Zionism was morally right, when what it was was European Jews coming to Palestine by the thousands and buying land, and when the Arabs realised what they were trying to do, i.e. steal land by making it sound reasonable to the British they should have the right to self determination, they rightfully tried to put a stop to it? If a lot of people come into a populated area and then ask for it to be given to them, since they’re so many, does it make it right for the people who were already there? And yeah, it’s true there was some Jewish presence there already but it wasn’t that much and it wasn’t them who started the Zionist movement. So how can you claim this was right?

You just said they were buying the land, and they were, so anyone thinking they were stealing it is already revealing major problems with racism, xenophobia, and conspiratorial thinking.

And by all means, let's talk about "immigrants" versus "people who were already there." From the 1850s to 1920s, the Ottoman Empire faced waves of refugee crises (the Crimean War, the Balkan Wars, the Russo-Turkish War, the Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and the beginning of World War 1) and decided to resettle OVER FIVE MILLION Muslim refugees all throughout its Mediterranean and Levant provinces. They sent hundreds of thousands of ex-Balkan and ex-Russian Muslims into southern Syria and what is now Jordan. These refugees founded the four largest cities in Jordan, including its capital Amman; of course, Jordan had been part of historic Palestine and the Palestine Mandate, and from the very first day they were able to govern themselves they passed laws banning any Jewish citizenship or inhabitation.

Am I supposed to see that as anything other than the most base, ladder-pulling racism? Do you really expect me to care that ex-Russian Muslims arriving in Jaffa in 1890 wanted to keep the ex-Polish Jews out in 1920? Between the Ottoman refugee resettlement and the large numbers of Arabs immigrating to benefit from new economic opportunities in a rapidly developing Palestine, the United Nations would later come to classify people as "refugees of the 1948 war" if they had been permanent inhabitants of Palestine any time before 1946. So many newcomers that just living there for two years made you a wizened, old-timer local, with a perfectly natural right to say nobody else can come in.

Where exactly are you starting history and whose immigration are you seeing as rightful, as just? In 1832, Egypt invaded Ottoman Palestine and established from nothing the new settler town of Abu Kabir; in 1948, Zionist militias depopulated it. Were the Arab settlers of Abu Kabir "indigenous" for the 116 years they were there? Because the major waves of Jewish immigration to Palestine started about 140 years ago....

There is no such thing as a legitimate history of the Levant that sees it as normal and morally / politically neutral for millions of Muslims to be resettled by various Muslim empires, but abnormal and dangerous for Jews to move in under their own initiative - usually out of desperation to save their lives - with no sponsoring empire at all.

Beyond that, if you took a few minutes to think of what your argument implies about the "Great Migration" of African-Americans to northern states in the early 20th century, or refugees crossing the Mexican border, and how white people responded to both, I think you would be less willing to make it, even anonymously.

#israel #palestine #zionism #ottoman empire #immigration #jumblr

302 notes · View notes

scamallach-1 · 5 months ago

Text

When fellow “US” settlers tell each other that they wanna learn about indigenous decolonial land back here on this land but then spend time making an issue about their time, saying they don’t really have time to educate themselves, my autistic ass is at a loss. Cus I’m stumped. You say you want to learn and then when provided with resources your regular response is that you don’t have time? I see it constantly, this excuse. In comment sections when people ask questions and then claim they don’t have time to read the answer; in my own circle when my fellows blab about things they don’t know and then when presented with correct answers and sources, they get quiet and say they just haven’t had time to look into it (yet that doesn’t quiet their mouths on shit they don’t know). We settlers need to ask ourselves right now what we are willing to change for the greater good. If you make a bed from selfishness then expect to sleep in it, I think.

I can’t make other people work decolonial edu into their schedules, I can only send them the resources directly from where I myself am learning about decolonization: the First Nations educators and historians and scholars and Black New Afrikan educators, historians and scholars. If you want to learn about this stuff - and you must - I think it does require making the sacrifices in your daily life necessary for you to be able to do that. Settler-colonialism has us in a chokehold so we need to be more than what it ‘allows’ in order to unlearn it!

I don’t know what other settlers want me to say? Do they want me to be wishy-washy with them about it? Say that whole “if you have time, please consider, sometime…” No, i am not gonna say that because I believe that is bullshit and nothing will get done with that passive attitude.

I do think we working class/poverty class/disabled settlers need to help each other be able to prioritize this education NOW. The indigenous and Black educators we learn from also have jobs, also have children they need to care for, have personal responsibilities and important things to do - and have active genocides against their people. They believe full-heartedly in working toward decolonial land back because of course they do. This is their lives, and not just individual by individual. They’re working for their people’s liberation in the face of settler-colonial genocides!

And so when we look at our work and school and family schedules - as settlers, no different in status than the “Israeli” settler occupying Palestine - and we prioritize our own overwhelm when we are asked to make the fucking space and take the fucking time for this imperative education, so we can be ready accomplices to decolonial action in the coming years, you gotta know how fucked up that is. We should no longer snap into this typical self-serving behavior!

No, I’m not going to say anything less than what I believe is factual, based on the edu ive so far learned from the indigenous and Black liberationists who are telling us, with their radical perspective and wisdom, what we need to do and how we should go about it, even as potential settler accomplices. Prioritize decolonial edu. Make fucking room.

We settlers should all help each other to accomplish this. Plenty of settlers like me with learning disabilities are out there trying to encourage others and make it easier for people to read the histories and theories. People break this information down for you so you can learn it in different ways (audiobook recordings, forum discussions, infographics that take a couple min to read, key histories in “less than 6 minutes”, YouTube interviews and discussions, podcast discussions, free book banks with PDFs, free articles). We have different ways of learning and in different stretches of time available - I really think what matters is that you work to get it done regardless of daily constraint. Show some solidarity. Working class settlers are not the center of the oppressed under settler-colonialism. We are the settler-colonialism. We must actually work to dismantle it by following FN leadership.

The idea that anything liberating and meaningful just falls into someone’s hands is a white supremacist lie.

What I wish is that in my circle at least, fellow settlers would say “I want to learn this but it’s hard and I need help, will you help me?” — to which I would do all I can in order to ensure they can learn. I have more time than others do because I work only part time due to my disability - but that is time I have to give to discuss, share, read-to others (I have dyslexia but I will fucking READ TO YOU because I know how hard it can be!) The point here is, if you begin your edu, you won’t be alone. Reach for support to make it happen and there will be people who will take the endeavor seriously with you.

But you have to be committed to learning this going forward. You have to actually want to begin learning about decolonial land back.

#edit: turned off reblogs cus while I’m relieved to see people get what I mean by this I just don’t wanna be loud #listen to indigenous people when you’re on their land #begin media literacy and political edu!#decolonial land back #settler arrogance #decolonial edu #settler chauvinism #political edu #and fuck the ‘american left’ when y’all don’t educate yourselves on decolonization #fuck ‘marxist’ settler arrogance #steadfast

54 notes · View notes

goldfades · 10 days ago

Text

next time | chapter three, DAYLIGHT

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you try to move on from a past relationship finds yourself caught between a safe relationship with a new football player and a magnetic attraction to joe burrow. kylie tries to guide you towards stable relationships but you struggle with the lack of passion and excitement in your current romance.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kinda angsty, past relationships mention, dalton kincaid mention!!!, ummm nothing else.

The bass thrummed low through the floor, the sound vibrating beneath Joe’s feet as he leaned back against the bar, whiskey glass in hand. The postgame party was in full swing—players scattered around in groups, some deep in conversation, others basking in the high of the night. The exclusivity of it all made things feel a little more intimate, a little less like a spectacle, which he appreciated. No cameras, no media, just guys celebrating with their people.

He had barely touched his drink, rolling the glass between his fingers as he let his eyes scan the room. He wasn’t really sure what—or who—he was looking for.

“Yo, man, you good?”

Joe barely turned his head as Ja’Marr slid in beside him, a bottle of beer in hand, eyes sharp like he could see right through whatever Joe was thinking.

Joe exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

“Uh-huh. That’s your favorite answer these days.”

Joe didn’t bother arguing.

Ja’Marr took a swig from his bottle before nodding toward the far side of the room. “Travis is here with Taylor, obviously.”

Joe followed his line of sight, catching a glimpse of the couple. Travis, as usual, was in the center of everything, laughing loudly, talking with damn near everyone in the room. Taylor was settled in a booth nearby, not nearly as deep into the scene as her boyfriend, but smiling nonetheless.

And next to her—

Joe blinked. There was someone next to her. Someone he didn’t recognize.

And yet...

Something flickered in his chest, sharp and sudden, like a stray ember catching flame.

You were sitting comfortably, legs crossed, your body angled toward Taylor as you talked, deep in whatever conversation they were having. Unlike the other women at the party, she wasn’t dressed to be noticed—no skin-tight dress, no exaggerated effort to stand out. Just effortless. Simple. Like she belonged without trying.

Joe couldn’t look away.

Something about her felt... familiar, though he couldn’t place why.

Ja’Marr must have noticed, because he let out a low chuckle. “Ohhh. I see what’s happening here.”

Joe finally tore his eyes away, shaking his head. “Shut up.”

“Nah, man, this is interesting,” Ja’Marr mused, leaning against the bar. “You actually interested in someone? Haven’t seen that in a minute.”

Joe ignored him, but that didn’t stop Ja’Marr from grinning.

“Who is she?” Joe asked before he could stop himself.

Ja’Marr arched a brow. “That’s Kelce’s sister.”

Joe turned back toward her, brow furrowing slightly. He’d heard about Travis’s sister in passing but had never actually seen her before. She was always in the background, tucked away in the spaces where the cameras didn’t reach.

But now? Now he was seeing her.

Really seeing her.

Ja’Marr smirked. “Didn’t know Travis had a sister, huh?”

“I mean... I knew.” Joe tilted his head slightly. “Just didn’t know she was... her.”

Ja’Marr let out a laugh. “Oh yeah, man. That’s her.”

Joe turned back toward his drink, swirling the liquid inside, trying to settle whatever had just sparked in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

Not now.

Not after everything.

It had been months since his breakup with Olivia, but he still wasn’t used to this—this thing inside of him that craved something solid, something real, but had no idea where to find it. He’d tried to push it down, tried to ignore it, but it was still there. And now, looking across the room at a girl he didn’t even know, it was clawing its way back to the surface.

He stole another glance, catching the way she laughed at something Taylor said, head tilting back just slightly, eyes bright with amusement.

That feeling surged again.

Joe clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not to him. Not like this.

The house was quiet when Joe got home, the kind of quiet that made his own thoughts louder. He dropped his keys onto the counter, kicked off his shoes, and sank onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. His phone was already in his hand before he could think twice about it. Muscle memory had him opening Instagram, but this time, instead of mindlessly scrolling, he typed a name into the search bar.

Your name.

It popped up immediately. No effort. No guessing. Like even the damn algorithm knew he was curious.

He clicked on your profile, eyes scanning over it with something between hesitation and intrigue. Your profile picture wasn’t what he expected—no posed influencer shot, no carefully curated aesthetic. Just you, smiling at the camera on the beach. Simple.

And the posts? Barely 30 of them. Joe found that odd.

With a last name like Kelce, you could’ve been larger than life. He’d expected more—glamorous vacations, front-row seats, high-profile events. Instead, what he got was...

Normal.

A couple of pictures with your brothers—Travis grinning like an idiot with his arm slung around your shoulders, Jason hugging you tight and you with Kylie and the kids. A handful of game-day shots, mostly from years ago. One with Taylor, obviously.

And then—Joe scrolled lower.

Prom photos. His thumb hovered over the screen, eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

It wasn’t the Kelce sister, the one with over 10 million followers, standing in an ordinary high school gym, wearing a dress that, while beautiful, wasn’t designer or extravagant. It wasn’t you, standing next to a guy in a rented tux, smiling like you had no idea how different your life was going to be in just a few years.

Joe felt something shift in his chest. He couldn’t explain it, not really. But this? This was unexpected.

Who were you?

Because from what he could see, you weren’t just the Kelce’s sister. You weren’t just some girl who happened to exist in the same space as NFL royalty.

You were something else entirely.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Joe wanted to know more.

The house was lively, as it always was.

Jason and Kylie’s home never knew silence, not with three kids under five running around, demanding attention, food, and whatever toy the other had at any given moment. The TV was playing some random kid’s show in the background, the faint sound of little giggles filling the air as Benny toddled after Wyatt, both of them holding onto a stuffed football like it was the most prized possession in the world.

You sat at the kitchen island, nursing a cup of tea Kylie had made you. She insisted it would be good for your stress—not that you were stressed, of course, but apparently, she could just tell.

Across from you, Jason leaned back in his chair, watching you with a look that made you roll your eyes before he even opened his mouth.

“So, let me get this straight,” he started, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re seriously letting Kylie pick your next boyfriend?”

“She’s not picking him,” you corrected, tapping your nails against the side of your mug. “She’s just… giving me options.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, okay.”

Kylie, standing by the counter with her phone in hand, waved him off. “Oh, shut up. I’m doing what you should be doing instead of scaring off every guy who even thinks about talking to her.”

Jason pointed at her. “That’s my job.”

“No,” she countered, flipping through her phone. “Your job is to be a supportive big brother who wants his sister to be happy.”

“She is happy,” Jason insisted. Then, turning to you, he added, “You’re happy, right?”

You gave him a dry look. “So happy.”

Kylie huffed. “Okay, well, you’d be happier if you weren’t wasting away in self-pity over you-know-who.”

Jason tensed immediately, expression darkening at the mere mention of him.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “We’re not doing this.”

“We are doing this,” Kylie pushed. “Because I love you, and you deserve to move on.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath but said nothing more, probably because he knew Kylie wasn’t going to drop it.

“Anyway,” Kylie continued, ignoring her husband’s brooding, “I took the liberty of compiling a list of eligible bachelors who might be worthy of your attention.”

You lifted a brow. “A list?”

She held up her phone. “A roster, technically.”

Jason groaned, rubbing his face. “Jesus Christ.”

You, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smirk. “A roster? You’re actually scouting for me?”

“Damn right, I am,” Kylie said proudly. “And I think I found a solid option.”

You leaned forward slightly, a little amused now. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

She turned her phone around, revealing a picture of Dalton Kincaid.

You blinked. “The Bills’ tight end?”

Kylie nodded. “He’s young, talented, good-looking—”

Jason made a sound of protest.

“—respectful,” Kylie continued, throwing her husband a look. “And I did my research. No crazy exes, no scandals, and he seems like an all-around nice guy.”

You tilted your head, staring at the picture. You had to admit… he was attractive.

Kylie caught your pause and gasped, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you didn’t not say that.”

Jason groaned again, pushing back from the table. “I hate everything about this.”

Kylie swatted at him playfully before turning back to you, her excitement barely contained. “This is progress! We’re getting somewhere!”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “It’s not that serious.”

“But you think he’s cute.”

“…He’s not not cute.”

Kylie clapped her hands together. “I’ll take it.”

Jason just muttered something about needing a beer.

You laughed softly, feeling lighter than you had in weeks.

For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest didn’t feel so suffocating.

Jason, still grumbling about the whole thing, leaned forward and set his forearms on the table. “Alright, if we’re really doing this, I have a suggestion.”

Kylie rolled her eyes. “Oh, now you’re getting involved?”

“I’m just saying,” Jason shrugged. “I met this rookie at camp—JJ McCarthy. Nice kid, real polite. Reminds me of myself, honestly.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Jason.”

“What?”

“He’s a rookie.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not about to be a cougar just because you met some nice kid at camp.”

Jason smirked. “I mean, it’d make for some great headlines.”

You tossed a napkin at him. “Shut up.”

Kylie, snickering, scrolled through her phone again. “Alright, fine, JJ’s out. What about…” She hummed, scrolling. “Christian McCaffrey?”

Jason shook his head. “Engaged.”

“Damn,” Kylie muttered, moving on. “What about George Pickens?”

Jason scoffed. “Not happening.”

“Okay, okay,” Kylie continued, tapping her screen. “Ooh, what about Joe Burrow?”

Jason immediately burst into laughter. Like, full-bodied, shoulders-shaking laughter. You and Kylie both blinked at him.

Kylie frowned. “What the hell is so funny?”

Jason wiped a fake tear from his eye. “You think Joe Burrow is relationship material?” He laughed again, shaking his head. “That guy is the opposite of what she needs.”

You tilted your head, intrigued now. “Why do you say that?”

Jason snorted. “Because Burrow is married to the game. Dude’s got tunnel vision. He’s not the type to settle down, trust me.”

Kylie scoffed. “That’s not entirely true. He was in a long-term relationship before, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, and look how that ended,” Jason pointed out. “He’s not gonna be boyfriend of the year anytime soon.”

You, despite yourself, were mildly curious now. You hadn’t really thought about Joe Burrow in that way before, but Jason’s insistence that it would never happen somehow made it more interesting.

Not that you were interested. At all.

Obviously.

Kylie crossed her arms. “Well, I think you two would be cute together.”

Jason laughed again. “Not a chance.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Can we please move on? I am not about to start a fantasy draft of my love life.”

Kylie sighed dramatically. “Fine. But just so you know, I am rooting for Dalton Kincaid.”

Jason groaned. “I need another beer.”

You just shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as the conversation shifted to something else. But still, for some reason, the idea of Joe Burrow lingered in the back of your mind longer than it probably should have.

It started off simple.

Dalton had followed you on Instagram a few days after your conversation with Kylie and Jason, and Kylie had been the first to notice. “Look at that! Already manifesting. I’m a genius.” You had rolled your eyes at her dramatic proclamation, but you had to admit—it was a little funny.

Then he liked one of your photos.

You didn’t think much of it at first. He seemed like a nice guy from what you’d heard, and he had that clean-cut, all-American charm to him. No drama, no scandal, no exes lurking in the shadows. Just a solid, respectable guy.

You liked one of his photos back, just to see what would happen.

Then, one evening, a DM popped up.

Dalton Kincaid: Hey, didn’t know we had mutuals. Small world.

It was harmless, casual, and completely normal—so normal that it threw you off. After years of dealing with cryptic texts, games, and public blowouts, the idea of a guy just… being direct felt almost foreign.

You responded. He responded. And just like that, a conversation started.

A week later, he asked you to dinner.

You said yes.

And honestly? It was nice.

Dalton was polite, always held the door open for you, asked questions about your life, and actually listened. He didn’t pry too much about your family or your past, didn’t seem to care about the attention your last relationship had brought. He just seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you.

And after everything you’d been through, you figured that had to count for something.

So, when he asked you out again, you said yes.

And then again.

It wasn’t some whirlwind romance, nothing dramatic or earth-shattering. It was steady, predictable. Safe.

That’s what you should want, right?

That’s what Kylie kept saying. “This is good for you,” she insisted one night after a double date. “This is what a normal relationship looks like.”

Jason, surprisingly, got along with him when they finally met. He gave Dalton a firm handshake, grilled him about football, and even managed to squeeze in an overly protective “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you” speech—which Dalton took in stride.

Everything was fine.

So why did you feel nothing?

You tried to ignore it. You really did.

But Kylie? Kylie could tell.

It was dinner at their house, just something casual. You’d brought Dalton along, and Jason was actually being nice for once, talking football and joking around with him.

But Kylie was watching you.

And when you reached for your wine glass for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, she leaned in close and murmured, “You’re bored.”

You blinked at her. “What?”

“You’re bored,” she repeated, matter-of-fact.

“I am not—”

She gave you a look.

You exhaled sharply, lowering your glass. “It’s just… different.”

Kylie arched an eyebrow. “Different how?”

You didn’t answer.

But she already knew.

Before dinner, you excused yourself to the bathroom, closing the door behind you and gripping the edge of the sink as you stared at your reflection.

What were you doing?

Dalton was perfect—on paper, at least.

But the truth was, you weren’t excited. Your heart didn’t race when he texted you. You didn’t find yourself thinking about him when he wasn’t around. You weren’t craving his presence.

You had been convincing yourself that this was what you needed—something stable, something good.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You had always been drawn to chaos.

Jayson had been chaos. That relationship had been unpredictable, passionate, messy. It had ruined you, and yet you had kept going back, over and over, because you didn’t know anything different.

Was that just who you were?

Were you always going to be the girl who ran toward the fire, no matter how many times she got burned?

You closed your eyes, exhaling shakily.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be healing.

So why did it feel like you were just losing yourself all over again?

The event was grand, extravagant in a way that felt both dazzling and completely exhausting. The kind of celebration where everything gleamed just a little too bright, the champagne flowed just a little too freely, and everyone pretended they weren’t sizing each other up with every passing glance.

You had tried—really tried—to get into it.

You were supposed to be playing two roles tonight: proud sister, devoted WAG. You had the dress, the practiced smile, the polite small talk. But twenty minutes in, you already felt yourself fading.

Dalton had been whisked away by Jason and Travis almost immediately, caught up in some animated discussion about the upcoming season. And you? You had done your best to engage, had listened to your brothers talk about strategies and offseason plans and blah blah blah—but after a while, you had quietly slipped away, finding solace in the one person who could make these things bearable.

Taylor.

“I think I’ve heard your last name about a hundred times already,” she mused, swirling her drink idly as you both leaned against the high-top table tucked into a quieter corner of the room. “Everywhere I turn, it’s ‘Kelce this, Kelce that.’ How do you deal with it?”

You let out a slow exhale, eyes scanning the glittering room. The sea of football players, coaches, media figures—it was endless.

"Practice."

Taylor laughed, tapping her manicured nails against the rim of her glass. “I don’t know how you do it. I get tired just watching you pretend to be interested.”

You smirked, raising your glass in a mock toast. “Years of experience.”

The truth was, you had been interested in the past. You had sat in the stands since you were a kid, had spent years watching your brothers play, following their careers, genuinely invested in it all.

But now?

Now, it felt like the same story on a different night. The same conversations, the same people, the same repetitive cycle.

Dalton was here, of course. Somewhere. You had watched him slip into the role of social butterfly with ease, chatting up Jason, shaking hands with some of the veterans, blending seamlessly into the scene.

You knew you should be at his side. That was what WAGs did, right? They stood next to their football player boyfriends, smiled for the cameras, cheered them on at events like this.

And yet…

You didn’t want to.

Not because you didn’t like Dalton. He was great. He was kind, easygoing, safe. But standing next to him didn’t ignite anything in you. There was no pull, no electricity.

And worst of all—you were bored out of your mind.

Your eyes flitted across the room absently, landing on familiar faces here and there. Jason was laughing, Travis was deep in conversation with some Hall of Famer, Dalton was… somewhere.

The thing about these events was that they all blurred together after a while. The same faces, the same conversations, the same predictable rhythm. You had been in rooms like this for as long as you could remember, had learned how to smile at the right moments, laugh at the right jokes, play the part.

But tonight, something felt different.

Or maybe you felt different.

Taylor had leaned in close, whispering something about how the only thing worse than being in a room full of football players was being in a room full of football players and their coaches. You had laughed, nodded, agreed wholeheartedly.

Dalton was still somewhere, lost in conversation with Jason and Travis, and for the hundredth time that night, you wondered why you were even here.

You weren’t unhappy. You weren’t miserable. But you weren’t exactly having fun either.

Your eyes wandered absently over the crowd, taking in the scene. And before you could think too much about it, you turned to Taylor. “Wanna sneak out?”

Her face lit up with delight. “God, I thought you’d never ask.”

And just like that, you slipped away, out onto the quiet balcony, letting the crisp night air wash over you.

Joe had been doing a pretty good job of convincing himself he wasn’t looking for her. For the last few weeks, her name had been sitting in the back of his mind like a song he couldn’t shake, playing on a loop, something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to forget.

He had spent too much time trying to figure out why.

Why her? Why now? But now that she was here, standing across the room, he realized it didn’t matter. Because the second he saw her, something in him shifted.

She was sitting with Taylor, her expression unreadable, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass in a way that made something tighten in his chest. It had been a long time since he had felt this way. Since something had pulled at him like this.

Maybe never.

And then, before he could process it, before he could even think about doing something about it—

She was gone.

He blinked, scanning the room, realizing she had slipped away with Taylor out onto the balcony. And just like that, the moment was gone, slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to hold onto it.

"You gonna go talk to her, or you just gonna stand there like an idiot?"

Joe sighed, exhaling slowly as Ja’Marr clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not really my thing."

Ja’Marr snorted. "What, talking to girls? Since when?"

"Since she’s not just some girl."

He regretted saying it the second it left his mouth, because now Ja’Marr was grinning at him like he had just admitted to something huge.

"Damn, Joe. That bad, huh?"

Joe rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "It’s not like that."

"Right. And you’re not staring at that balcony like you wanna be anywhere but here."

Joe clenched his jaw, eyes flickering toward the doors again. It was stupid. He knew that.

But something about her—the normalcy, the way she seemed so unaffected by all of this, the way she had managed to get under his skin without even trying—it was driving him insane.

And now she was right there.

Ja’Marr smirked. "You act like you’ve never had to talk to a girl before."

Joe huffed out a laugh. "This is different."

"Why? ‘Cause you actually give a shit?"

Joe didn't answer. Because yeah, that was exactly why. And the worst part?

He felt like he was back in high school, standing outside a classroom, working up the nerve to talk to the girl in his biology class. But this wasn't high school. And if he didn't go now, he probably never would.

Ja’Marr leaned in, lowering his voice. "Go."

Joe exhaled slowly.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it—

He did.

*****

Dinner with the Kelces is never a quiet affair, no matter how upscale the restaurant. Tonight is no exception.

You're sitting at a ridiculously high-end spot in New York, the kind where the waiters wear crisp white jackets, and the wine list is longer than the menu. The kind of place that expects hushed conversations and delicate bites—not a table full of Kelces, their significant others, and three children under the age of five making a scene in the middle of the dining room.

It’s chaos. Beautiful, hilarious, full-volume Kelce chaos.

And then there’s Dalton.

You glance across the table at him, watching as he patiently listens to Wyatt explain the entire plot of whatever Disney movie she’s obsessed with this week. He nods along, eyes soft, not the least bit bothered by the toddler-level monologue happening right in front of him.

He’s good. Good with the kids. Good with your family. Just… good.

And you hate yourself for not being into him the way you should be.

"Are you even listening to me?"

You blink, dragging your gaze back to Kylie, who’s watching you like she knows exactly where your head is at.

"What?" you say, shoving a piece of bread in your mouth to give yourself something to do.

Kylie gives you a look. "You’re thinking too much. Stop it."

"I’m literally just sitting here."

"You’re literally overanalyzing the nice, stable man sitting next to you and trying to talk yourself into liking him."

You groan, dropping your head into your hands.

"You should like him," Kylie continues, because of course she’s not going to let it go. "He’s great."

"I know he is," you mutter.

And you do.

Dalton is everything you’re supposed to want.

Which makes it worse that you don’t want him the way you want—

"Oh!" Taylor’s voice cuts through the conversation. "Speaking of football players, did I tell you guys about—"

You don’t even have time to react before Taylor clamps a hand over your mouth, eyes going wide like she just realized she stepped on a landmine.

Kylie immediately perks up. "About what?"

Taylor’s gaze darts to you, full of silent apology.

Shit.

You force a laugh, waving it off like it’s no big deal. "Oh, it’s nothing. She’s talking about that thing with Joe Burrow at the event."

Travis, who’s been in the middle of a conversation with Jason, turns his head at the sound of the name. "What thing with Burrow?"

You roll your eyes, putting way too much effort into sounding casual. "He just wanted a picture."

A beat of silence.

Jason blinks. "That’s it?"

"Yeah, of course."

No one believes you.

Dalton, who’s been relatively quiet during the exchange, just quirks a brow, looking between you all. He doesn’t press. But you see the slight shift in his expression, like he’s noting it. Filing it away for later.

Taylor, meanwhile, is drinking her wine way too fast, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

The conversation moves on, but the tension doesn’t fully disappear.

And you spend the rest of dinner trying very hard not to think about why you lied so quickly.

And Dalton drops you off at your hotel that night, always the gentleman. He walks you to the door, hands in his pockets, that easy, genuine smile still on his face.

"I had a really great time tonight," he says.

You nod, ignoring the way your stomach twists. "Me too."

And then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips. It’s soft. Polite. Exactly what a good guy would do. And all you can think about is how much you crave more.

Just… not from him.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and you let out a long, slow breath, forehead resting against the cool wood. The air in the hotel room was still, almost suffocatingly quiet, as if it was holding space for the thoughts you were trying so hard to ignore.

Dalton was perfect. He was stable, kind, predictable in the best way possible. He was the kind of guy you could trust, the kind who would never make you wonder where you stood. And yet—

Your fingers twitched at your sides as you let out a groan, dragging your hands down your face. God, what was wrong with you?

You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Not Dalton—the other one.

Joe Burrow.

The thought alone sent a frustrated shudder down your spine. You barely knew him, and yet, he’d wormed his way into your brain like he had every right to be there. You could still hear his voice, that easy, smooth way he spoke, the sharp intelligence laced behind his words. And worse—you could still feel the way his eyes had lingered, like he’d been just as caught in whatever this was as you had.

Your chest tightened, and you pushed off the door, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. New York was alive outside, bright and fast-moving, everything in constant motion. It should’ve been a distraction. It should’ve been enough to drown out the storm in your head.

But instead, your mind pulled you back.

Back to Jayson.

Back to the last time you’d felt something like this.

You sucked in a breath through your nose, arms wrapping around yourself, like maybe if you held on tight enough, you could stop yourself from spiraling.

It had been years of push and pull with him.

You met him when you were nineteen—young, naive, willing to overlook the red flags for the sake of something that made your pulse race. And god, he had made you feel alive. He was charming, effortless in the way he made you want him, even when you knew he wasn’t good for you.

The highs had been so high. The stolen moments, the electricity, the kind of passion that made everything else fade into the background.

But the lows?

The lows had swallowed you whole.

The fights, the uncertainty, the way he could cut you down with a single look, a single word. The way you had needed his approval, his love, like it was the only thing keeping you standing.

You had been a wreck when it finally, finally ended.

And now, months later, standing in the middle of a quiet hotel room with the ghost of another man’s touch lingering on your lips, you hated that a small, twisted part of you missed it.

You hated that stability didn’t set your veins on fire the way recklessness did.

You hated that Joe Burrow had looked at you like you were interesting, like you were something worth figuring out—and it made you want.

You hated yourself for craving something that could ruin you all over again.

A bitter laugh slipped from your lips as you sank down onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at your temples.

"You’re a fucking mess," you muttered to yourself.

And worse—you weren’t sure you even wanted to be fixed.

The bass of the club pulsed beneath Joe’s feet, vibrating through his chest like a second heartbeat. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the dim lighting caught the reflection before tipping it back and letting the warmth spread through his veins.

He wasn’t drunk—just loose enough to let his thoughts spill out.

“That was my shot,” he muttered, shaking his head as he leaned against the VIP booth, looking across at Sam Hubbard. “Tee straight up cockblocked me, man. Like, do you understand how rare that was? That was a moment.”

Sam chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink. “You’re really hung up on this, huh?”

Joe gave him a look. “Wouldn’t you be? I barely get like this over anyone—and the one time I do, I don’t even get to ask for her number?” He scoffed, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair. “Unreal.”

Sam smirked, stretching an arm along the back of the booth. “You know about her and Jayson, right?”

Joe’s brows pulled together slightly. “Tatum?”

Sam nodded, tipping his drink toward him. “Yeah. They were together for years—on and off bullshit. Public, messy breakup. It was bad.”

That gave Joe pause.

He knew of Jayson Tatum, of course—anyone who paid even the smallest amount of attention to basketball did. He was a star, undeniably talented. But what Joe didn’t know was that he and the Kelce sister had history. A lot of history, apparently.

Joe frowned, shifting in his seat. Something about that didn’t sit right with him.

Maybe it was because he knew exactly what kind of guy Tatum was. Not a bad guy, necessarily, but the kind who could have any woman he wanted at the snap of a finger. The kind who probably expected her to come back every time he left.

And she had, until she didn’t.

Joe let out a breath, shaking his head as he stared at the ice in his glass. “Damn. He fumbled, bad.”

Sam huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, well, she’s with Dalton now, so I doubt she’s thinking about it too much.”

Joe’s head snapped up at that, brows shooting toward his hairline. “Dalton?”

“Kincaid.”

Joe blinked, as if making sure he’d heard that right. “Dalton Kincaid? The Bills’ tight end?”

“The very one,” Sam confirmed, amusement playing at the edges of his lips.

Joe sat back, exhaling through his nose as he mulled that over. Dalton was a good guy. Solid. Reliable. Exactly the kind of guy you’d bring home to your family and not worry about them hating him.

But without meaning to, without even thinking, Joe muttered, “Don’t seem like her type.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And who does?”

Joe opened his mouth, then shut it. Because he knew exactly what he was about to say.

Me.

But he caught himself just before the words could slip, and instead, he dragged a hand down his face, muttering a quiet, “Fuck.”

Sam straight-up grinned. “Wow. Wow.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Joey B thinks he’s the Kelce sister’s type?”

Joe scowled at him. “Shut up.”

“Nah, nah, hold on,” Sam laughed, slapping a hand against his knee. “This is interesting.”

“It’s not interesting,” Joe bit back, shaking his head. “It’s just—Dalton’s a nice guy. A good guy. And she probably should be with someone like him.”

Sam’s grin widened. “But you don’t think she wants to be?”

Joe didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he thought about the way she’d carried herself at the event. How, even in a room full of the NFL’s biggest names, she hadn’t acted like a Kelce—at least, not in the way you’d expect. She hadn’t been loud or attention-seeking, hadn’t fed into the spectacle of it all. Instead, she had snuck away with Taylor, like she was bored of it. Like she was looking for something else.

And he didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but he knew what it felt like.

Familiar. Like he’d been there before.

Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “I don’t know, man. All I know is that Tee cockblocked the hell out of me, and I’m pissed about it.”

Sam laughed, raising his glass. “Then you better make sure next time, you don’t miss.”

Joe clinked his drink against Sam’s, but as he tipped it back, he couldn’t help but think—

Next time, huh?

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe shiesty #joe burrow bengals #joey b #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #( daylight | joe burrow x kelce!reader )

339 notes · View notes