#but like ... again ... is ryan just invisible in this

[markrosewater]

I want to speak out against the whole push towards DEI. I feel that ever since you made the push to make identity the forefront of a character it has hurt the stories you tell. Captain Sisay's race was never the focus of her character and she was a complete badass! And I fear if you did it over again Gerrard would be trans, black and disabled just because. It also cheapens the stories of world devastation when characters worry more about their gender than Bolas destroying everything.

The reason I started this blog is so we can have frank conversations about things, so please let’s talk about this.

Imagine if every time you turned on the TV or watched a movie, no one looked like you. For some of us, that’s never happened. We see ourselves constantly, so it’s hard to truly understand what not seeing yourself represented in media is like.

I do have a personal window to this experience. While I am white and male, there’s an area where I am the minority - my religion. Jews are just under two and a half percent of the US population. I have had many experiences where I’ve been in situations where everything is geared towards a group I do not belong to, and zero consideration is given that not everyone at that event is part of the majority.

You just feel invisible and like an outsider. It’s not a great feeling. And I just experience it a tiny portion of time, only things that are geared specifically towards something religious. Most minorities have this feeling all the time, whenever they’re outside their personal community.

Now imagine, after years of not seeing yourself ever, you finally see someone that looks like you, but nothing about the character rings remotely true. They don’t sound like you, they don’t act like you, the facts about their day-to-day life are just wrong. It’s clear whoever wrote the character didn’t truly understand the lived experience of the character, so the character feels fake.

You bring up Sisay. Michael Ryan and I didn’t technically create Sisay (she played a small role in the Mirage story), but we did do a lot to flesh out her character as the creators of the Weatherlight Saga. We turned her from a minor character into a major one.

And while I’m proud, in general, of our work on the Weatherlight Saga, I don’t think we did justice to Sisay as a character. Neither Michael nor I have any knowledge of what it’s like to be a black woman. Nor did we ever talk to someone who did.

And if you’re someone like us that has no knowledge of that experience, you probably didn’t notice. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.

Imagine if we made a movie about your life, and we just made everything up. We invented people you never knew, we gave you a job you never had, and we had you say things you’d never say. The movie might even be a good movie, but your response would be, but that’s not my life - that’s not me.

Now imagine we put the movie out, and people that never met you assumed that was what you were like. When people met you for the first time, they assumed things, because, you know, they’d seen the movie.

That’s what misrepresenting people does. It not only makes them feel not seen, it falsely represents them, spreading lies, often stereotypes, making people believe things about them that aren’t true.

Our move towards diversity is just us trying to better reflect the world and the people in it. We’re trying to do to everyone else what a certain portion of people get every day without ever having to think about it.

But why are we “making it the forefront of their character”? We’re not. We’re making it a part of their character. But in a world where you’re not used to ever seeing it, it feels louder than it is. Things that are a natural part of the world that you’re used to feel like the background of the story because you understand the context to it.

If a man kisses his wife before going off to a battle, that’s not a big deal. It’s just a thing a husband might do to his wife when he leaves. It’s not the forefront of his character. It’s just part of his life. But you’ve seen it hundreds of times, so it feels normal.

When someone does something that isn’t your lived experience it pulls focus. It seems like a big deal, but only because it’s new to you. It’s just as mundane a thing to that character as the man kissing his wife is to him.

Even the turn “pushing” implies that it’s unnaturally here, that we’re forcing something that naturally shouldn’t be. But why? That thing exists naturally in the real world, and it doesn’t make the real world any less. Maybe you’re less aware of it, but is making you aware of how others live their life “pushing” something on you?

How you live your life is represented constantly, everywhere. Why isn’t over-representing your experience at the expense of everyone else’s “pushing” it? Why is media only being the experience of those in power the “proper way”?

Having more depth and variety doesn’t lessen stories. It makes them deeper, more rich, more nuanced. In short, it makes them better stories. In my former life, I was a professional writer. I took a lot of writing classes. One of the truism of writing is “speaking truth leads to better stories”.

There’s another famous quote: “When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.” You’re used to being over-represented, so being a little less over-represented feels like something has been taken from you. But really it hasn’t. Having a better sense of the rest of the world comes with a lot of benefits.

I’ll use food as an example. Let’s say all you were ever exposed to was the food of your heritage. Yeah, that food is really good, but sometimes isn’t it nice to eat foods of other nationalities? Isn’t your life better that you have a choice? Isn’t your exposure and access to the food of other nationalities a positive in your life?

Exposure to variety is a positive. It allows you to learn about things you didn’t know, experience things things you’ve never experienced, and get a better sense of understanding of your friends and neighbors.

Our actions are not to harm anyone, and if you think that’s what we’re doing, please take a minute to actually absorb what I’m saying. You’ve spent your whole life metaphorically eating one type of food, and we’re just trying to show you how much you’ve missed out on.

And while this might not impact you directly, we’re making a whole bunch of people felt seen. We’re bringing joy. Think of it this way. We make a lot of cards. Not every card is for you. But if it makes someone else happy, if they get to include it in a deck, and it makes Magic better for them, how is it harming you that we include it? You have so many cards that you can play.

To this poster or people that share their viewpoint, the narrative that a gain for someone else is an attack on you is just not true. As I just pointed out above, you play a game all about personal choice, about players getting to choose how they play and enjoy the game. Why should life be any different than Magic?

Thanks for reading.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 23

˗ˏˋmatching threads ˎˊ˗

"You didn’t expect Jungkook’s birthday to end with soft talks about Mayer, thunderstorms and stupid craft projects. And yet, here you are."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9.5k

content: delayed gifts, hand brushing, subtle comfort, emotional hypervigilance, miscommunication, clashing attachment styles, slow understanding, quiet intimacy, unexpected softness, bittersweet memories, trauma-informed reactions, symbolic objects, real conversations, familial grief undertones, perceptive but clueless boys, warmth in small gestures, psychological contrast, vulnerability denial, casual closeness, accidental meaning, rain metaphors.

Kiki Nation’s official discussion thread for FMU 23

✧ author's note ✧

This chapter made me feel some type of way, and not in the thirst-posting way for once (shocking, I know). There’s a softness to it that snuck up on me. Like I sat down to write what I thought would be a moment of transition, and ended up face-planting into the kind of quiet, delicate intimacy that’s so often overlooked both in fiction and real life. So here I am, feeling dumb and raw and tender over two forks.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Chapter 21, specifically that hand-touch moment—how subtle it was, and how I never explicitly addressed it in the narration because I didn’t want to. That’s the thing with psychologically driven writing: you’re not meant to be spoon-fed emotional meaning. You’re supposed to notice the tiny things. The almosts. The unspoken. The instinctive kindness that isn’t necessarily romantic, but still manages to get under your skin. That’s what that subway touch was. Not Jungkook being in love. Not a declaration. Just him, in his purest, most unaware form—being soft. Gentle. Deeply perceptive in a way that hurts because it’s so unconscious.

And that’s what this whole chapter is circling around. It’s not about a confession. It’s not even about clarity. It’s about conflict—internal, relational, unintentional conflict between people who are shaped by opposite emotional mechanisms.

Jungkook isn’t emotionally open, but he acts open because he’s thoughtful. Reader is emotionally hyperaware, but she reacts closed-off, because she’s scared and guarded. He acts without thinking deeply about it. She thinks deeply and then doesn’t act. They miss each other again and again not because they don’t care, but because their blueprints don’t match. And yet—they try. Or maybe, they accidentally try. And isn’t that so real?

One of them touches without thinking. The other flinches while overthinking. One gives a gift like it’s nothing. The other interprets it like it’s everything. They’re both right. They’re both wrong. That tension? That’s the story.

This chapter doesn’t show love blooming. It shows understanding struggling to sprout in barren soil.

They have so much ahead of them, so many versions of themselves they haven’t grown into yet. This moment is not culmination—it’s foundation. It matters. It matters more than if they’d just fucked again. Because emotional timing? Matters. And this wasn’t the time for sex. It was the time for emotionally loaded shit I can’t name because you haven’t read the chapter yet, but is now haunting me forever.

Read slow. Read deep. Look for the invisible thread. That’s where the truth is.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Walking back into the karaoke room feels like entering a different dimension—one where rooftop confessions and ex-girlfriend confrontations don't exist.

The noise hits you first, a wall of sound that's almost physical in its intensity. Hobi is mid-Mariah, belting out a note that should probably be classified as a war crime, while Ryan and Seth egg him on with increasingly chaotic dance moves. Tessa's doubled over laughing on the couch next to Diana, both of them recording the spectacle on their phones. Yeji and Irya are engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Jimin over whether Britney or Christina had the better 90s catalog. Yoongi watches it all from his corner seat, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" Kevin shouts when Jungkook steps through the doorway. 

The room erupts in cheers and catcalls, like they're welcoming a returning champion rather than someone who disappeared for half an hour.

"Dude, we thought you fell in," David calls out, raising his drink in salute. "World's longest bathroom break."

"Nah, he was definitely sneaking in a Clash Royale marathon," Kevin argues, tossing an empty cup that Jungkook easily dodges. "Probably hiding in a stall like a true gamer."

"You wish your stats were as good as mine," Jungkook fires back, slipping effortlessly into the friendly banter like he wasn't just having some kind of existential crisis on the rooftop. 

It's impressive, really—the way he can flip that switch, become this version of himself that fits perfectly into the chaos around him.

While everyone's attention is focused on Jungkook's triumphant return, Taehyung makes a beeline for Yoongi and Hobi, who've gravitated toward each other in a corner of the room. 

You're not trying to eavesdrop, exactly, but you happen to be standing close enough to hear the urgent whisper:

"He was on the roof."

The effect is immediate. Both Yoongi and Hobi snap their heads toward Taehyung, their expressions shifting so quickly it's almost comical—except there's nothing funny about the naked fear that flashes across their faces.

"It wasn't like that!" Jungkook interrupts, appearing beside them with surprising speed. His voice is a harsh whisper-shout, barely audible over the music but intense enough to make all three of his friends freeze. "I just needed air. Seriously."

"Bro..." Yoongi's voice is low, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should.

"Jungkook, you know how that looks to us," Hobi says, softer but no less serious. 

"I know. I'm sorry," Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his nervous tic. "But it wasn't... that. I swear. I just went there to think."

"After seeing her?" Taehyung presses, still tense.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, "but it wasn't—look, can we not do this right now? It's fine. I'm fine."

There's clearly more to whatever ‘it’ is—something significant enough to make three grown men look like they've seen a ghost. 

But Jungkook's expression makes it clear the discussion is over, at least for now.

You should probably stop pretending to be fascinated by the karaoke song list and move away before they realize you're listening. 

But before you can, Jungkook abruptly changes the subject, his voice rising to a cheerful pitch that sounds slightly forced.

"Alright, alright!" He claps his hands together, turning to face the room. "So... birthday gifts for the birthday boy?"

The tension shatters as the crowd erupts in excited chatter. Seth whoops loudly, and someone (Ryan, you think) starts an off-key rendition of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow’ that quickly derails into chaos. Jungkook's shoulders visibly relax as the attention shifts from whatever just happened to the much safer territory of presents.

One by one, people approach with gifts—some wrapped beautifully, others clearly hastily stuffed into whatever bag was available. 

Taehyung goes first, handing over a sleek black box tied with a simple red ribbon.

"Don't make it weird," he warns as Jungkook takes it.

Inside is what appears to be a ridiculously expensive camera lens. You don't know enough about photography to identify it, but based on the way Jungkook's eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o,’ it's something significant.

"Dude," he breathes, lifting it carefully like it might shatter. "This is—holy shit, Tae."

"Yeah, well." Taehyung shrugs, but you catch the pleased smile he tries to hide. "You've been whining about needing a better wide-angle for your urban shots, so."

Jungkook looks genuinely moved, holding the lens like it's made of gold. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I always remember," Taehyung says simply, and the way he says it that makes you think he means more than just camera preferences.

Hobi goes next, presenting a sleek box containing what looks like high-end wireless headphones. 

“For all those late-night production sessions," he explains with a grin. "So we don't have to hear your trash music taste through the walls anymore."

"You love my music, asshole," Jungkook laughs, already testing them out.

"I love peace more," Hobi retorts, but he's beaming as Jungkook gives an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yoongi's gift is less physical—a card containing what appears to be a voucher for studio time. 

“Booked you sixteen hours at Blueline," he says with characteristic understatement. "For that soundtrack project you mentioned."

Jungkook looks up from the card, something like disbelief crossing his face. "Dude, Blueline is impossible to get into. How did you—"

"I know people," Yoongi shrugs. "Just don't waste it making crap."

"I would never disrespect the temple," Jungkook promises solemnly, pressing the card to his heart with mock reverence.

The gift-giving continues, a parade of thoughtful items that speak to genuine friendship: rare vinyl records, vintage film books, an artisan coffee setup that makes Jungkook actually bounce with excitement. 

It's sweet, really—seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know him well, who've put thought into what he'd like.

And then it hits you.

Fuck.

The Mayer vinyl. Sitting on your dresser at home, still in its brown paper wrapping from that record store in Williamsburg. 

Because okay, first of all—who brings a fragile vinyl record to MOMA and then a karaoke bar? 

You simply had no way of bringing it without raising suspicions. 

And maybe asking Yoongi for help bringing it over would’ve made it look like you cared, so.

The gifts are winding down, and Jungkook is making his rounds, thanking everyone with what seems like genuine gratitude. He looks happier now, more relaxed—whatever happened with Mia and on the rooftop temporarily forgotten in the warmth of celebration.

You're contemplating whether you should make up some excuse about your gift when suddenly he's right there, appearing in your peripheral vision like he materialized out of thin air.

"So," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans just a bit too close. "Where's my present, Pyx?"

The nickname rolls off his tongue, familiar enough now that you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he uses it. (Mostly.)

"At home," you admit, trying to sound casual and not like someone who completely failed at basic gift logistics.

"Oh?" 

His lips purse, fighting back what's clearly a smirk. 

The glint in his eye is positively dangerous. 

"At home?"

Your cheeks heat up against your will. 

“Not—I don't mean it like that," you stammer, realizing too late how your answer could be interpreted. "I mean I literally left it at the apartment. It wouldn't fit in my bag."

"Big gift, huh?" he murmurs, leaning even closer. His breath brushes your ear, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla. "I'm intrigued."

"It's just a thing," you say lamely. "Nothing special."

"I'd honestly be happy with the other interpretation, for the record," he continues like you haven't spoken, voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in public spaces. 

"In your dreams," you scoff, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"Every night," he confirms, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face now. "Detailed, technicolor dreams. Sometimes you even—"

"Boundaries, Rogue," you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. "We're in public."

"That didn't stop you earlier," he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second. "On the roof?"

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"We were alone then."

"We could be alone again," he suggests, voice casual but eyes anything but. "Plenty of dark corners in this building."

"You're incorrigible."

"You like it."

Before you can come up with a suitably cutting response, Ryan's voice cuts through the general noise of the room: "Yo, I'm gonna crash out! It's getting late!"

The announcement triggers a cascade of similar declarations. 

Suddenly people are gathering coats, exchanging final birthday wishes, making plans to meet up later in the week. The energy in the room shifts from celebration to conclusion, that particular lull that comes at the end of a good night.

As people begin filing out, Seth materializes beside you, a confident smile plastered across his face that probably works on most girls but just makes you want to step back a foot or three.

"So," he says, leaning in close enough that you can smell the tequila on his breath, "I was thinking I should get your number. You know, to hang out sometime."

"Uhhh," you stall, searching for a polite rejection. "No thanks."

His smile doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. 

“Come on, we had fun tonight, right? Just give me your number. I promise I'll only use it for emergencies." He winks, like this is some clever line that's going to change your mind.

"I said no thanks," you repeat, firmer this time.

"Don't be like that," he persists, stepping even closer. "Just your number. What's the big deal?"

You're about to tell him exactly what the big deal is when Jungkook appears at your side, his expression suddenly hard.

"Bro," he says, annoyance coloring his tone, "can't you see she ain't interested?"

Seth blinks, looking between you and Jungkook. "I'm just asking for her number, man. No harm in that."

"Except she already said no. Twice." Jungkook's tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now. "So maybe take the hint?"

For a moment, Seth looks like he might argue. Then he sighs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

"Fine, whatever. Your loss," he adds, with a final glance your way before merging back into the departing crowd.

"How is that your friend?" you ask once he's safely out of earshot, genuinely baffled that someone like Jungkook would hang out with such a persistent creep.

"He isn't, technically," Jungkook shrugs, watching Seth's retreating back with a slightly disgusted look. "He's Ryan's friend, who sometimes hangs out with Ryan, and so with us too. Definitely not my pick for the squad."

"Thank god for small mercies," you mutter, and he laughs, the tension from the Seth encounter dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

Jungkook steps back from you, that heated moment dissipating as he slips back into social host mode. You watch as he makes his rounds, thanking everyone for coming, accepting final hugs and handshakes. He's good at this—making each person feel individually appreciated, remembered. 

It's a side of him you are staring to recognize more and more often. 

When he reaches Tessa, you notice how his posture softens slightly. He says something that makes her laugh, tucking that perfect auburn hair behind her ear in a gesture that's both shy and flirtatious.

"You need a ride?" he asks her, and you barely manage to overhear. "I can call an Uber."

"No need," she smiles, gesturing toward Diana. "We're sharing a car. Diana lives just a few blocks from me."

"Good," he nods, looking genuinely relieved. "Text when you get home safe?"

It's sweet, the way he's concerned for her safety. Not what you'd expect from the guy who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days and thinks changing the toilet paper roll is optional. 

But then again, tonight has been full of surprises when it comes to Jungkook.

"Will do," Tessa promises, then hesitates before leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Happy birthday, Jungkook."

You watch them, something jittery settling in your chest. 

His lucky ass might actually score someone genuinely nice and put-together, who seems to actually like him beyond just his face and body. 

Good for him. 

Good for her, even, if she can't see that she's way out of his league.

Ten minutes later, the room has mostly cleared. Only your strange merged group remains—Yeji and Irya saying their goodbyes to Jimin by the door, while Taehyung, Hobi, Yoongi, Jungkook, and you linger in a loose circle near the couches.

"Subway?" Yoongi asks, addressing both you and Jungkook with his usual economy of words.

Jungkook nods, glancing at his phone. "Still running for another hour."

"I'll walk with you guys to the station," Taehyung offers, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"Nah, you're uptown. That's the opposite direction."

"I don't mind."

"I'm fine, Tae," Jungkook says firmly, and there's a weight to the words that seems to carry a conversation from earlier. "Really."

Taehyung doesn't look convinced, but after a moment of silent communication, he relents. "Text me when you get home."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Jungkook's tone softens. "I will."

The farewells are quick after that—Hobi heading uptown with Taehyung, Jimin walking Yeji and Irya to their car, and the three of you—you, Jungkook, and Yoongi—making your way toward the subway station that will take you back to your shared apartment.

It feels like you've been gone for days rather than hours—like the person who left the apartment this morning for her first day at Barnes & Noble somehow isn't quite the same one heading home now.

But that's a thought for another time, when your head isn't fuzzy with tequila and your feet aren't aching from standing half the night.

For now, you just follow your roommates through the city streets toward the subway station, the quiet between you comfortable in a way it hasn't been before.

The subway car at this hour is practically abandoned—just a few night owls and the occasional service worker scattered across the seats like human tumbleweeds. 

Yoongi claims a seat by the door, immediately slipping his AirPods exactly like someone who's perfected the art of social avoidance. Within seconds, his head is tilted back against the subway wall, eyes closed. 

Either he's fallen asleep that quickly, or he's just really committed to pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Jungkook drops into the seat beside him, legs splayed wide in that uniquely male way that screams ‘my balls need their own zip code.’ You take the spot next to him, trying to claim whatever minimal space is left.

Like seriously? There are literally twenty empty seats.

You nudge your knee pointedly against his. "Do you mind?"

"Wha?" He glances down, genuinely confused.

"The manspreading, bro," you gesture at his legs. "You're taking up enough space for three people."

He grins, completely unashamed. "I need to air out the jewels."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You swat his arm, genuinely annoyed. "That's exactly the problem with guys like you. Public space isn't designed for your testicle ventilation system."

"Guys like me?" He raises an eyebrow, still smirking but at least looking slightly less smug.

"Yes. Guys who think their comfort is more important than the space of everyone around them." You're on a roll now, the combination of lingering tequila and genuine irritation fueling your feminist rant. "Women are literally conditioned to take up as little space as possible, to cross our legs, to fold ourselves into tiny spaces, while men just spread out like they own the world. It's literally a physical manifestation of patriarchal entitlement."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something closer to actual consideration. 

He glances down at his legs, then at the way you've automatically tucked yours together to accommodate his sprawl.

"Shit, I sound like a TikTok right now, don't I?" you mutter.

"No, no," he says, actually shifting his legs together. "You're not wrong. I didn't really think about it that way."

Wait. What?

"You're just saying that because it's your birthday and you think you get a free pass," you say suspiciously.

"No, I actually get it," he says, looking strangely thoughtful. "My mom used to call me out for the same shit. Called it 'man space disease.' Said my dad had it too."

And now you don't know what to do with yourself. 

Because what the actual fuck? 

How are you supposed to maintain righteous irritation when he just... listens? Takes criticism? Brings up his mom in a way that makes him seem like an actual human person with a past and stuff?

Goddammit. Now you can't even properly be mad at him, which somehow makes you even more annoyed. 

"Anyway," you say, desperate to change the subject before you lose all moral high ground. "Happy birthday again or whatever."

"Thanks," he says, and then adds, "for everything. The museum was actually cool. Didn't know you had taste, Phee."

"I'm literally an English major."

"Yeah, but that just means you read boring-ass books from dead white guys."

"That's... not what English degrees are about," you sputter. "And I bet 90% of your film classes are just Scorsese and Tarantino circle jerks."

He laughs, a genuine sound that echoes in the empty subway car. "Fuck, you got me there. Though Tarantino is—"

"If you say 'ahead of his time,' I will push you onto the tracks at the next stop."

"I was gonna say overrated, actually. Everyone loses their mind over Pulp Fiction, but honestly? Mid."

You blink, genuinely surprised. "Okay, that's the most correct opinion you've ever had."

"I have tons of correct opinions. You just never ask me about them."

"Sure, like your opinion that coffee is better than tea?"

"Because it is!"

"That whole statement is a crime, is what it is."

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back, conversation over because he’s clearly not arguing over this. 

So the subway rattles on, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against track filling the silence. 

Your thoughts drift to earlier tonight—to that moment on the first subway ride when his hand had brushed against yours. 

Just a whisper of contact, his pinky grazing yours on the metal bar.

Why did he do that? What was the deal with that?

The question nags at you, an itch you can't scratch. Not because it matters in any deep way—obviously it doesn't—but because puzzling out Jungkook's behavior is becoming something of a hobby. 

A frustrating, often pointless hobby, but still.

"Hey," you say before you can talk yourself out of it. "Question for you."

He turns toward you, eyebrows raised slightly. "Shoot."

"Earlier, on the subway..." You hesitate, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "You kind of touched my hand on the bar? What was that about?"

"Huh?" He looks genuinely confused for a moment, then recognition dawns. "Oh! That."

He says it so casually, like it wasn't something worth remembering. Which it isn't. Obviously.

"I just noticed you had a panic attack this morning," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "In my room."

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprise making your pulse quicken. "How did you—"

"I passed by and heard your breathing," he explains, shrugging like this is a completely normal thing to say. "But I didn't want to intrude. Since it's something very personal and knowing you..." 

He looks to the side as he gestures vaguely. 

"Well, I don't think you'd have appreciated me barging in, so I just went back to cooking my super pancakes."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

Who… Who the fuck is this dude? When did Jungkook develop this thoughtful, considerate side? Is he possessed? Should you be checking for pod people?

"So on the subway," he continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, "I dunno, I felt you had off vibes, and—"

"Again with the vibes?" You can't help but interject.

He laughs, the sound sharp and genuine. "Bro, you had this face like the sad hamster meme and I couldn't take it. That's why I brushed your hand. Reassurance, y'know?"

"The... sad hamster meme?" you repeat, incredulous.

He whips out his phone, types something, then shows you the screen: a round-faced hamster looking depressed as hell, its tiny eyes radiating existential despair.

"That's not—I don't look like that!" you protest.

"You literally did. One hundred percent emotional support hamster energy."

"I will actually murder you in your sleep."

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

"My mom—" 

He cuts himself off, suddenly looking down at his lap.

But somehow, he decides to continue.

"My mom used to do that for me, so I thought it might help. The hand thing. Not calling you a hamster," he clarifies quickly. "Just a small touch when I was stressed. Sorry if it was weird."

Oh.

"No, no, it wasn't weird," you say quickly. 

The image of a younger Jungkook, being comforted by his mother with small touches, is annoyingly humanizing. 

Couldn't he just stay a two-dimensional asshole? Would make life so much simpler.

"No?" He looks up, searching your face.

"...No." You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. "It's kind of nice, actually. That you're this attentive." 

You clear your throat then; but it’s like the air is getting stuck in your throat at the sudden sincerity of this conversation.

So you can't help adding: "I guess. Could've apply it to the household, you know? Like maybe notice when the trash needs taking out?"

He snorts at that, the weird moment breaking; and you couldn’t be happier.

“One step at a time, Pyx. One step at a time."

"So your observational skills only work when it comes to me having panic attacks, not when the dishes need doing?" 

"I have selective observation abilities," he admits with a grin. "Like a very specific superpower."

"World's shittiest X-Man," you mutter. "'I'm Emotional Support Man. I can tell when you're sad but can't locate the broom.'"

He laughs, harder this time. "Fuck, that's actually my brand. Can I put that in my Instagram bio?"

"Only if you credit me."

"Deal."

The subway lurches around a corner, and you both sway with the movement. You catch Yoongi cracking one eye open, glancing at you both before apparently deciding you're not interesting enough to stay awake for and closing it again.

"So like, you must be psyched about the studio time from Yoongi," you say, genuinely curious about this part of Jungkook's life that you know almost nothing about.

"Dude, you have no idea. Blueline is like..." he gestures expansively, searching for the right words, "it's basically where half the top-charting albums from last year were produced. Their equipment is insane. Sixteen hours there is worth like, a month in a regular studio."

"And he just... got that for you? Just like that?"

"Yoongi knows people," Jungkook says, with a hint of pride. "He's lowkey connected as fuck in the music scene. Doesn't talk about it much, but he's got production credits on some tracks that went viral last year."

"Wait, seriously? Yoongi? Our Yoongi? The guy who speaks like four words a day?"

"That's his whole strategy," Jungkook whispers dramatically, leaning closer like he's sharing state secrets. "The less he says, the more people think he's some kind of genius."

"Is it working?" you ask, also whispering despite yourself.

He grins. "I mean, he got me sixteen hours at Blueline, so yeah, I'd say it's working pretty well."

"What are you gonna do there?"

"I'm scoring a short film by this director I know. Nothing major, just like a fifteen-minute thing, but I've been wanting to experiment with this sound for a while—like lo-fi beats but with some orchestral elements mixed in. Kind of a vibe Jonny Greenwood meets Nujabes thing, if that makes sense?"

It doesn't, really, but the way his eyes light up as he talks about it is surprisingly engaging. 

Cute.

Because that’s Jungkook when he talks about something he cares deeply about. He just… gestures as he explains, hands moving expressively, and his entire demeanor changes.

"That's actually really cool," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely pleased by your approval, which is weird. Since when does he care what you think? "You should come by sometime. Check it out."

"I didn't know you were into all that," you say, genuinely curious now. "The music stuff, I mean. I knew about the film major, but..."

"I'm a man of many talents, Phee," he says with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Okay, and we're back to you being insufferable. That was a nice five-minute break."

He laughs, not at all offended. "Can't let you get too comfortable. Gotta keep you on your toes."

The subway announcement system announces your stop is next. 

Yoongi's eyes open immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense for exactly when to wake up. He removes his AirPods, tucking them into his pocket as he stands.

"You coming?" he asks, directing the question to both of you but somehow making it sound like he couldn't care less either way.

"Yeah, yeah," Jungkook says, already standing. 

He offers you a hand up, the gesture casual but unexpected.

You hesitate for just a second before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand is warm, the calluses from guitar playing rough against your palm. And then he drops it as soon as you're standing, no lingering, no loaded moment. Just a simple courtesy.

But it’s the normal, everyday nature of the gesture that throws you. 

Like this is just what you do now—casual, friendly touches that mean nothing beyond basic human interaction.

The subway slows as it approaches your stop, and you grab the pole to steady yourself, pushing this strange new dynamic to the back of your mind to examine later. 

When you're alone. 

And preferably sober.

You've never heard Griffin meow that loudly outside of dinner time, and even then, it's not this fucking dramatic.

The elevator doors have barely slid open when the unholy feline screeching hits your ears—a sound that could only be described as a cat being simultaneously vacuumed and baptized against its will.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, already picking up your pace toward the apartment door.

Jungkook's reaction is instantaneous. One second he's trudging beside you, still talking about some obscure music producer, and the next he's bolting down the hallway like someone lit his ass on fire.

"Griffin!" His voice carries genuine panic as he fumbles with his keys, hands suddenly clumsy with urgency.

You follow right behind him, though your motivations are decidedly less noble. 

The building has a strict no-pets policy, and the last thing you need is to get evicted because Jungkook's furry contraband is having a meltdown at 1 AM.

"Jesus Christ, let me do it," you hiss, shoving at his hands. "You're gonna wake up the whole floor."

"I got it, I got it," he insists, still struggling with the lock as Griffin continues his banshee impression on the other side of the door.

"Clearly you don't got it," you argue, trying to wrestle the keys from his grip. "You're making it worse!"

"Can you just—will you just—give me a second—"

You're both so busy fighting over the keys that neither of you notices Yoongi until he's physically shoving both of you aside with surprisingly pointy elbows.

"Move," he grunts, extracting his own key and long since given up on expecting basic competence from either of you.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings wide just in time for an orange blur to come rocketing out into the hallway. 

Griffin shoots between your legs like he's auditioning for some Usain Bolt competition (but make it feline), though to no avail, because Jungkook's reflexes are impressively fast. 

Three quick strides and he's scooping the cat up, cradling him against his chest.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" he murmurs, immediately checking the cat for injuries. "You okay? What happened?"

Griffin, now safely ensconced in Jungkook's arms, has miraculously stopped his caterwauling and is instead purring loud enough to vibrate the hallway. 

The little shit.

"Oh my god, Jungkook, tell your cat to shut the fuck up," you hiss, glancing nervously toward neighboring doors. "You know the neighbors are gonna snitch if he keeps that up."

"No they won't," he says with the confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for anything in his life. "They all love me."

You blink. "You know all the neighbors?"

He just shrugs, already carrying Griffin back into the apartment like the entire dramatic episode never happened.

Yoongi, having completed his sole contribution to the crisis, is already disappearing into his bedroom, door clicking shut behind him with a finality that says ‘do not disturb under penalty of death.’

You stand awkwardly in the entryway, fidgeting with your keys, suddenly hyperaware that you're alone with Jungkook for the first time since... whatever that moment on the rooftop was.

He snorts, still cradling Griffin like a baby. 

"So where's my gift?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Had to make things weird and awkward because god forbid Jungkook let any interaction proceed without maximum discomfort.

You grunt noncommittally and trudge to your bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind you. 

There, sitting innocently on your dresser, is the crumpled paper bag from the flea market. 

Inside is the stupid vinyl record you'd impulsively bought for fifteen bucks because it had "John Mayer" on it and you vaguely remembered Jungkook had a vinyl wall with what looked like Mayer albums.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Now, you're not so sure.

But it's not like you have any alternatives, and you did promise him a gift, so...

You grab the bag and head back out, careful not to make eye contact. You have no idea why you're suddenly nervous about this. It's just a vinyl. Probably one he already has. No big deal either way.

"Here," you say, thrusting the paper bag toward him.

He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the plainness of your offering. 

What was he expecting? A fucking gift-wrapped Ferrari?

He sets Griffin down carefully on the armchair before taking the bag from you. The cat immediately curls into a perfect circle, clearly untroubled by whatever had sent him into hysterics five minutes ago.

Jungkook pulls the vinyl from the bag with deliberate slowness, like he's trying to extend the suspense. A small smile forms on his lips when he sees it's a record, but then—

His face contorts into an expression you can't begin to interpret. 

It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in under five seconds, ending on some emotion that looks like he might either laugh hysterically or have a stroke.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. You knew it. He already has it. Or worse, he hates this album. 

Great going, genius. You had one job.

"Nix," he starts, his voice strangled.

"It's fine," you interject quickly, already looking away and biting your lip. "I mean, if you already—"

"Phoenix."

Something in the way he says your nickname—your full nickname, not the shortened version—makes you reluctantly look back at him.

He's not... mad. Or disgusted. Or disappointed. 

If anything, he looks... stunned? 

His eyes are practically twinkling, like you just handed him the fucking Holy Grail instead of a dusty old record.

"Where the fuck..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly. "Where the fuck did you get this, Nix?"

You blink, caught off guard by his reaction.

"I—a girl has her secrets," you mumble, because no way in hell are you admitting you found it in a five-dollar bin at a flea market.

"This is Inside Wants Out," he says, staring at the record like it might vanish if he blinks.

"Yup. That's what it says," you confirm, pointing unnecessarily at the album title clearly printed on the cover.

Like, yeah. Thanks for confirming he can read. At least he’s not that stupid. 

"It's John Mayer, right...? I thought... I mean since your whole vinyl wall is mostly—"

"This is Inside Wants Out," he repeats, more emphatically this time, like you're not getting the significance.

You nod slowly. "Yeah... I heard you the first time."

"Do you know how hard it is to get this shit, Nix?" His eyes are still wide with disbelief. "This is a collector's item."

Oh.

Oh wow.

Oh fuck.

You didn't mean to give him something with actual significance. You were just trying to not completely fail at basic gift-giving. But now he's looking at you like you just casually handed him a winning lottery ticket, and you have no idea how to respond.

"I mean... I knew you'd appreciate it," you lie smoothly, like you totally knew what you were doing. "You seem like the type to be into the rare stuff."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's not entirely buying your sudden expertise in John Mayer collectibles, but he's too excited about the record to push it.

"It was his first EP," he explains, still handling the vinyl like it might explode. "Self-released in '99, before he got signed. There were only like a thousand copies ever pressed, and they never reissued it on vinyl."

"Oh," you say eloquently. "Cool."

"Cool?" 

He laughs, the sound both incredulous and delighted. 

"Nix, this thing goes for like three hundred dollars on eBay if you can even find one. How did you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. "You know what, never mind. I don't even want to know. Just... thank you."

Three hundred dollars? 

You almost choke. The grimy old man at the flea market had sold it to you for fifteen bucks, and even then, you'd thought you were overpaying.

Holy shit. You accidentally gave Jungkook the perfect gift.

You're still processing this bizarre turn of events when he does something even more unexpected. He steps forward and hugs you—a quick, one-armed embrace that's over almost before it begins, but still manages to short-circuit your brain for a solid three seconds.

"Seriously," he says, already stepping back. "This is... thank you."

"I—yeah, of course," you manage, still off-balance from the sudden contact. "Happy birthday or whatever."

He grins, already carefully examining the record sleeve for any damage. 

"Or whatever," he echoes, but there's no mockery in it. 

Just warmth.

A warmth that makes something in your chest twist in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Jungkook flips the vinyl over in his hands, tracing the track listing with his finger. 

"I started collecting his stuff in high school," he says, voice softer than usual. "Everyone gives him shit, you know? Like he's this basic white dude music or whatever."

"Isn't he, though?" You can't help asking, even as you drift closer to the couch instead of retreating to your room like you'd planned.

He looks up at you, expression caught between offense and amusement. "That's what everyone thinks. But his guitar work? Seriously underrated. The guy's technically insane."

You perch on the arm of the couch, watching as he continues examining the record. 

“So you're into him for the... technical aspects?"

"Partly." Jungkook shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "But honestly? His music just hits sometimes, you know? Like when you're driving at night with the windows down, or when you just need to chill and not think for a while."

"Didn't take you for the introspective type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Phee," he says, but it's not a challenge or a flirtation. Just a simple statement of fact.

"Like what?"

He looks surprised you asked, like he expected you to roll your eyes and walk away. 

After a moment's hesitation, he gestures toward his bedroom. 

“I've got every vinyl he's released. Started with Continuum when I was fifteen..." He trails off, then shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, been collecting ever since."

You’re not sure whether he wants you to ask, or doesn’t want to overshare. So to play it safe, you don’t dig.

Instead, you find yourself saying, "My dad's obsessed with him."

Now it's your turn to be surprised—by your own admission. Because you hadn't planned to share that.

Jungkook's eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, suddenly interested in a loose thread on your sleeve. "Used to play his albums constantly during gardening weekends. My mom would pretend to hate it, but I'd catch her humming along when she thought no one was listening."

"Gardening weekends?"

"Mandatory family bonding," you explain, the memory both distant and vivid. "Every other Saturday in spring and summer. Dad would handle the heavy stuff, Mom did the flowers, and I was on weed duty."

"Weed duty," Jungkook repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like, you grew pot with your parents? Damn, Nix, I had you all wrong."

You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile too. "Garden weeds, dumbass. The actual nuisance plants."

"So what? You'd all be out there pulling weeds while John Mayer serenaded you from a boombox?"

"Something like that," you say, the mental image so accurate it catches you off guard. "How'd you know about the boombox?"

"Dads and boomboxes go together like peanut butter and jelly," he says with authority. "It's basic dad culture."

"Fair point." You hesitate, then add, "He had this super old one. Battery-operated, because the garden was too far from the house for an extension cord. The sound quality was garbage, but he refused to upgrade. Said it had 'character.'"

Jungkook smiles at that, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"You'd hate each other," you say automatically, but then consider it. "Actually, no. You'd probably bond over guitar shit and expensive coffee, and it would be absolutely insufferable for everyone else."

"I'm great with parents," he protests. "They love me."

"That's because they don't have to live with you."

He gasps in offense. "What? Come on, living with me is the best experience ever.”

"So now ‘best experience ever’ is you eating my leftovers and folding your briefs on the entrance table?”

"And mind-blowing sex," he adds, because of course he does. "Don't forget that part."

"And we're done here," you announce, standing up from the couch arm. 

"Wait," he says, surprising you again. "What was your favorite song? From those gardening days, I mean."

You pause, considering whether to answer. It feels oddly personal, sharing music taste with Jungkook. More intimate somehow than the physical stuff you've done together.

But he's looking at you with genuine curiosity, still cradling the vinyl you gave him like it's something precious, and you find yourself responding before you can overthink it.

"'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room,'" you admit, the memory rising unbidden. "Not off that album, obviously, but it was on Continuum."

“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for that one."

"Well, I wasn't exactly vibing with the lyrics at age ten," you say, defensive without knowing why. "It just... reminds me of my mom."

"Your mom was into songs about dysfunctional relationships?"

"No, dumbass." 

You take a breath, weighing whether to elaborate. 

Fuck it. 

“There was this one time, we were gardening, and it started raining—like, suddenly pouring. Dad ran inside with the boombox, but Mom just... stayed out there. And I did too."

Jungkook's watching you intently now, the vinyl temporarily forgotten in his hands.

"That song was playing right before the rain started," you continue, eyes fixed on that loose thread again. "And when Dad got inside, he must have put the song on again inside the house, because we could hear it through the open windows. Mom just... started dancing. In the rain. And she pulled me in, and we were spinning around like idiots, getting completely soaked, while Dad watched from the porch and pretended to be embarrassed by us."

You risk a glance at Jungkook and find him smiling softly.

"What?" you demand.

"Nothing," he says, but his smile doesn't fade. "Just... that's a really good memory. I like that it wasn't some deep angsty reason. Just your mom being cool."

"She wasn't always," you say before you can stop yourself. "Cool, I mean. But she had her moments."

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind you didn't think was possible with Jungkook. He's still looking at you with that soft expression, and you find yourself continuing without really meaning to.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to lighten the sudden heaviness between you. “I like sad songs and thunderstorms. Shocking revelation about the English major, I know.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s gentler than his usual smirk. 

“I know you like thunderstorms.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, setting the vinyl aside with careful hands. “Remember the first time we hooked up in this apartment? There was a storm outside.”

“How do you remember that?”

He shrugs, casual, unbothered.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything at all to reveal he keeps details in mind or cares. 

“You were curled up in that bean bag by the window, watching the rain like it was telling you secrets. All broody and intense. Very on-brand.”

“I wasn’t broody,” you protest automatically.

“You were staring at a lightning storm. The only way you could’ve been broodier is if you were wearing fingerless gloves and listening to The Cure.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily. “Fuck off, I don’t even own fingerless gloves.”

“Yet,” he adds with a grin. “There’s still time, though. Hot Topic’s having a sale.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“I just like storms, okay? They’re… honest.”

“Honest?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious.

You struggle to articulate something you’ve never had to put into words before. 

“Yeah, like… they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. They’re loud and chaotic and messy, and they don’t apologize for it.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Plus,” you add, tone deliberately lighter, “they smell good.”

“Yeah I guess they do,” he agrees, and for some reason, this tiny point of connection feels significant.

“You smell like rain,” you say, the words slipping out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion replacing his easy smile.

“I mean,” you backtrack, suddenly feeling stupid, “you’re always saying I smell like vanilla and stuff. And you really like vanilla, right? With your vanilla extract flask or whatever. Well, you smell like rain. At least to me. I really like rain. That’s all.”

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for you to start mentally calculating how quickly you could fake your own death and flee the country.

“I smell like rain,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly. “Just an observation. Like how Yoongi smells like coffee and disappointment.”

He laughs at that, breaking the weird tension. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

“I’m very accurate,” you say with mock seriousness. “My superpower.”

And… why exactly are you quoting him? That’s exactly what he said in the subway.

And you said it without thinking. 

“Well,” he says, not catching onto that or at least not making it about that; leaning back into the couch cushions, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t smell like disappointment. Rain is definitely the better option.”

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say you smell good,” you lie, because of course he smells good, the bastard. “Just like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile is knowing, infuriating. “You literally just said you really like rain, though.”

“I changed my mind. Rain is overrated.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Griffin chooses that moment to stretch dramatically on the armchair, reminding you both of his presence. The cat yawns widely, showing tiny needle teeth, before resettling into an even tighter ball.

“Anyway,” you say, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, “your cat is still a menace, even if he has good timing.”

“The best timing,” Jungkook agrees, reaching over to scratch behind Griffin’s ears. “Though I still don’t know what set him off earlier.”

“Maybe he sensed a disturbance in the force.”

“Maybe he just missed me,” Jungkook suggests, and the sad thing is, he’s probably right. Griffin is ridiculously attached to him, like some kind of orange, furry shadow.

“Cats don’t miss people,” you argue, just to be contrary. “They’re cold-blooded killers who tolerate humans because we operate can openers.”

“Griffin misses me,” he insists, stroking the cat’s back. “Don’t you, buddy? Tell Phoenix how much you missed your dad.”

Griffin blinks slowly in response, which Jungkook apparently interprets as agreement. 

“See? He says he was devastated by my absence.”

“He says he’s plotting to kill us both in our sleep,” you counter.

“Nah, he only does that to people who don’t bring him treats. Speaking of which…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of cat treats, shaking a few onto his palm.

Griffin is suddenly wide awake, lunging for the offering with surprising agility for a creature that was seemingly comatose two seconds ago.

“You carry cat treats in your pocket?” you ask, incredulous. “To a club? To a karaoke bar?”

“Always be prepared,” he says solemnly, as if quoting some ancient cat-owner wisdom. “Besides, Griffin can sense when I don’t have them.”

“Your relationship with this cat is genuinely concerning.”

“Says the person who talks to him when she thinks no one’s listening.” He smirks at your surprised expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard you. ‘Who’s a little murder machine? Is it you? Yes it is.’”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You baby-talk my cat, Phoenix. Just admit it.”

“I do not baby-talk—”

Your phone chimes with a text notification, cutting off what would have undoubtedly been a brilliant denial. 

You move towards the entryway, where you'd left your purse on the table, and reach to look for your phone, when suddenly—

Oh. 

The DIY bracelets. Right.

You'd left them at the shop at first for that contribution project Ash had talked about, but then... something had pinched at you when Jungkook mentioned having one similar as a kid. 

How it reminded him of his mom.

And now that you're talking about mourning a mom that you still have alive, because the mom from your memories often differs from the one who exists now... it feels like the right moment. Like maybe these stupid friendship bracelets aren't just arts and crafts bullshit but something that might actually mean something.

Fuck, that's corny. You're being corny right now. This is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Jungkook—suddenly you're having feelings and shit. Gross.

But your fingers are already closing around the bracelets. 

You're impulsive like that. Always have been. Jump first, think later. It's gotten you into trouble more times than you can count, but occasionally—very occasionally—it works out.

You slip them into your fist, hiding them behind your back as you walk slowly toward Jungkook. He's still standing there, watching you with that half-curious, half-amused expression that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and—

"Hmm? What's up, Phoenix?" he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly when he notices your hands hidden behind your back.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“What's that?" He takes a step closer, trying to peek around you. "You hiding something?"

"No," you lie, taking a step back. "Mind your business."

"You're being weird," he says, his smirk widening into a full-on grin. "What is it? A love letter? Secret diary? Embarrassing photos of you in middle school with braces?"

"I never had braces," you retort, still backing up as he advances. "And it's nothing, so back off."

"If it's nothing, why are you hiding it?" He lunges suddenly, trying to grab at your hands, but you twist away, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Jungkook, I swear to god—"

"Come on, just show me!" He's laughing now, the asshole, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "What's so secret that you can't—"

He makes another grab, and this time his fingers catch your wrist. You try to pull away, but he's stronger than you, the jerk, and before you can stop him, he's pried your fingers open.

The bracelets fall into his palm.

His laughter cuts off abruptly. 

He stares down at them, then back up at you, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read. 

His eyes go all soft and wide, like some anime character or something, and it makes your forsaken insides twist.

"How?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "I thought we left these at the shop."

You look to the side, feeling heat crawl up your neck. 

This is so fucking embarrassing. 

It's just bracelets. 

Stupid, childish bracelets that shouldn't mean anything.

"When I came back to get my phone, I..." You trail off, not sure how to explain without sounding like a complete sap. "I saw them and I just..."

You shut up, because what are you supposed to say? That you couldn't stand the thought of leaving them behind? That something about his face when he talked about his mom's bracelet made you want to give him this small piece of today?

He seems to understand anyway, nodding slowly as he looks down at the bracelets again. 

"Thanks," he says, and it's so genuine it makes you uncomfortable.

He holds them for a moment longer, then asks, "Can I?" gesturing toward your wrist.

You extend your arm automatically, then realize what he's doing as he fumbles with the clasp of the Phoenix bracelet.

"No, let me wear the Rogue one," you say quickly.

He pauses, brows furrowing. "But I am Rogue."

"Well, you said you didn't want to wear a bracelet calling you 'Rogue,'" you point out, "so... might as well wear the Rogue one myself and you wear the Phoenix one."

A slow smile spreads across his face, like what you've just said makes perfect sense instead of being the most backward logic ever. 

And with a soft, delicate breath he says:

“Deal."

His fingers brush against your skin as he fastens the Rogue bracelet around your wrist. You try not to react, but your pulse quickens traitorously beneath his fingertips.

When he's done, you take the Phoenix bracelet from him, gesturing for his wrist. He extends it without hesitation, and you're struck by how much larger his hand is than yours, how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers as you fumble with the clasp.

"There," you say, pulling away quickly once it's secured. "Now we're even."

"Even," he echoes, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist, the fiery beads catching the light. "I guess we are."

You stare at the bracelet on your wrist for a few seconds, the beads catching the dim light of your apartment living room. Your eyes flicker up to his wrist—he's doing the same thing, turning his arm slightly to inspect his newly acquired accessory like he's never seen a fucking bracelet before. 

His eyes catch yours, and you can't help asking, "You gonna wear it?"

He rotates his wrist, watching how the beads interact with the light. 

“Maybe." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know, does it fit my vibe?"

Is he serious right now? 

You deadpan him, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

He can't help but snort, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's a no, then?"

"Whatever," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "You don't need to wear it. It's a silly thing anyway." 

And it is. Just a stupid arts and crafts project you made while trying to keep him busy for his birthday party. 

No big deal if he tosses it in a drawer and forgets about it. Literally could not care less.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, examining it again. "Kind of tacky, but in a fun way."

He looks back at you when you stare in silence too long. 

"What about you?"

"Huh?" You blink, caught off-guard.

"Are you gonna wear yours?" He gestures toward your wrist with his chin.

"I don't know." You twist the beads around your wrist, acting like you're still deciding. "It's not like I want people to know I have friendship bracelet gay shit with you."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right, I had forgotten what I'm gonna say when people ask what 'PHOENIX' means."

Your eyes flicker back to him, side-eyeing him suspiciously. "What would you say?"

"Maybe I should tell them it's from my roommate," he says, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Who rose from the ashes and all that. Like some kind of angry, book-obsessed firebird."

"Don't you dare talk about me like that!" You immediately shove at his shoulder, scowling. "Oh my god."

He sidesteps your attack, continuing, "—into this majestic creature who's deep down probably not plotting to murder me in my sleep—"

"I swear to god," you lunge at him again, "if you say that cringy shit about me to anyone—"

"—and who secretly loves making friendship bracelets—"

"I will end you," you threaten, trying to grab his arm while he deftly avoids your attempts. The audacity of this asshole. "I will literally smother you with a pillow."

"—and wearing them too!" He's full-on laughing now, dodging around the coffee table. "The bracelet represents how we've evolved from mortal enemies to... slightly less mortal enemies."

"That's it." You grab a throw pillow from the couch and hurl it at his head. "You're dead to me."

He catches the pillow easily, still grinning like an idiot. "Aw, come on, Nix. Embrace your phoenix identity. Like the bird, you too have emerged from—"

"If you say 'ashes' one more time," you threaten, grabbing another pillow, "I will personally ensure you become some."

"Violent," he comments, raising his eyebrows. "And after I accepted your little craft project."

"It's not a—" 

You start to protest, then stop yourself. 

What the hell would you call it?

"Whatever. It's just a bracelet."

"A bracelet of tolerance," he suggests, his eyes dancing with amusement. "At best."

"Exactly," you say, oddly annoyed that he's stolen your line. "A bracelet of 'you're still annoying as fuck but occasionally tolerable.'"

"A bracelet of 'we haven't killed each other yet, which is honestly impressive,'" he offers.

"A bracelet of 'the apartment lease says I can't legally push you off the balcony,'" you suggest.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Cool. I'll take it."

"Don't make it weird," you mutter, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. Why is he being almost... nice? "It's just a stupid bracelet I accidentally made while you were trying to avoid talking about your Instagram."

"Right," he nods, tapping the beads against the table. "Just like how you 'accidentally' bought me a super rare vinyl."

"Shut up."

"Never," he says, shifting Griffin to make room on the armchair. "So, this means you're warming up to me, huh? All it took was some karaoke and a rooftop heart-to-heart."

"I already told you we'll see," you remind him, rolling your eyes. "Don't push it, Rogue."

"Fine, fine," he holds up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, the evidence is mounting."

"What evidence?"

He starts counting off on his fingers. "One, you made me a bracelet. Two, you bought me a vinyl. Three, you didn't ditch me at my own birthday thing. Four, you haven't tried to poison my coffee in at least three days."

"That you know of," you counter, but you can feel the corner of your mouth twitching traitorously.

"See? You're not even denying it," he says, pointing at you triumphantly. "Face it, Phee. You tolerate me."

"The bare minimum bar for human interaction. Congratulations."

Griffin chooses that moment to let out a pathetically dramatic meow, clearly offended that he's no longer the center of attention.

"Someone's jealous," Jungkook immediately turns to scratch his cat under the chin. "Don't worry, G, you'll always be my number one roommate."

You roll your eyes. "Great, I've been demoted behind the cat."

"He doesn't leave wet teabags in the sink," Jungkook points out.

"He literally shits in a box in our bathroom."

"Yeah, but at least he covers it up."

"I'm not having this argument," you declare, standing up from the couch. It's late, you're tired, and this whole day has been weird enough already. "I'm going to bed."

"Night, Nix," he says, voice softer than his usual teasing tone.

"Night, Rogue," you reply, hesitating for just a moment too long before adding, "Happy birthday. Again."

He smiles—that same genuine smile from before. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't get used to it," you warn, already backing toward your bedroom. "Tomorrow I go back to hating your guts."

"Looking forward to it," he calls after you, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You close your bedroom door a bit harder than necessary, but you're smiling as you do it. And if your fingers brush against the beads on your wrist as you change into your pajamas, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

It's just a bracelet. Whatever.

goal: 650 notes. can’t believe how quickly kiki nation got the goals back, you guys are amazing and unhinged. 😭❤️‍🩹

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jburrgf]

Friends III, The Love Trope Series

EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED, PART III

◦pairing: bengals¡joe! x best friend¡reader!

◦summary: friends to lovers, childhood friendship. slow burn, soulmates.

◦description: it’s been five years since you saw joe for the last time. your life went another way, at the same time joe’s life went too. but everything changes when you find yourself needing somebody, and your best friend it’s the only one that you know it can help you.

◦ playlist: Friends, Ed Sheeran From Eden, Hoozier 21, Gracie Abramns You Belong With Me, Taylor Swift I Couldn't Be More In Love, The 1975

part I/ part Il

FIRST TRIMESTER OF 2019. – LSU & BENGALS.

Y/N

The sound of the door unlocking pulled me from my thoughts as I sat at the kitchen counter, finishing a cup of coffee. Ryan stepped in, his hair slightly disheveled, his scrubs wrinkled from the long hours he’d just endured. He looked tired—exhausted, actually—but his smile still found its way to his face when he saw me.

“Hey, babe,” he said, dropping his bag near the door and walking over to me. He leaned down and placed a quick kiss on my forehead before sighing heavily. “What a day.”

“You look beat,” I said softly, standing up to grab the cup of tea I’d made for him earlier. I handed it to him, and he gave me a grateful smile.

“Yeah, it was a long one. Surgery went well, though. The patient’s stable.” He sank onto one of the bar stools, taking a sip of the tea. “What about you? What’s on your agenda for today? Didn’t see you at the hospital.”

I hesitated for a moment, brushing an invisible crumb off the counter. “I’m actually meeting Lauren for lunch,” I said, trying to sound casual.

Ryan raised an eyebrow, but his expression remained neutral. “Oh yeah? Where are you two headed?”

“Just the café near her office,” I replied, leaning against the counter. “It’s been a while since we’ve caught up, so I figured we could spend some time together.”

“That’s nice,” he said, his tone light. “You’ve been working a lot lately. You deserve a break.”

I smiled, feeling a twinge of guilt as I looked at him. He was always so supportive, so steady, even when I knew he was running on fumes.

“Thanks,” I said softly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, finishing the tea and setting the cup down. He stood up and stretched, his muscles stiff from hours in the operating room. “I think I’m going to crash for a bit. Don’t let me sleep too long, though, or I’ll be up all night.”

“Deal,” I said with a small laugh.

He kissed me again, this time on the lips, and headed toward the bedroom. “Have fun with Lauren, babe,” he called over his shoulder.

“Thanks, love.” I replied, watching him disappear down the hallway.

As the door to the bedroom closed, I found myself staring at the empty tea cup on the counter, an inexplicable weight settling in my chest. It wasn’t that anything was wrong—Ryan was kind, caring, and everything I’d ever thought I wanted.

It’s been weeks since I started feeling like this again. I don’t know what triggered me, but some weeks ago, I realized that I was thinking too much for things that I used to do normally.

So why did I feel like something was missing?

[...]

The café was bustling with the usual lunch rush, the hum of conversations and clinking plates filling the air. I sat across from Lauren, sipping on my iced tea as she animatedly recounted a story about her latest work trip. I was listening—really, I was—but my focus wavered every now and then.

My life felt… stable. Almost too stable, like the kind of perfection you don’t question because you’re afraid it’ll crumble the moment you do. Ryan and I had been living together for over a year now, and things were good. He was sweet, dependable, and everything I thought I needed.

“And then he knocked over the entire display!” Lauren exclaimed, her laughter pulling me out of my thoughts.

I smiled, shaking my head. “You always end up with the most chaotic coworkers.”

“Tell me about it,” she replied, taking a sip of her coffee. “But enough about me. How’s work? How’s Ryan?”

I shrugged, playing with the straw in my drink. “Work’s good. Busy, but good. Ryan’s… Ryan.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “That sounded less enthusiastic than usual.”

“No, it’s not like that,” I said quickly, waving her off. “We’re fine. Really. Working in the same hospital where your boyfriend is an intern? Crazy, but we are working on it. It’s good to know someone from outside over there. But I don’t know, Ren… everything feels too norma to be right. I’m so scared."

She gave me a knowing look but didn’t press further. Instead, her attention shifted to the TV mounted on the café wall, behind me. “Oh, hey, isn’t that—”

My eyes followed hers, and my breath caught in my throat.

There was.

Joe.

My Joe.

Dressed in LSU’s purple and gold, he stood in front of a row of microphones, his helmet tucked under one arm as he answered questions from reporters, still in the middle of the field, after another game. His hair was slightly longer than I remembered, and his face had matured in the years since I’d last seen him. But it was undeniably him.

My heart twisted in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

He was… there. After five years, that was the first time I was seeing his face. Still with the same deep blue eyes, the playful smile, the same face… It almost felt like home.

“Holy crap,” Lauren said, her voice low. “He’s… different.”

My breath got caught on the top of my throat and I couldn't say anything. I missed seeing his face so much that my whole body felt numb. I wanted to cry so bad, that my eyes felt heavier cause of the tears almost running down my face.

I nodded, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. The headline at the bottom read, “Joe Burrow leads LSU to a decisive victory, securing their spot in the NCAA final.”

“He’s at LSU now,” I murmured, more to myself than to Lauren.

“Have you talked to him since… you know? I just remember you saying to me that things fell apart.” she asked carefully.

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Not since college. Not since Ohio State.”

Lauren didn’t say anything, but the look on her face said enough. I turned my attention back to my drink, trying to ignore the ache in my chest that seeing him had stirred up.

I missed him so much. I spent almost half of my life putting in my head that I didn’t miss him at all, but everybody knew it was a lie.

Even myself.

JOE BURROW.

The rain battered against the windows of my apartment, the sound almost drowning out the action movie playing on my TV. I leaned back on the couch, my feet propped up on the coffee table, the remnants of a takeout dinner sitting beside me.

It had been a long week, filled with practice, media obligations, and the weight of knowing that the championship game was just weeks away. But for now, I had the rare luxury of a quiet night to myself.

My phone was in my hand. I’ve been chatting with my mom

the whole day, missing the feeling of being by myself at my own house in Ohio. Some messages from my friends,

I was just reaching for the remote to turn up the volume when the doorbell rang.

Frowning, I glanced at the clock. It was almost 10 PM.

I got up, padding to the door in bare feet. When I opened it, my breath caught in my throat.

“Y/N?”

She stood there, drenched from head to toe, her hair plastered to her face and her clothes clinging to her frame. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying, and she was shivering from the cold.

“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” I said quickly, stepping aside to let her in.

She walked past me, her arms wrapped around herself as she stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom right by the living room and handed it to her.

“Here,” I said. “You’re soaked.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the towel and rubbing it over her hair.

I watched her for a moment, my mind racing with questions. What was she doing here? Why now, after all these years?

“Y/N,” I said carefully, “what’s going on?”

She hesitated, clutching the towel like it was the only thing holding her together. “It’s Ryan,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “He… he cheated on me.”

My chest tightened, anger and disbelief flooding through me. “What?”

“I found out a few hours ago,” she continued, her voice trembling. “He��s been seeing someone else for months. I confronted him about it, and he didn’t even deny it. He just—” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands, shaking. ‘ I had to see you. I saw you on Tv and found that you were over here, so I just took the first flight. You were right, Joe. He wasn’t good for me.”

“Hey, hey,” I said softly, stepping closer and placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

She nodded, taking a shaky breath as she lowered her hands. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she admitted, looking up at me with tear-filled eyes.

“You came to the right place,” I said firmly. “I’m here, Y/N. Whatever you need.”

She let out a small, broken laugh. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it,” I said, my voice soft but steady.

For a moment, we just stood there, the sound of the rain filling the silence between us. Then, without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in my chest.

I froze for half a second before wrapping my arms around her, holding her tightly.

“It’s going to be okay,” I murmured, resting my chin on the top of her head.

She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her shoulders relax slightly, her grip on me tightening as if she was afraid I might let go.

I didn’t.

Y/N

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue over the room. My eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, I forgot where I was. The couch I’d slept on was soft and warm, and I snuggled deeper into the blanket, catching the faint scent of Joe lingering on the fabric.

Then it all came rushing back. I was at Joe’s apartment.

I stretched lazily, my body still heavy with sleep, and glanced down at what I was wearing—a slightly oversized gray T-shirt with LSU printed across the front. It was Joe’s. He had handed it to me last night, insisting I’d be more comfortable in it than my own clothes. I smiled faintly, letting my fingers brush over the soft cotton.

Something about wearing his shirt felt intimate, grounding even. Like I belonged here. Like this was how things were always meant to be.

I pushed the thought away quickly, sitting up and wrapping the blanket tighter around myself. But the idea lingered, unshakable. This felt so natural—waking up in his space, surrounded by pieces of him. For a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t just a one-time thing.

If this were our routine.

If every night ended with us laughing together on the couch, and every morning began with me wearing his shirts, making breakfast, and waiting for him to wake up.

If I were his.

The thought made my chest ache, a bittersweet longing settling deep inside me. Shaking my head, I tried to push it aside. It was dangerous to let my mind wander there—dangerous and entirely pointless. Joe and I had spent years apart, and so much had changed.

But a part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he ever thought about it too.

I stood quietly, padding over to the kitchen on bare feet. His apartment was small but cozy, filled with little reminders of who he was. A football sat prominently on a shelf, surrounded by LSU memorabilia. A framed photo of him with his parents and brothers hung near the door, and his signature cleats were neatly tucked under the coffee table.

It all felt so Joe, and it made my heart squeeze painfully.

I busied myself in the kitchen, pulling out eggs and bread from his fridge. The smell of coffee filled the air as I brewed a fresh pot, and I started scrambling the eggs. The motions were easy, comforting. For a few minutes, I let myself sink into the simplicity of it, pretending this was just another day in a life we could’ve had together.

The sound of footsteps behind me broke me out of my thoughts.

“Something smells good,” a familiar, groggy voice mumbled.

I turned to see Joe standing in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck as he yawned. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. He was wearing sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders.

I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him.

“Good morning,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady.

He stepped closer, leaning against the counter with a small grin. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

Without warning, he pulled me into a quick hug, his arms warm and solid around me. His chin brushed against the top of my head, and I froze for a moment, caught off guard.

“Thanks for making breakfast,” he said, pulling back and giving me a sleepy smile.

I nodded, my cheeks warm as I turned back to the stove. “It’s no big deal. Figured you’d need something good to eat after last night.”

He chuckled, grabbing two mugs and filling them with coffee. “You spoil me, Y/N.”

I tried to laugh, but the sound came out weak. I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering back to the thoughts I’d had earlier. The way this all felt so much like a life I wanted but could never have.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” I asked, my voice light as I plated the eggs and toast.

Joe took a sip of his coffee, his expression thoughtful. “Coach gave us the day off,” he said. “A little break before the chaos kicks in again.”

“That’s good,” I said, glancing at him as I slid his plate across the counter. “You deserve it.”

He smiled, taking a seat on one of the bar stools. “I was thinking… Maybe we could spend the day together. Just us. Get out for a bit, catch up. It’s been a while since we’ve had time like this.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly busied myself with my own plate to avoid meeting his gaze. “That sounds nice,” I said quietly.

He nodded, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he started eating.

As we sat together in the quiet kitchen, sharing a simple breakfast and easy conversation, I couldn’t help but feel like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to enjoy it.

JOE BURROW.

The diner was exactly how I remembered it—small, cozy, and buzzing with the sound of clinking dishes and quiet conversation. The familiar scent of coffee and fried food hung in the air, and the bell above the door jingled as Y/N and I stepped inside.

We slid into a booth near the window, and I handed her a menu from the stand. She scanned it quickly, her fingers tracing the laminated surface absentmindedly.

“You come here often?” she asked, her eyes flicking to mine.

“Yeah,” I said with a small smile. “It’s nothing fancy, but the food’s good. And the people are nice.”

As if on cue, Patty, the diner’s longtime waitress, approached our table with her usual warm smile. “Joe! Long time no see,” she said, setting two glasses of water down in front of us. Her gaze shifted to Y/N, and her smile widened. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”

“This is Y/N,” I said, glancing at her. “An old friend from Ohio.”

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart,” Patty said, her voice warm, the southern accent hitting hard. “What can I get you two?”

After we placed our orders, I leaned back in the booth, studying Y/N as she gazed out the window. The sunlight caught her features in a way that made her look almost ethereal, and for a moment, I found it hard to look away.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence. “Tell me everything. What have you been up to these past few years?”

She hesitated, her expression turning thoughtful. “Where do I even start?”

“From the beginning,” I said, my voice gentle. “I want to know it all.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers tracing patterns on the edge of her glass. “Well… after college, I started working as a physical therapist. It wasn’t easy at first, but I loved it. I started working in the same hospital as Ryan right after graduation.”

Her words stung more than I cared to admit, but I kept my expression neutral, nodding as she continued.

“For a while, everything felt perfect. But, I guess, things don’t always stay that way.” Her voice grew softer, and she looked down at her hands.

I wanted to reach across the table and take her hand, to offer some kind of comfort, but I stopped myself. “And now?” I asked instead.

“Now… I’m figuring things out,” she said, meeting my gaze. “One day at a time.”

I nodded, my chest tightening. “You’ve always been good at that,” I said softly.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “What about you?”

I hesitated for a moment before answering. “I dated Emily for a while in college,” I admitted. “But it didn’t work out. We were… more fucking around than anything else. She thought she was pregnant right before I transferred to LSU. It was crazy. She wasn’t, by the way. ”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “ I remember the gossip about her and a football player, I didn't think it was you. At least you realized that.”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning forward. “And now, here we are.”

The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable. It felt like there were a million things left unsaid, but neither of us knew how to voice them.

“You should come to the game,” I said finally, my voice steady. “The final. I’d love for you to be there.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said firmly. “It would mean a lot to me.”

She nodded, her smile growing. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

For the first time in years, it felt like we were finding our way back to each other, like it was supposed to be this whole time.

Y/N

The room smelled faintly of powder and lavender as I stood in front of the mirror, my fingers deftly applying blush to Robin’s cheeks. She sat patiently on the cushioned chair, her eyes twinkling with warmth as she glanced at me every so often. I couldn’t help but smile at her reflection. The soft hum of country music played from Robin’s phone, resting on the vanity. My reflection in the mirror made me laugh—an apron tied over my casual outfit, my hair in bobs, and a few smudges of eyeshadow on my fingers.

Robin smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked at herself in the mirror. "You’ve got a real talent for this, sweetheart," she said, her voice soft and filled with affection.

"Thank you, Robin," I replied, dabbing lightly on her cheekbone. "I don’t get to do this often, so it’s a nice change of pace."

She chuckled, tilting her head slightly so I could finish blending the blush. "I’m so glad you’re here, Y/N. Joe’s been... different lately."

I paused for a moment, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Different? What do you mean?"

Robin’s smile grew, her gaze warm and knowing. "He’s happy. Truly happy. I haven’t seen him like this in months, not since the two of you stopped talking."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, a mix of guilt and warmth spreading through me. I smiled softly, focusing back on her makeup to avoid the lump forming in my throat. "I missed him too," I admitted quietly.

Robin’s hand reached up to pat mine, resting gently on my wrist. "You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that.” Robin opened her eyes, meeting mine in the mirror. “I could tell. And let me tell you, sweetheart, he missed you too. I’ve never seen him this happy in years—not even after his biggest wins.”

Her words sent a warm ache through my chest, and I bit my lip to keep the emotion at bay. “Joe and I… we’ve been through a lot,” I said quietly, setting the brush down. “But I’m glad we found our way back. It feels… right.”

“It is right,” Robin said firmly, watching me with an intensity that caught me off guard.

I finished her makeup shortly after, standing to gather my brushes and palettes. As I zipped up my case and turned to leave, Robin’s hand gently caught mine, pulling me back.

"Y/N," she said, her tone soft but firm. “Stay with him.”

I turned to her, surprised by the intensity in her expression.

I blinked, unsure of what was coming. “Of course,” I said softly.

Her hand tightened around mine, her eyes locking onto mine. “Stay with him. Be there for him. You and Joe—you’ve always been meant for each other. Even when you were kids, I could see it. Your parents saw it too.”

My breath hitched, and for a moment, I couldn’t find the words to respond.

Robin smiled gently, her other hand patting mine. “You’ve always been his anchor, Y/N. And he’s always been yours. Don’t let anything take that away from you.”

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. Her words hung heavy in the air, laced with a kind of certainty that shook me to my core.

"I—" I started, then stopped, unsure of what to say. Finally, I gave her a small, shaky smile. "Thank you, Robin. That means... a lot."

She smiled warmly, patting my hand once more before letting go. "I just needed to say it," she said.

I nodded, swallowing hard as I left the room. Her words echoed in my mind as I made my way back to my room to get ready, my heart heavy with emotions I wasn’t quite ready to face.

JOE BURROW.

The locker room was buzzing with energy, the kind that made the air crackle before a big game. I pulled my jersey over my head, adjusting the fit as I glanced around at my teammates. Justin was joking with Chase about his pre-game ritual, and Clyde was busy tying his cleats, muttering something about a lucky pair of socks.

I leaned back against the bench, checking my phone for the time. But instead of closing the screen, my eyes caught the notification at the top—a message from Y/N.

Y/N: Good luck tonight, Joey. I’ll be in the stands, cheering for you like always. You’ve got this.

A smile spread across my face before I could stop it, and the warmth that filled my chest was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the message—it was the fact that it came from her.

“Alright, what’s with the grin, man?” Justin’s voice cut through my thoughts, and I looked up to see him smirking at me, his arms crossed.

“Yeah, you’ve got that lovesick puppy look again,” Chase added, chuckling. “What, did Y/N text you or something?”

Clyde raised an eyebrow, joining in. “Bet it’s her. You always get that look when it’s about her.”

I shook my head, trying to play it off, but the heat rising to my cheeks betrayed me. “You guys don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered, sliding my phone back into my bag.I rolled my eyes, leaning back against the locker. "You’re all imagining things."

“Oh, we know exactly what we’re talking about,” Justin teased, nudging Chase. “You’ve been hung up on her forever, dude. It 's obvious. I Don't even know the girl, but you talk about her like we know. I know you, dawg.”

"Are we, though?" Chase added, walking over and clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You’ve been different since she came back into your life. Happier."

Chase nodded. "And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you’ve been turning down every girl that’s thrown herself at you lately. We’re not blind, Joe. You’re saving yourself for her."

I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came out. I didn’t know how to respond, because deep down, I knew they were right.

"I’m just... happy she’s here," I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

Justin grinned, patting my shoulder. "That’s all we’re saying, man. You’re different with her around, and it’s a good thing."

“Yeah,” Clyde chimed in, grinning. “The way you turn down every girl who comes your way? Like, come on, Burrow. We’re not blind.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t deny the truth in their words. They didn’t need to know that Y/N had always been different—that she wasn’t just some girl I liked, but the one person who made everything else feel… right.

“Alright, leave him alone,” Clyde said with a laugh, slapping me on the back. “He’s got a game to focus on.”

I nodded, grateful for the out. But as I laced up my cleats and joined my teammates in the huddle, Y/N’s message lingered in the back of my mind, fueling me in a way nothing else could.

I didn’t say anything, just nodded as they walked away. My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down to see another message from Y/N.

Y/N: See you after the game, okay?

Because no matter how much time had passed, one thing remained the same: she was still the person who mattered most to me.

Y/N

The energy inside the Mercedes-Benz Superdome was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It felt alive—every cheer, every chant reverberating through the walls and into my chest. I stood on the sideline with Robin and the rest of Joe’s family, surrounded by a sea of purple and gold on one side, orange and white on the other. LSU versus Clemson. The 2020 College Football Playoff National Championship.

Robin was gripping her program so tightly that it was starting to wrinkle, and I couldn’t blame her. My nerves mirrored hers, every muscle in my body tense as I watched the game unfold. Joe was out there on the field, his figure distinct even in the chaos of the game. He moved with a calm confidence that I knew all too well, every play he called executed with precision.

"Did you see that pass?" Robin asked, nudging me with her elbow after Joe threw a perfect spiral to Ja'Marr Chase, resulting in yet another touchdown for LSU.

I nodded, my voice caught in my throat. "He’s... unbelievable," I finally managed, my chest swelling with pride.

But Joe—Joe was unstoppable. Watching him was like witnessing a maestro conduct a symphony, every throw precise, every play executed with absolute confidence. He’d already thrown for multiple touchdowns, including a jaw-dropping 52-yard pass to Ja'Marr Chase that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

By halftime, LSU was leading 28-17, and the air around us was electric. Robin leaned toward me as the players disappeared into the tunnel. “He’s locked in,” she said with a knowing smile.

I returned her smile, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. “He’s got this.”

The second half was when LSU truly took control. Every time Joe stepped onto the field, it felt like magic. His connection with his receivers was flawless, and the defense held Clemson at bay. The tension that had gripped me earlier started to ease, replaced by an overwhelming sense of pride.

By the fourth quarter, LSU was up 42-25, and the reality of what was happening began to sink in. I found myself holding my breath as the clock ticked down. The final moments seemed to stretch on forever, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each passing second.

When the clock finally hit zero, the stadium erupted in chaos. Purple and gold confetti rained down from above, and the sound of the LSU fight song filled the air. Robin threw her arms around me, her laughter mixing with tears as she hugged me tightly.

"He did it!" she exclaimed, her voice almost drowned out by the noise.

I laughed, my own eyes misting over as I hugged her back. “He really did.”

My eyes scanned the field, searching for Joe. He stood in the center, his hands on his hips as he looked around, taking it all in. The confetti swirled around him, and for a moment, he looked almost frozen in time, like something out of a painting.

And that was the moment that I realized that I never stopped loving Joe Burrow.

JOE BURROW.

The confetti was falling, the cheers were deafening, and I stood in the middle of it all, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

We’d won. LSU was the national champion.

We’d worked so hard for this moment, sacrificed so much, and now it was real.

I took a deep breath, my chest rising and falling as I tried to steady myself. Around me, my teammates were celebrating, their voices blending into a cacophony of joy and triumph. Ja'Marr slapped me on the back, shouting something I couldn’t quite hear over the noise, but I nodded and grinned, my own excitement finally breaking through.

“Let’s go!” Ja'Marr shouted, slapping me on the back, pulling me out of my daze.

We made our way to the stage that had been set up in the middle of the field, the trophy gleaming under the bright stadium lights. I stood at the center, my hands gripping the trophy as I lifted it high above my head. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath my feet.

As I lowered the trophy, my eyes instinctively scanned the sideline, and there she was.

Y/N.

She was clapping and cheering, her smile wide and radiant. Even from this distance, I could see the pride in her eyes, the same pride that had always been there, even when we were kids.

Without thinking, I handed the trophy to Ja'Marr and jogged toward her, my heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

“Joe!” she called as I reached her, her voice cutting through the noise like a beacon.

I didn’t stop to think. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I lifted her off the ground, spinning her in a circle as she laughed. Her laughter was warm and bright, a sound that made everything else fade into the background.

“You did it,” she whispered, her arms wrapping tightly around my neck as I set her back on the ground. Her voice was soft, but the emotion behind it was palpable. “I’m so proud of you, Joey. So, so proud.”

Her words hit me harder than anything else that night. I rested my forehead against hers, my hands still on her waist. “Thank you,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for being here. For always being here.”

She smiled, her fingers brushing against my jaw. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

For a moment, it was just us. The noise of the stadium, the chaos of the celebration—it all faded away. It was just me and Y/N, standing together in the middle of a championship.

DRAFT NIGHT, 2020.

Y/N

Joe’s childhood bedroom was cozy, almost nostalgic, with its Star Wars-themed decor still intact. The soft glow from the television screen illuminated the room, casting faint shadows over the familiar posters of Jedi knights and starships on the walls. It felt surreal to be here, lying beside Joe, knowing that tomorrow his life would change forever.

I rested my head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as we watched some random movie he’d picked. Neither of us was really paying attention to it; the sound was more of a background hum to our shared silence. His arm was draped lazily over my shoulders, holding me close. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to make my heart ache in the best way.

Turning my head slightly, I looked up at him. His face was calm, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles as he stared at the screen. I knew him well enough to recognize that he wasn’t truly focused. “Hey,” I said softly, my voice cutting through the quiet. “How are you feeling? About tomorrow, I mean.”

He shifted slightly, his gaze lowering to meet mine. “I’m good,” he replied after a beat, his voice steady but tinged with a trace of nervous energy. “Excited, mostly. I'm a little anxious, I guess. It still doesn’t feel real, you know?”

I smiled, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. “It’s real, Joe. And you’ve worked so hard for this. I always knew you’d be the first pick. You were born for this.”

His eyes softened at my words, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile that made my chest tighten. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “For saying that. For... always believing in me.”

I shrugged, trying to play it off as casual, though my cheeks warmed under his gaze. “It’s easy to believe in someone like you, Joe.”

The conversation fell into another comfortable silence, the kind that only existed between us. I felt his breathing slow and deepen as the minutes passed, and when I tilted my head to look at him again, I realized he’d fallen asleep.

I couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He looked so peaceful, so at ease, even with the weight of tomorrow hanging over him. Gently, I reached for the remote and turned off the TV, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds.

“Goodnight, Joe,” I whispered, snuggling closer to him. His arm tightened around me unconsciously, and I closed my eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull me to sleep.

JOE BURROW.

The next day felt like a whirlwind. Hours blurred together as we prepared for the moment that had been years in the making. My parents’ living room was full of buzzing energy, with my family and a few close friends gathered around. The NFL Draft was finally here, and I was sitting on the same worn leather couch I’d grown up on, surrounded by people who had supported me every step of the way.

I glanced over at Y/N, who was perched on the armrest beside me. She was calm, her presence grounding me in a way I couldn’t explain. Every time my nerves threatened to creep in, I’d catch her eye, and she’d smile, a quiet reassurance that everything was going to be okay.

The draft began, and the room grew tense with anticipation. The first pick was announced, and hearing my name—"With the first pick in the 2020 NFL Draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select Joe Burrow, quarterback, LSU"—felt like an out-of-body experience.

I shot to my feet, the room erupting into cheers and applause around me. My mom was the first to hug me, her arms wrapping tightly around me as tears filled her eyes. My dad followed, clapping me on the back and grinning proudly.

As the celebrations continued, I noticed Y/N standing off to the side, clapping and smiling so brightly it could’ve lit up the entire room. I crossed the space between us, pulling her into a hug that was equal parts relief and gratitude.

“You did it!” she exclaimed, her voice full of pride. “Joe, I’m so proud of you. I knew you’d be number one.”

I pulled back just enough to look at her, my hands still resting on her waist. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Y/N. Thank you. For always being there, for... everything.”

Her smile softened, her hand brushing against my arm. “You don’t have to thank me, Joe. I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

Her words settled over me, grounding me in a way nothing else could. As I moved toward the computer for the online press conference, I couldn’t help but glance back at her, standing there with that same unwavering smile. She wasn’t just my best friend—she was my constant, my anchor, the person I trusted above all else.

When the conference ended, I didn’t go back to the crowd of family and friends. I went straight to Y/N. She stood as I approached, meeting me halfway, and for a moment, we just stood there, staring at each other.

“Thank you,” I said again, my voice quieter this time, meant just for her.

She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly against my jaw. “You’re going to do amazing things, Joe. I hope you know that.”

I smiled, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her temple. “Only because I’ve got you in my corner.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t pull away. “Always,” she repeated, her voice soft but certain.

At that moment, with everyone else celebrating in the background, I knew that no matter where this new chapter took me, as long as Y/N was by my side, I’d be okay.

BENGALS, 2023 – WRIST INJURY.

Y/N

I was there when the injury happened.

Not physically, of course—I wasn’t at the stadium. But when Robin called me, her voice trembling with an urgency that sent chills down my spine, it felt as if I was standing right there on the field, watching it unfold in slow motion. My heart felt every second of it.

“He got injured at the game. Come to our house as quickly as possible.” The words echoed in my mind as I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

The phone call from Robin had come in the middle of my shift at the clinic. I had just finished helping a patient with their rehab exercises when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Seeing her name on the screen sent a chill down my spine. She rarely called, and never during the day.

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. My knees wobbled, and I leaned against the counter for support, my chest tightening at the thought of what Joe must have been going through. Robin went on to explain that it wasn’t just a sprain or something minor. His wrist was fractured, the damage severe enough to require surgery.

I didn’t think twice. I grabbed my bag, clocked out without explanation, and headed straight for my car. The drive to Joe’s house felt like an eternity, every red light and slow turn taunting me. My thoughts spiraled as I imagined him sitting there, his dreams for the season crushed. Joe never let injuries get to him—he always pushed through—but something about Robin’s tone told me this was different.

When I arrived, the house was unsettlingly quiet. Robin greeted me at the door, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red from crying. She gave me a small, tight hug, whispering, “He’s in the living room. He hasn’t said much.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to form a response. Walking into the living room felt like stepping into a space that wasn’t meant for me—a room filled with tension, unspoken words, and too much pain. Joe sat on the couch, slouched forward, his injured wrist heavily bandaged. His head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor as if it held all the answers he was searching for

I hesitated at the doorway, taking in the scene. Robin, his dad, and a few others from his team stood nearby, their expressions somber. It felt as though the room itself was mourning with him. I swallowed hard, fighting the tears that pricked at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t need my pity. He needed me.

Slowly, I walked over and sat down beside him. The couch dipped under my weight, and for a moment, neither of us said a word.

“Joey...” My voice came out as a whisper, thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

His shoulders trembled, and then, without warning, he broke. His head dropped into his uninjured hand, his entire body shaking as quiet sobs escaped him. I didn’t think—I just acted. I reached out, placed a hand on his back, and gently guided his head to rest on my lap.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, running my fingers through his hair in soothing strokes. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He didn’t resist, letting his head fall into my lap like we’d done countless times before, though this time was different. His shoulders trembled with silent sobs, and I felt his pain as if it were my own.

“They said it’s bad,” he finally croaked, his voice muffled against my leg. “The surgery... it’s tomorrow. They don’t know if…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, and my heart broke for him.

“You will,” I said firmly, my voice steady despite the lump in my throat. “You’re Joe Burrow. If anyone can come back stronger from this, it’s you. And I’ll be here every step of the way.”

He looked up at me then, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why do you always believe in me so much?”

I smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “Because you’ve never given me a reason not to.”

JOE BURROW.

The hum of the hospital lights was a constant background noise as I lay on the gurney, staring up at the stark white ceiling. My wrist was throbbing under the layers of bandages, a dull reminder of everything that had happened. The thought of the surgery—of what came next—loomed over me like a shadow.

This wasn’t just a game. This wasn’t just a season. This was everything I’d worked for, everything I’d built my life around. And now it all felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

The nurses moved around me, their voices low as they prepared me for surgery. But the only person I cared about—the only person I wanted near me—was Y/N. She hadn’t said much since we arrived, but her presence was enough.

But then I looked to my right, and there she was. Y/N stood just a few feet away, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watching over me like she always did. Her presence was steadying, grounding, even in the chaos of the hospital.

“Yes, I’m his Physical Therapist.” She said for the nurse, filing some paperworks that they asked her to do it.

When the nurse left the room, Y/N moved closer, her sneakers squeaking softly against the tile floor. “Hey,” she said gently, her voice breaking through my haze of anxiety. “How are you holding up?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool even though my nerves were shot. “I’m fine,” I lied, though the crack in my voice betrayed me.

She tilted her head, giving me that look—the one that told me she didn’t buy a word of it. “Joe, it’s okay to be scared. This is a big deal.”

I sighed, letting my guard down just a little. “I guess I’m... anxious. I don’t know what’s going to happen after this.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing against mine. “You don’t have to know right now. Just focus on one step at a time, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

Her words sank in, and for the first time all day, I felt a glimmer of peace. “I chose this hospital because of you, you know,” I admitted, my voice low.

Her brows furrowed in surprise. “Joe...”

“You’re the only person I trust with this,” I said, my eyes locking onto hers. “You’ve always been the one who kept me steady, even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.”

Her expression softened, and she gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll always take care of you, Joe. You know that, right?”

Before I could respond, the nurse returned, signaling it was time. Y/N walked beside me as they wheeled me to the operating room, her hand never leaving mine until the last possible moment.

“I’m going to be with you the whole time, ok?” She told me, as they walked me down to the surgery room.

I layed on the bed, seeing Y/N on the top of my head, backwards. She put her hands on my face, tracing my figure. She was the last thing that I remember before vanishing.

[...]

When I woke up, the world felt hazy, my thoughts swimming in and out of focus. The first thing I noticed was the absence of pain. My wrist was heavy, wrapped in layers of bandages, but the sharp ache was gone.

As my vision cleared, I saw her. Y/N was curled up in the recliner by my bed, her head resting against the armrest, her arms wrapped around herself. Her hair was slightly messy, and there were faint shadows under her eyes, but she was still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She looked exhausted, but even asleep, she was beautiful.

“Y/N,” I croaked, my voice hoarse.

Her eyes fluttered open, and the moment she saw me awake, her face lit up. “Joe! You’re awake.” She quickly got up and came to my side, her hand instinctively reaching for mine. “How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice soft and full of concern.

“Better,” I said, managing a small smile.

Her lips curved into a small smile, but I could see the worry lingering in her eyes. “I’ve been here the whole time, Joe.”

“I know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why I’m okay.”

The room was quiet for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened settling between us.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, the silence between us filled with unspoken words. Finally, I took a deep breath, my heart racing as I decided to say what I’d been holding back for years.

I needed to do it. I couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Y/N,” I began, my voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside me. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?” she asked, her brows furrowing slightly.

“I love you,” I said simply, the words tumbling out before I could overthink them. She looked at me like I was saying I love you, you are my best friend “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she just stared at me. Then, a slow, radiant smile spread across her face. “Joe... I love you too. I always have. You are my best friend.”

“No, Y/N, not like that. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember,” I continued, the words pouring out of me. “And I know I should’ve told you sooner, but I was scared. Scared of losing you. But I can’t keep it in anymore.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything, and I braced myself for the worst. Then, she smiled—a soft, radiant smile that made my chest ache.

“I love you since you showed up at my house wanting to play with your new neighbor. I love you since the time that you made me work with you to prom, or since the days you started cooking my after-game meals. God, I’ve been in love with you for ages. Since I can remember.”

Relief flooded through me, and I reached for her hand, pulling her closer until our foreheads touched. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You are my first love, and you’ll always be, Joey. Every person that came to me was making me ready for you.”

“I don’t know how my life was supposed to be without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” she whispered, her voice full of certainty.

She got close to me, her lips touching mine in the most perfect kiss ever. Her mouth, all the memories, all the awake nights, all the jealousy and all the fights, it just faded away. I held her through her neck, making her get closer to me every second that was going by.

“We kissed each other at prom.” I told her, giving her another quick kiss. “I spent years of my life thinking it was just a dream, but one of my friends kinda told me it was true, last year. And I just kept it a secret waiting for the perfect moment to tell you.

‘You’re such a douchebag.” She laughed, “And that’s why I love you.”

“I’m never going to leave you anymore. Y/n, you are the best part of my life. It was always you.”

At that moment, I knew that no matter what the future held, as long as she was by my side, I’d be okay.

I finally had my girl in my arms.

[rylem33]

Happy Valentine's Day

Molly sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, reading Ryan’s latest text with a soft smile.

Ryan: Happy Valentine’s Day beautiful, can’t wait to see you tonight! Hope you’re hungry. Made reservations at your favorite Italian place. See you soon! 

She hugged her knees to her chest, warmth blooming in her heart. He’s such a sweetheart. Unlike most guys, Ryan actually made her feel special. He never pressured her, never treated her like she was just another girl.

Her phone buzzed again.

Ryan: Also… I know it’s cheesy, but I got you something. Just a little surprise.

Molly giggled, biting her lip. She could practically hear the nervous excitement in his words. God, he’s adorable.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Molly: You’re too sweet, Ryan. I can’t wait to see you!

She sighed dreamily, standing up and heading to her vanity. Everything about this night felt… perfect. Simple, romantic, safe.

Just how she liked it.

She reached for her jewelry box, her fingers grazing over her grandmother’s silver cross necklace. It had been sitting there for years, untouched, but tonight something about it called to her.

A little voice in the back of her mind whispered, Put it on.

And the moment the cool metal touched her skin…fire.

A sharp gasp escaped Molly’s lips as heat flooded her body, rushing through her veins like molten gold. She gasped, her fingers instinctively clutching the necklace as a powerful surge of energy coiled deep in her core, twisting and writhing like a living thing.

Her knees buckled, and she grabbed onto the vanity for support, her entire body trembling as an electric charge pulsed beneath her skin. Her heart pounded erratically, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

Then, her reflection blurred.

A pressure built in her torso, starting at her waist and pulling inward, like invisible hands were sculpting her. Her stomach flattened, the little bit of softness she’d always tried to hide vanishing in an instant. The subtle curve of her hips sharpened into a dramatic, mouthwatering hourglass, her love handles melting away as her core tightened with impossible definition.

She moaned softly, the sensation intoxicating.  It was like every cell in her body was alive and burning with raw, unfiltered pleasure.

Then came the stretching.

Her legs lengthened, her thighs tightening and smoothing, the extra softness she had always been self-conscious about disappearing in a rush of warmth. Her calves reshaped, taking on a graceful, toned curve, making her legs look impossibly long and lean. Her arms followed suit, slenderizing, her fingers tingling as her nails sharpened into perfect, glossy ovals.

But then…pain.

A sudden, overwhelming pressure swelled in her chest.

Molly gasped, arching her back as her modest B-cups ballooned outward, her breasts growing heavier, fuller, tighter with every passing second. Her nipples strained against the thin fabric of her dress, the sensation so intense that she whimpered.

She barely had time to react before….riiipppp!

The seams of her dress snapped, the delicate fabric pulling apart at the shoulders and sides as her rapidly expanding curves fought for space. The tightness was unbearable, like she was being squeezed in a vice.

“Ah…fuck…” she gasped, clawing at the neckline, desperate to free herself. She yanked at the dress, tugging it over her head in a frenzy, stumbling back until it finally slipped off, landing in a crumpled heap at her feet.

She was left standing in only her lacy white panties, her perfected body on full display.

And oh god, she was fucking stunning.

Her skin gleamed with an almost unnatural glow—sun-kissed, flawless, radiant. She ran her hands over herself, moaning softly at the sensation of silk-smooth perfection. Every touch sent shivers through her. She had never felt like this before.

Her reflection blurred again, her face remolding, sharpening, perfecting.

Molly stared at her reflection, chest heaving, her hands slowly sliding over her impossibly perfect body.

Holy. Fuck.

A deep, delicious heat settled in her core, a wicked hunger she had never felt before.

She wasn’t just hot.

She was sex.

The necklace pulsed against her throat, and a slow, sultry smirk curled across her perfect, pouty lips.

She didn’t just look different.

She felt different.

More confident. More powerful. More hungry.

For attention.

For pleasure.

For control.

Her old self—the sweet, quiet, forgettable Molly—was gone.

And in her place stood something better.

Something irresistible.

The necklace pulsed against her throat, feeding her new, wicked desires.

And oh, she was going to enjoy every single one of them.

Molly traced her fingers along the cool silver of the cross necklace, her smirk widening as she admired herself in the mirror.

Perfect.

She was perfect.

Every curve, every pouty expression, every inch of her flawless, fuckable body exuded sex and power. She had been a fool before.  She was wasting her time swooning over Ryan like some desperate, naive little girl.

Her phone buzzed.

Ryan: Hey beautiful, I’m almost at your place! Can’t wait to see you. 

Molly rolled her eyes, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder. God, he’s such a fucking loser.

Sweet, safe, predictable Ryan. A guy who thought some cheap flowers and an Italian dinner were enough to impress her. She could already picture him standing there outside her apartment, waiting, hoping.  Pathetic!

But pathetic could still be fun.

Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she typed back.

Molly: Hey babe  slight change of plans. Meet me at Velvet Lounge instead. Just felt like something a little more… intimate tonight.

She could practically hear the excitement in his frantic response.

Ryan: Oh! Okay! Um, yeah, of course! I can be there in 20! Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?

Molly chuckled, stepping over to her dresser. Oh, Ryan…

She slowly slid open the drawer, her eyes gleaming as she pulled out the deep brown one-piece that hugged every sinful inch of her. So much better than that boring dress she had planned to wear. This was a statement—“I’m not your sweet little girlfriend. I’m a fucking goddess.”

She tugged the bodysuit over her hips, sighing at the delicious way it clung to her newly sculpted curves.

Her phone buzzed again.

Ryan: I’m on my way! Can’t wait to see you. 

Molly snickered, slipping into a pair of killer heels.

Molly: Mmm I can’t wait either  get us a private booth… I have plans for you tonight.

She knew that would wreck him. He probably thought she meant something romantic.

God, he was so easy.

Molly turned back to the mirror, adjusting the thin straps of her outfit, making sure her perfect tits were just barely contained.

Across the hall, she heard the low hum of music through the wall.

Cameron.

Tall. Muscular. A real fucking man.

Her smirk deepened as she grabbed her phone.

Ryan: Got the booth! Where are you?

Molly: Oops, got distracted babe~  But I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere.

She didn’t even bother waiting for his response.

Instead, she strutted out of her apartment, her hips swaying with every confident step, and knocked on Cameron’s door.

The music stopped.

The lock clicked.

And as the door swung open, Cameron’s dark eyes roamed her body, his lips parting slightly in surprise.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, raking his gaze over her.

Molly smirked, leaning against the doorframe, her fingers tracing slow circles over her exposed collarbone.

“Hey, neighbor,” she purred.

Behind her, her phone buzzed again.

Ryan: Molly? Are you close?

She didn’t even look at it.

Tonight was about her.

And she was about to have the time of her fucking life.

Molly leaned against Cameron’s doorframe, trailing a manicured nail down the exposed skin of her chest. The way his dark eyes devoured her sent a delicious thrill through her body.

God, she had never had this kind of power before.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Cameron murmured, voice low and rough as his gaze lingered on her cleavage.

She licked her lips, tilting her head. “Mmm, I was just feeling… restless.”

His smirk widened. “Oh yeah?”

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Ryan: Molly? Ryan: I got us drinks… where are you?

Molly giggled, barely stifling a wicked little laugh as she finally looked at her phone. Oh, Ryan. Still sitting alone in that booth, waiting like a good boy.

And here she was, standing in front of an actual man who looked like he could ruin her in the best way possible.

She bit her lip, glancing up at Cameron through thick, dark lashes.

“Sorry, I got distracted,” she said, holding up her phone. “I was supposed to meet my date…”

Cameron raised a brow, amused. “And yet, here you are.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a slow step forward, closing the space between them. Close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough that she could practically taste the temptation in the air.

Her phone buzzed again.

Ryan: Molly, are you okay? Ryan: Should I come get you?

She rolled her eyes and typed a reply.

Molly: Aww, you’re so sweet, babe  I’m just freshening up. Don’t move. I want you waiting for me when I get there.

The old her would have felt bad, but she was fucking loving this.

But the way Cameron’s gaze flickered down her body, his jaw tightening, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was holding himself back.  That was what she cared about.

“Still thinking about your date?” Cameron asked, voice edged with amusement.

She smirked, locking eyes with him. “Not even a little.”

Then she reached out, placed her palm against his firm, sculpted chest, and pushed him backward into his apartment.

Cameron barely had time to react before she stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Ryan: Molly? Ryan: Are you almost here? Ryan: Please just text me back…

Molly laughed as she tossed her phone onto the couch without even looking at it.

Ryan could wait.

Hell, Ryan could wait all night.

Because right now, she had much, much better things to do.

Molly barely had time to smirk before Cameron’s hands were on her, gripping her hips and pulling her against his solid, muscular body.

God, this was what she needed. Not a nervous little boy who sent cute emojis and planned safe little dinner dates. A real man. Someone who wouldn’t ask permission. Someone who would just take her.

She let out a breathy little laugh as Cameron’s lips crashed against hers, his rough hands sliding down her back, palming her perfect, sculpted ass through the thin fabric of her bodysuit. Her phone buzzed on the couch, lighting up with Ryan’s name.

Molly’s smirk deepened.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

She reached for her phone, answering with a voice as syrupy sweet as ever.

“Ryan, babe,” she purred, biting back a moan as Cameron’s lips trailed down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin.

Ryan’s voice was immediate. Desperate. “Molly! Are you okay? Where are you? I’ve been waiting…”

“Mmm, I know, I know,” she murmured, tilting her head back as Cameron’s hands roamed lower, kneading her thighs, pressing his hard body against hers. “I just got a little… distracted.”

“Distracted?” Ryan’s voice wavered. “Molly, what’s going on?”

She bit her lip, muffling a gasp as Cameron’s hands slid up under her bodysuit, his fingers teasing at the edge of her pussy. He chuckled against her throat, knowing exactly what she was doing.

God, that only made this hotter.

“I mean…” she sighed, rolling her hips against Cameron’s, making sure she was loud enough for Ryan to hear the way her breath hitched. “You’re not mad, are you?”

Ryan hesitated. “No…no, of course not. I just… I thought you wanted to see me.”

She giggled, deliberately breathy, teasing. “Oh, Ryan, you’re so sweet. Of course, I wanna see you.”

Cameron smirked against her skin, his fingers slipping inside her panties, his touch so slow, so deliberate. She let out a sharp gasp, only barely catching herself.

Ryan immediately panicked. “Molly? What was that? Are you okay?”

Fuck. This was too good.

She forced a breathy little giggle. “S-sorry, babe. Just, uh, bumped into something. Clumsy me.”

Cameron grinned, gripping her by the hips, lifting her onto the kitchen counter as he pressed between her legs. His lips latched onto her collarbone, sucking, teasing, leaving marks.

Ryan let out a relieved breath. “Oh. Okay. Well, do you still want me to wait for you?”

Molly moaned as Cameron’s fingers brushed over her clit, her body arching involuntarily.

Ryan went silent.

She grinned wickedly. Oh, he heard that.

“Mmm, sorry, babe,” she cooed, breath heavy, voice thick with amusement. “Just feeling a little… pent up tonight.”

“I…” Ryan’s voice cracked. “W-what do you mean?”

Cameron bit at her exposed shoulder, one hand gripping her thigh, the other teasing inside her panties, his cock rock-hard against her.

She arched, fully moaning this time, making sure Ryan heard every sultry, breathless sound.

“Ohhh, Ryan,” she practically purred, smirking as she tugged at Cameron’s waistband, feeling just how big he was. “I’m cumming soon. Just a few moments longer.”

Ryan’s breathing hitched. “M-Molly?”

Her nails dragged down Cameron’s abs, her other hand pressing against his bulge, teasing.

“Mmhmm?” she hummed.

Ryan swallowed audibly. “I…I don’t understand…”

Molly laughed, soft, wicked, dripping with amusement.

“Oh, Ryan,” she whispered, Cameron’s hands pushing her panties aside, teasing her slit with his fingers.

Her breath hitched.

Ryan held his breath.

She smirked.

“You will.”

She set the phone down on the counter, speaker still on, letting the call stay open.  She was going to get fucked and Ryan was still there.

Still listening.

Still waiting.

Cameron wasted no time. He grabbed her thighs, yanking her closer, his breath hot against her exposed skin. His dick entered her, hard and deep, making her whimper…

Loud.

Deliberate.

So Ryan could hear.

On the phone, there was a sharp inhale. A stunned silence.

“M-Molly?” Ryan’s voice came through, weak, confused, already breaking.

She giggled, clinging to Cameron’s shoulders as he fucked her, his hands ripping open her bodysuit, freeing her perfect, heavy tits.

“Shhh, babe,” she purred, tilting her head back as Cameron’s mouth latched onto her breast, sucking, biting, owning her. “Just listen.”

Ryan stammered, “W-wait—Molly, what are you—”

But his words died as Molly moaned, her fingers digging into Cameron’s broad, powerful shoulders, her body rolling against his cock.

“F-fuck, Cam…” she gasped, her legs shaking as he pounded her, stretching her, teasing her, making her drip.

Ryan froze.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

Cameron pulled back just long enough to growl, “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

Molly laughed breathlessly, dragging her nails down his abs.

She stroked him, slow, teasing, torturous, her voice dripping with mocking sweetness.

“Mmm, Ryan?” she cooed, breathless from Cameron pounding into her. “You still there?”

Ryan made a choked noise, barely able to form words. “M-Molly… please…”

She moaned louder, letting Ryan hear every fucking second of it.

Then she purred, dark, cruel, victorious:

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

And she finally hung up.

Ryan was still there.

Still listening.

Still waiting.

But Molly?

She was getting fucked senseless.

[saveahorserideaneddie]

Ryan is very talented. I think it’s sad that 911 doesn’t even utilize him properly. I know that’s not what you’re saying and I’m not trying to hijack that post you made about Ryan acting in movies, but all of the pre-season interviews and press were about Ryan, done by Ryan, and said that Eddie was going to go through all of this change and growth and struggle and learn about himself…. And that sounded so good!

And we basically got…NOTHING.

I mean really when you take a step back and look, what was Eddie’s storyline this season? Nothing happened to him or for him, really.

Also the fact that Ryan wasn’t getting scripts and was assuming he was being fired?? That…is so shitty. I don’t know what their contracts are like, and I know a consistent acting job and so hard to come by and it’s a privilege to be on a hit tv show, but damn. I wouldn’t blame him at all if he left.

IVE BEEN NEGLECTING MY ASK BOX THIS WAS FROM LIKE 2 MONTHS AGO ANON IM SO SORRY IM A TERRIBLE PERSON

but no literally like they built up his storyline so much, and featured him so heavily in press and promo leading up to 8a, hyping up all of the “big changes” he was going to go through and then just…. didn’t change anything…. they focused his entire 18 episode arc around something that happened in the last 2 episodes of s7 and didn’t even really make much of an effort for that to even really do much for his character

like some of the only episodes i really enjoyed from this season were disconnected and invisible, but neither of those episodes really told us anything new about eddie- just further reiterated what a great dad he is while implying that that was something he had to become (despite him already having been a great dad for the past 7 seasons)

and you’re so right sbout the script thing the fact that the first thing he thought when tim told him someone was getting killed off was that he thought it was eddie, it’s absolutely disgusting how he gets treated by the writers/production when he’s quite literally 1) a massive fan favorite, 2) sitting on top of a potential storyline that has the potential to exponentially improve the show’s success, and 3) one of the best actors they have in the cast

and he’s not the only underutilized cast member this last season, Tracie and Aisha were so robbed of good material left and right, and when they did get moments, they felt kind of out of place or rushed (i stand by the fact that the b plot of invisible should have been about Ravi, and not about Hen bc it would have made more sense, and Hen and Karen should have gotten their own standalone episode in 8b rather than wasting time on THREE multi-part disasters)

and the fact that they kept using ryan/eddie in PR for the season while giving him absolutely nothing of true substance… it’s made me learn not to trust them when they imply certain things because at this point, the only things that ever end up happening are the things in these interviews that make fans go “oh god i hope it doesn’t go there” (at least in my experience)

anyway thank you for the ask, nonny and again i am SO sorry it took me so long to respond I literally just looked through my inbox and saw so many asks that I’ve just completely neglected it’s so bad 😭😭

[dadvans]

Short Term Solutions for the wip game! 💕💕💕

for the WIP title meme!

tbh can't remember what i've posted from this one before--

Tommy feels like he’s walking onto another scene when he shows up at Evan’s apartment. There’s smoke, albeit thinning through every open window, and Evan is standing on the table waving a sheet pan at the detector high overhead on the ceiling. “Hey.” Evan doesn’t look down at him. Tommy sees a smothered pot on the stove’s back burner, hallmark of a grease fire. “How do you feel about pizza?” “I love pizza,” he offers, like there’s a monster out there that somehow doesn’t. He tries to hide the worry in his voice and makes his way around the kitchen island to the stove so he can help dispose of the smoldering remains of dinner. “I’ll call Dominoes as soon as I’m not afraid of this alarm going off again,” Evan says. “Don’t worry about it.” Fuck Dominoes. Evan’s clearly had a long day, and Tommy is hungry but he’s not that hungry. They’re doing the overpriced hole-in-the-wall down the street where Ryan Gosling was apparently caught by paparazzi last week. He’s fine paying. “I can call.” Evan gives in without a fight, so he must really be at his limit. “Thanks.” It’s tough to see him like this. His usual spark has been dimming more and more the past month since Gerrard resumed control of the 118, and even on the really bad days, he seems reluctant to talk about it. The first time they did, Tommy tried to pass along wisdom from what he remembered of Gerrard: keep your head down, don’t go out of your way to do anything you weren’t asked to do (especially on a call), stay in your lane, and document every goddamn thing as best as you can the second it happens. But these days Tommy can see it in the dismissive way that Evan will crack open a beer on the countertop and say, “Nothing, nothing, you know, asked me if i moved out here ‘cause California is the land of fruits and nuts again,” that there is something worse and more complicated going on under the surface, something Evan refuses to let him help carry the weight on for a variety of reasons. It sucks. Tommy wants to help, and watching Evan struggle and buckle under whatever is going down at the 118 without him is starting to scare him. Something’s gotta give, and Tommy knows it inevitably will. The best thing he knows he can do until further notice is focus on short term solutions. He can take care of a smoking pan while Evan stands helplessly on his kitchen table. He can order a large Hellraiser, extra meat. He can get Evan so far outside of his head he’s boneless and thoughtless and can temporarily forget. “Delivery ETA is sixty minutes,” Tommy announces as he gets off the phone. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Evan says, gingerly getting off the table and setting the pan down. “I told you I’d have dinner ready, you’re probably starving. I can probably throw a salad together—“ “Don’t worry about it,” Tommy says, and that’s when he notices one of Evan’s hands is loosely wrapped. “Are you okay?” Evan seems to have forgotten about it, and looks down at his own palm when he sees Tommy staring. “What? Oh, yeah, got distracted, burned it. Then totally forgot I left the heat on high when I went to take care of it, and“—he waves his good hand vaguely around at the thinning smoke, a half-laugh catching in his throat clearly directed at himself—“yeah. Just can’t seem to stay out of my own way today.” There’s something unsaid there, some kind of weakness Evan doesn’t seem willing to part with, and it breaks Tommy’s heart. He maneuvers his way over to Evan’s side, taking him by the wrist to gently kiss over the burn. “Well, we have an hour.” He sighs. “Tell you what. Let me take care of you, get you out of your head for a bit. Then, after dinner, can we talk about it?” Evan stares up at him, eyes so big. Some invisible weight seems to slough off his shoulders at the suggestion alone, and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

[raventhebard]

Recently I watched one of Ryan Reynolds’ pre Deadpool films called The Voices.

I thought it was very intriguing and I remembered a post I saw before where it was Deadpool and Wolverine like an asylum au and now I can’t stop imagining Deadpool 1-3 as some psychological dark comedy film where Deadpool has completely lost it

Here are some thoughts I have about this topic that are heavily inspired by the Voices because I don’t see much discussion about this film(These are so horrific wtf is wrong with me):

Wade was really a mercenary and he did quite well in the business. Something was off about him to everyone else though, he would sometimes talk off into distance as if there was an invisible audience, it always seemed to happen at strange times to.

Sure, Wade seemed to have a friend, Weasel, a guy who worked at the bar he would go to for merc jobs. However, most of the other mercs don’t mess with him for fear of what he may do.

One day, he meets a girl, Vanessa, she encourages him to meet with a psychiatrist and he starts on some meds to help him with his issues. Everything seems to be going completely fine until one faithful day.

After the discovery that Wade has cancer, he goes to the bar and there he meets a strange man who tells him that he can help him because he knows that he can help him.

At first he laughs at the idea of such a thing and immediately looks off to the side and talks to the audience about it for a minute, discussing whether or not he should volunteer to become a superhero.

He eventually agrees and they take him, of course he learns that they really just wanna torture him and try out some things on him.

Eventually, Wade becomes sick of this terrible routine, but one day, they manage to do something. Wade doesn’t get what they think they’ve done and he never really thinks he’ll understand anything they’ve done to him and he begins speaking to the audience again, but now he feels much less worse all the time.

One day, a fire breaks out in the facility and Wade manages to get away with the cost of his looks. Burnt and disfigured, Wade returns home to his and Vanessa’s apartment while she’s not home and takes back his display katanas and his comic books. I doesn’t take much for him to settle back into being a mercenary, but now he begins to craft himself a disguise and what better to base his costume design off then the kinds of things he sees in his comics?

He invents the persona of Deadpool, an anti hero with a good heart, named after a film he sees one night while flipping through channels on his TV.(Check it out)

One day, while taking his first suit idea to the laundromat, he sees his old psychiatrist that Vanessa had convinced him to get, Althea.

Wade goes back to her office one day, swinging into the room with his hoodie covering his face.

“Hey Al,” Wade says as he looks in at his old psychiatrist who appears to be tapping away on her computer and she turns to look at Wade.

“Wade, where have you been?” Althea asks in a slightly annoyed tone as Wade sits down in the chair across from her. Wade had seen many, many psychiatrists and therapists in his time with all that had been happening in his head, but he liked Althea because she hadn’t just been completely compliant, she had some feistiness to her.

“I’ve been in many places Al, Disney and Fox both want a piece of this thing.” Wade finally uncovers his face and Althea gasps slightly, but stops herself.

“Have you been taking your meds?” Althea says with a bit of concern as Wade taps his fingers on the side of his chair and stares down before looking off to the side and whispering something about ‘not needing that kind of drug’.

“I don’t take them anymore Al, because when I take them, they seem to go away.” Wade gestured to the air next to the chair, well in his mind that’s where the fourth wall was.

“Wade, you need them.”

“No, I don’t!” Wade slammed his fist on Althea’s desk and she flinched back in surprise, reaching for her phone carefully before Wade snatched it out of her grip and threw it against the wall.

“Wade, calm down it’s not like anything really bad will happen if you take the pills, it’s not like you killed someone-“

Wade’s ears seemed to prick up at that and he took out a katana. Althea was horrified now as Wade used the blade to trace around Althea’s desk. “Oh but I have Al, it doesn’t usually bother me, but sometimes it can bother them.” Wade leans on the desk with one arm and gestures once again to the fourth wall with his katana and looks at Althea. “And if I take those bad drugs I think too much about what I’ve done, so they aren’t important.” “Please just put the katana down Wade, please…” Althea was shaking at this point as Wade looked over to the fourth wall.

“Honestly, the actors get worse and worse every year in this industry.” Wade looked around the room and began rummaging through Althea’s drawer until he pulled out some duck tape. “Maybe now you’ll finally listen and you won’t be so blind about them.”

Wade finished up his conversation with the fourth wall and began taping up Althea and muffling her screams with duct tape and brought her back to his apartment.

Placing Al down on the couch, Wade began to walk around as Althea’s eyes darted in every direction horrified, the walls were covered in blood, pictures of strange men who looked like Doctors and some comic book posters with little drawings of some red clad man with white eyes drawn onto the posters with paint or crayon. “I knew you’d like them!” Wade smiled widely as he sat down next to Al and looked at her happily. “That’s me, I’m still working on the leather, son of a bitch that stuff is hard to get needles through, real kinky though and now I can make a well deserved penetration joke.”

Al screamed as she looked toward another wall and there was what looked to be a pile of human remains shoved into trash bags and a bunch of Tupperware containers haphazardly. Wade frowned as he heard her muffled scream and looked in the direction Al was.

“Ah, don’t like what you see? That’s okay.” Wade looked down at his coffee table and picked up a pen, driving it into Althea’s eye as she screamed bloody murder and then the other one. After a minute though, her screams got very old.

“Fine, I’ll make it stop.” Wade raised his katana to the side and tapped it against Althea’s neck a few times before using his strength and like a golfer hits a ball, cut her head clean off as it flew before hitting the ground as he body fell backwards onto the ground.

“So, No head?” Wade asked, giggling as he took the body over to the place he liked to cut them up. Wade picked up the head and examined it, pulling out the pen in her eye and placing her down on the coffee table and going through his junk drawer and pulling out a pair of large dark sunglasses. “Here you go, sorry if my golf swing wasn’t the best, been a while since I saw Happy Gilmore.”

——————————————————————-

“You say he was a tall, strange looking man with burnt skin?” A police officer with a Russian accent spoke to a witness.

“He looked like Freddy Krueger,” The witness stated as the tall Russian man walked over to a smaller looking woman with very short hair who was chewing gum.

“Sounds like some of those descriptions around the deaths of those doctors, could it be the same guy Ellie?” The Russian cop said as he leaned against the wall and spoke to the woman.

“We’re on the job, codename time, Colossus,” The young woman spit out her gum into the trash and looked at her colleague.

“Alright Negasonic.” The Russian man commented.

Should I continue this? I have some particular ideas for DP 3 transferred to this style, also go watch The Voices, it’s great

[repressedqueen]

It's been precisely 2 years since i first watched 4x14 and the infamous Because, Evan scene. Seeing it again, during my current rewatch, still gives me CHILLS.

Not even talking about the romantic side of things (which imo is there).

It's the vulnerability of both men. The pure love that oozes out of them. The gentleness with which they treat each other. How scared Buck is that Eddie is so fragile he might break at any moment, because he still can't believe he is alive after all this. The fact that Eddie has just been through a near-death experience and his first concern is to reassure Buck that he is so not expendable. The way Buck looks at Eddie like a puppy the moment he hears his name.

The fact that this the first time a traumatized kid, who has felt like he's worth nothing his whole life, like he is invisible, is finally told that he is in fact so valuable to someone, so seen.

In conclusion, I'm never getting over this scene and I could write essays about it. (Also, HOW INCREDIBLY ACTED IS IT?! Both actors are killing it!! Just a look from Oliver and I want to sob. And Ryan, is it just me, or does he feel different in this scene? I'm not sure how to describe it, I just feel him so grounded and present. I just love them both.)

[genandguice]

𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞. ryan gosling

warnings: i do not condone these thoughts or actions….

infidelity. smut. and with plot 👎🏼 also reader smoking cigs. female reader. oral m receiving, piv, little bit of breeding

𝐰𝐜: 4.7𝐤

Ryan’s touch on your abdomen is so slight that it tickles, and you find yourself smiling against his lips as they move sensually against yours. Every faint movement from him sends a tingle across your stomach. For a moment, you’re distracted from the heat and the pulsing between your thighs, you let yourself moan into his mouth just to keep from giggling, until his hand starts to travel further north. His fingertips are destined to grip the curve of your breast, and you tremble in the anticipation, your moans become unsuppressable. The muscles in his back stretch and flex under your hands and your legs tighten around him as the notion of his strength settles in your mind; how deeply, how harshly he could ram his hips into you, how tight he could hold you down, or how easily he could hold you up, how these very muscles would feel under your hands, using all his brawn to lift you up and down on his cock.

“Cut!”

“That’s lunch everybody! 2 hours today!”

The sound on set resumes around you as your costar lifts away from his position above your half-naked body, taking his body heat and his natural, masculine smell with him. A pang of disappointment replaces his warmth as he leaves you, perfectly chipper and unaffected by the sudden halt as he pulls his t-shirt back on, bringing you back to reality. You aren’t a controversially-aged couple dramatically kindling a resisted desire, but an unknown actress and her married A-list costar.

You’d always heard he was great to work with, a gentleman and a sweetheart, that he had great chemistry with everyone on set, but that wasn’t the case with you- he hardly spoke to you.

You give a multi-million dollar performance moaning and writhing underneath him, and he doesn’t seem to notice you at all.

You think he must be desensitized, all the roles he’s played with so many women, a scene is just a scene. But more likely, he just loves his wife.

Either way, it seems you’ll never have the chance to abolish your yearning for the real thing.

Your silk robe is handed over by a nearby assistant and you wrap it around yourself, deep in racing thought, hoping no one had noticed the ever present wet spot in your sole article of clothing. You’ve been shockingly invisible to most of the crew, despite being the leading lady, and most currently one of only two nude bodies in the room, but it finally pays off as you’re able to scurry to your trailer unbothered. With your cunt literally weeping, screaming for attention, you’re thankful for an extra long lunch. Maybe if you take care of yourself the next take won’t be so stimulating. It’ll be nice to spend some hours locked away.

Trailer locked, blinds shut, robe open, panties down, and you’re in wonderland. It’s almost embarrassing to be so worked up like this over someone you’re working closely with, but as your middle finger seamlessly and mercilessly glides over your slippery bundle of nerves, you couldn’t give a shit. The mental images of Ryan pounding into you, the guttural sounds he’d make as he hits that spot deep inside you, earnestly driving you toward a life-changing orgasm, it was all you could think. Your back arches up off the dark leather couch, your moans heighten in pitch, volume, and frequency even as you try to hold them back, and you’re finally at the edge.

And then someone is knocking at your door.

It takes everything in you not to scream. It’s as if everyone you work with is cock-blocking you at every step. You throw a quick, silent tantrum, kicking your feet and punching your fists in the air, furiously grieving the second suspension of your pleasure, before you tie your robe to hide your body and stickiness once again. You kick your panties to the side before you crack the door.

“Hungry?”

Of course it’s him.

“Kinda thought I felt your tummy rumbling so I brought you something.” Ryan gestures to the bag of takeout he shakes in his other hand. You want to be frustrated, the ache between your thighs is painful, but he just has a way about him that cheers you up. You crack, and you snicker, and it pulls a smile from him.

“My tummy?”

He shrugs and looks at you as if you’re the one who’s ridiculous while he opens up the bag. “Your tummy.”

His terminology makes you feel like a little girl, and it’s conflicting. On the one hand, it makes you feel precious, and desired, as if he’d eagerly sweep you up in his strong arms, pet, caress and cradle you like a kitten, call you a “cute little thing”, but on the other hand, it’s just more evidence that he’ll never take you seriously. You are just a little girl to him; too young and silly to garner any real attention.

“It is reportedly- reported by you, your favorite.” You inspect the bag with one arm slithering through the door, while Ryan waits patiently and confidently for you to approve.

“It is my favorite, where did you hear that?”

Again, he shrugs, but this time with a humbly accomplished smirk that blesses his features all too well. “I have my sources. But you can only have this food on one condition.”

You huff a laugh. “What condition?” What could he want from you?

He gives you that “you’re ridiculous” look again. “You let me eat with you.”

Immediately your mind has returned to its racing, but one thought stands out among the others. “Ryan, I’m still in my robe.” You laugh nervously, feel your cheeks getting hot as your thoughts turn dirty, the confession turning your attention back to your bare crotch lingering underneath the garment. But he’s oblivious to that, and consequently unfazed.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. And I do not believe in the sexual objectification of female nudity.” He points a finger at you as he corrects himself, “Or near nudity.”

He’s dangerously convincing; finally giving you that characteristic Gosling charm and the attention you’ve wanted for, and although it’s almost alarmingly sudden, it’s irresistible.

“Alright.” You open up the door and let him in, cheeks still burning. You feel more naked and displayed like this than you do when you aren’t wearing it, the fabric highlighting and accentuating every curve of your body. But Ryan walks right past you as if it’s nothing.

He takes a seat on your dark leather couch, freshly dry of your sweat, but not before covertly noticing the discarded panties behind the door.

The twitch is his pants makes him second guess himself, maybe he shouldn’t have done this- but nobody will know about a slight involuntary reaction to finding out the young girl in front of him was truly naked beneath a single, thin layer. He has plenty of control over himself. You’re his costar, he can’t avoid interacting with you just to subside meaningless temptation forever.

But his doubts linger back as his eyes lift and land on you. The way they’ve done your hair up for the movie, how the color of the silk compliments your skin tone, how the fabric hugs your thighs with each movement. His minds eye shows his hands sliding up the inside of them, bound for the sole part of your body still unknown to him. Though you settle into the opposite end of the couch, as far as you could be, he finds the proximity intoxicating, and his thoughts difficult to purify.

“Why’d you wanna eat lunch with me anyway?” Your legs are carefully tucked under your knees to shield your undress, arm resting on the back of the couch, resting your head on your hand, cigarette delicately balanced between your fingers on the other. The food has long gone, and you still have nearly an hour left for lunch, but for whatever reason, he’s stayed; sitting, legs spread wide, listening, laughing, blabbering back, occasionally slapping his hand on the couch, so close to touching you, to emphasize his sentences.

And with every passing minute, you feel the pull between you growing stronger, more tangible. The air around you is static, you can barely look him in the eyes, and he can’t allow his gaze to linger anywhere but yours.

“We hardly know each other. It’s a little un-gentlemanly of me to touch you the way I do and not know anything about you.” He laughs, and you swear you see a rosy hue spread across his cheeks. “But I also thought you could use a friend, you know. You must get lonely in here all by yourself.”

“What makes you say that?” You look at him curiously as you drag from your cigarette.

He’s taken aback by the question, as if he doesn’t have an answer, he just assumed you must be lonely, and his demeanor shifts as he spends a short moment reflecting. His body tenses, almost imperceivably, he guards himself up, and then it’s over as fast as you could notice it.

“Well,” he laughs, “Maybe I’m projecting.”

“…Are you lonely?”

“Everybody gets lonely sometimes.”

It hurts to hear that he hurts, but it downright sickens you that it gives you a flush of hope. Why would he come here now, confide that in you, if not to act on it? It was a reach, but one to give you just enough reason to abandon all shame and morality standing in your way.

“Your family doesn’t travel with you?” You cautiously elongate your legs out toward him as you put out your cigarette, careful not to flash him. When he delays to answer you, eyes lingering on the hemline lying in just the right position to keep you covered, you know you’ve trapped him.

“Ryan?”

He shakes his head, eyes unmoved, and softly speaks. “No.”

He’s faired no better, made no progress clearing his thoughts since he stepped foot in your trailer. He can’t explain the effect you’ve had on him, not anymore, not with the way he’s half-hard in his pants and remains seated, gazing at the apex of your thighs, hoping the robe would rise just a few inches higher. But no, it’s only his cock that continues to rise, and at this point, he’s a willing participant.

“That must be hard.”

As you make your risky, but valid remark, his eyes finally meet yours, and the state of them confirms your suspicions; dark and hooded, he’s voluntarily trapped, with no ambitions to escape.

“It is.” His gaze lingers on you, almost daring you to continue, and the atmosphere thickens. Where your attraction was once unrequited, it was now matched, filling the air with a steaming fog of sexual tension.

“Your wife doesn’t get nervous about you being so far away, and lonely? Getting close with other women?” You edge closer, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you.

“It’s not usually such a problem.” His eyes are everywhere, rapidly roaming your body with a hunger that makes your skin tingle. From your lips, to the slope of your shoulders where your robe threatens to slip, to the gentle swell of your breasts against the fabric, back up to meet your own ravenous gaze, traveling in a never-ending loop.

“Usually?” Your voice is raspy with need.

“This is different,” he admits, barely above a whisper. You can see now how his breathing is quick and heavy; the rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to control it, mirroring your own arousal.

“How so?” You shift onto your knees, now mere inches away from him and the erection straining against his pants.

“I’ve never been in such… irresistible company.”

Ryan is a good man. It was something you’d always known, something you were always told. You still believed it. Just as you believed you were a good young woman. But everyone has their weaknesses. And yours just so happened to be each other. All the time you’d spent together on this movie, trying desperately not to indulge this very feeling. What if something cosmically, intensely amorous lie on the other side of it?

“So you want me to… help with your loneliness?” Your tone eases into a seductive tenor that fuels the sinful craving taking over him.

Ryan’s adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, and he nods, silently pleading for you to relieve him.

“Are you sure?” You ask, closing the gap between you and snaking your hand over his thigh, feeling how it trembles at your touch. You lean in to whisper, lips gently brushing his tragus, “I wouldn’t want to desecrate your vows.”

Your freshly-manicured fingers massage the tent in his crotch, stroking every ounce of hesitation right out of him. He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to.

“God, yes.”

You hum in his ear, giving him a squeeze, feeling the thickness of him. You’ve thought about it so many times, fantasized about this very moment where he picks you over it all. The weight of endless possibilities presses down on your mind as you sift through every dream, looking for a perfect place to start. To taste his cock, to feel his tongue lapping at the puddle between your thighs, to prolong the anticipation until he’s begging for you, or just to kneel below him and ogle his stiff, robust, burly form.

His eyes have fallen shut as he relishes in the motion of your hand. With each touch, he's consumed by impure thoughts he’d never allowed himself to give into before. And after truly indulging his fantasies for the first time, he blurts exactly what comes to mind, with a grunt, as if he’s read your thoughts; “I want you to put me in your mouth.”

Your body responds instinctually, a moan escaping your lips at the mental image he created, and the realness of the sound reverberates in his ear, seeps into his bloodstream and gets him addicted to it. He feels his urges thundering through him, fingertips prickling with restlessness, ready to finally act on his instincts and pull every wanton noise you have to give until you’re hoarse.

You move with an enticing grace, slinking down into the floor between his knees as if it were your natural place. Ryan’s eyes track you all the way, completely enraptured in you, as if the moment might cease altogether if he blinked. His cock jumps as you settle into your position at his feet, so eager to unleash him.

Your eyes are locked as you slide your hands up his thighs, the width of his quadriceps dwarfing them. The fabric around his crotch is taught and strained. Your mouth waters knowing what waits for you there.

The zipper gives without a fight, the pants themselves ready to be free of him. It’s the sound that draws your attention to his cock, the heavy thump of it smacking up against his stomach. It’s every bit as impressive as you imagined; thick, veined, glistening at the tip, and you moan at the sight of it alone.

A tentative hand reaches for your neck, gently petting you with his thumb, but the anticipation mingling with the skin-to-skin contact ignites some kind of impatience in him.

His hand reaches up into your professionally done hair and tugs it tight, sending your head back with a gasp.

“As much as I’d like to take my time with you,” he speaks lowly as he guides your lips to his cock, “we don’t have that luxury.”

His commandeering tone somehow gives you that precious and desired feeling. So hopelessly hypnotized by him that you need his guidance to properly do your job, and you gladly accept it, like the distracted little girl you are.

Your lips wrap around just the very tip of his engorged head, swiping your flat tongue over his slit and savoring the taste of the droplets that soak into it. Ryan shudders and he grips the leather with his free hand as you take him further, quickly growing hungrier, suctioning his cock into your wet mouth and stroking your tongue on the underside of it. He’s heavy on your tongue, tastes of salt and sweat and daydreams come to life and you want more.

One of your hands grips him, sturdy and pulsing in your hand as you pump him up into your greedy mouth, and a needy groan rumbles from his chest.

“Fuck, yes,” he speaks behind grit teeth, steadily pushing you further onto him with the hand buried in your hair.

The more he fills your mouth, the more your own arousal pools between your thighs, begging for attention. But this moment was about him. The man who’d always put others before himself, who’d always chosen his career and his wife over his own desires. Your talented tongue massages the thick vein throbbing against it, milking him towards a newly free ecstasy with every motion. The hand that supports your mouth drips with your spit, drooling down his cock and soaking him at the base, properly drowning him in pleasure.

“God, I knew you’d be good at this,” he gasps, unable to take his eyes off the sight of you giving him a fresh new world. The idea of him thinking about you that way, trying to imagine how he’d feel in your mouth, just how well you’d please him, makes your pussy flutter.

You moan around him, spurring him on further as his hips jump and twitch. You find a rhythm, swallowing him down and slurping him back up, letting your wrist fall slack and sloppily twist around him. The sound is fucking obscene, wet squelches of your hand and your throat, sighs and expletives shoving their way past his lips. His hand shoves your further and rougher as he loses himself in the feeling, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with the feeling of his cock pounding the back of your throat. You’re enthralled, all of your senses filled to the brim with him, tears blooming in your ears, cunt empathetically throbbing with the weight of his impending orgasm, until you’re overflowing.

You pull back at a particularly harsh and deep thrust, gagging, coughing, gasping for air, but pumping him through it all. Your mouth is smeared with a shameful amount of slobber, but you wear it graciously, thirsty for his seed. But after all the time you’ve pined after him, the amount of wanting proliferating inside you just today, you need it spilled and planted elsewhere.

Residual groans and twitches flee his body, fueled the sight of you on your knees before him, wide-eyed, cherry-lipped and needy, still dutifully stroking him. It’s a feat for him not to just hold you in this position until he blows all over your pretty face. The way you worship him, the way you crave him, it fulfills his ego, reaffirms his dominance over you. He makes a mental note to mention how much it truly means to him to be treated with such reverence as your hand slows to a stop, but for now, he has a painfully hard cock to attend to, and a surely leaking cunt awaiting his discovery.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” He commands, his hand loosening in your hair, returning to its gentle caress.

The aching in your core becomes all-consuming as your deliverance draws near, and you whimper like a neglected pet.

“I want you inside me,” you plead. “God, Ryan, I want you deep and raw,” he grips your hair for purchase as your filthy words thrill him, and you gasp before he loosens again- “Ah! Oh, I want you to make me sorry for tempting you,” you’re panting, “I want to feel everything you’ve waited to do to me.”

He leans forward with a sigh, aiming to sound displeased, but the excited glint in his eye exposes him.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

You nod vigorously, thoroughly shameless, and he hums in approval, and then-

His lips crash into yours and you’re both reborn. It’s real, and intense, and passionate, and you can feel how much he’s needed you too.

His hand begins to flow down your back, not bothering to pull your robe off, beelining for the curve of your ass, large hand brushing down and over the skin there with a tantalizing touch. Creeping between your thighs, sneaking up the inside, soaking up your expecting whines. The largest swell of your inner leg is sticky with your arousal and Ryan groans into your mouth as he lands upon it- and then he’s there.

Spreading your pitifully slick labia with his middle finger, circling your clit just once, sending your hips lurching forward, then continuing to tease your folds. You grip his muscular arms to keep yourself steady and they flex marvelously under your palms with his movements, stretching, bulging, hardening like those of a Greek god. You’re whimpering in his mouth, desperate and insatiable, until his finger suddenly plunges inside your gushing hole. Your mouth falls open with a gasp and he groans low and long, slowly fucking his finger into you, carefully stroking your walls and exploring the steamy sanctuary your body had tailored for him.

“So fucking wet.” His voice has regained a softness, as if he’s grateful. He kisses across your cheek and down to your jaw,“Gonna be a good girl?” He wants to sound patient, like he’s in control, like he could walk away if you can’t properly hold yourself together, but his aching tone and his now harsh, deep thrusts prove otherwise. “Can’t have you makin’ too much noise.” He huffs. “Need you to tell me you’ll be good for me.”

“I will.” The words rush from your mouth at a shameful speed. “I will, I will, I will.” You mumble and whimper, clinging to his biceps. “Please just fuck me.”

His impatience climaxing once again, Ryan effortlessly scoops you up like a ragdoll and drops you to lie on the dark leather, strong hands preventing you from bouncing on the furniture to return you to the lewd position you held just before he joined you.

He’s breathtaking above you. He always is. But this time he’s primal, any ounce of his normally cheeky self ceased. A tower of a man, staring down at you with black eyes, wide chest expanding further with his labored breathing, cock standing impressively between you, demanding attention, ready to claim you and reclaim himself.

He pulls one of your legs over his shoulder, shifting your hips up, vulgarly unveiling your cunt to his hungry eyes. He showers your calf in kisses and growls in praise of the display below him; swollen, saturated and leaking, calling out to him without a sound.

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

You must have been seducing him this whole time, winding him up with a vengeance until he had no choice but to give in to keep his sanity. How intensely and honestly you beg for him, how you submit to his will, how your body naturally composes in just the way to please him. He’s lost all resistance to your siren song. And so he wastes no time pressing his cock past your folds, drinking up your breathy, relieved whines as he stretches and plugs your tender hole.

He releases a stifled, husky grunt when his dick is fully buried, rolls his hips against you until he’s perfectly sheathed and settled. You can hear him shuddering while you faintly struggle to adjust to him, uncontrollably clenching around him, unknowingly driving him mad. He’s stiff as a steel rod inside you, so snug against your pillowy walls you can feel him pulsating, every tiny shift and twitch in his hips. You can’t help but be stimulated, you’re so full you can feel it in your lungs, and so you clench, and every little breath makes it worse, your body only mustering tiny, pitiful whimpers.

“Relax.” He hisses through his teeth, massaging your lower stomach where it bulged with the heft of his erection.

“If you don’t stop squeezing me like that I’ll cum fast.” But as much as you can’t stop the fluttering of your walls, he can’t stop his cock succumbing to it, hips subconsciously answering the primal beckoning and starting a slow rhythm, unintentionally forcing you to feel every inch steadily slotting in and out of you. So started a viciously stimulating cycle.

“I- can’t help it,” you whine, “so full.”

His dick twitches, his hips stuttering deep into you, “Fuck yes you are.” Still barely holding himself together, his hips just slightly speed up, gain a momentum, gently knocking into your cervix with his force, jostling your body on the couch. He doesn’t retreat more than an inch or two before hinging back into you, determined to keep you stuffed.

“You like it, don’t you? Like being so full of me you can’t control yourself, like making me lose control.” His hands grip your thighs, white-knuckling, imprinting his nails into your skin. It’s inexplicably sensual the way he fucks you, taking his time to ensure your bodies feel and remember every stroke, despite how close he is, and how little time you have left.

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip to quiet your noise, muffled squeaks garnishing his thrusts, the pounding on your cunt sends you tightening around him again, all your muscles contracting as he pummels you and-

He whimpers, a strained sound, stilling his hips, eyes shutting tight, orgasm almost overcoming him.

He’s panting as his forearms descend to either side of your head, resting his weight over top of you until his breath is fanning across your lips, your one leg still wrapped over his shoulder and now pinned to your chest.

“Squeezing my cock like this,” his hips resume their leisurely rolling, his cock sinks impossibly deeper with the new angle, he grunts with every thrust, “You want me to cum inside you. Want me to ruin my marriage knocking you up.” The sound you let out is profane, met with a growl from him as he covers your loud mouth with his hand, the impending threat of his orgasm surging once again, but this time it neglects to stop his movements and spurs them instead.

“Be good and quiet for me, baby.” He whispers, catching your lips in a short kiss to make his words stick in your fleeting mind.

“Tell me,” His eyes study yours closely, his shoulder muscles flex as he shifts his weight and his hand slides down your torso, thumb joining with your clit to swirl over it in tandem with his pelvis, “Were you touching yourself thinking about me fucking you like this?” The image of it makes his cock swell inside you.

The way your eyes unfocus for a millisecond is almost enough of an answer for him, but he needs to hear you say it.

“Tell me.” He repeats, voice shrouded in anguish, pleading with you to verbalize how deeply you desired him, to make it all real.

“Yes.” You whine, weakly, brokenly, as you admit your deepest secret, paralyzed in the pleasure of his thumb and his thrusts catalyzing your climax.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he echoes you earnestly, voice straining, “Oh, fuck, yes, yes.” Ryan spends his last spur of energy slamming deep into you, smushing and kissing your cervix, as he begins to peak, pulling you along with him into the powerful, electric whirlwind of finally having every inch of each other.

He’s groaning and cursing feverishly as his cock embeds inside you, spouting, leaking, and twitching right against your deep, needy organ, “Yeah, take it- take it, fuck- fuck, so tight, fuck yes, cum, yes,” his hips stuttering, your legs trembling, juices pouring, you milk each other for all you have. A few gentle kisses on the neck bring you back to earth, and when you turn to him, Ryan gives you one more, real, passionate and lasting on your lips for a while after he pulls away.

“Well the afterglow scene is gonna be authentic.”

FORGIVE ME </3 💋

[carolinahope]

8x13 Invisible

I hate the Diaz parents. Especially Helena and her "well meant" manipulations. I wish Eddie had a blow out fight with them. But this is in a way better for the story. He just told her what he thinks of their parenting and put a foot down, saying, Not with MY son. And we are one step closer to them going back, where they belong. Though they really need to address the reasons behind Chris leaving. Ryan did such a good job. And that scene with Gavin in the bathroom was just wonderful. Dad up, indeed.

And we got two more facetime calls. And I love how the second one was Eddie being a sounding board for Buck. They are co-parenting from 800 miles away. But they are also still the first person they think of when in crisis. I love our codependent oblivious idiots.

But now, Eddie is way more in a place to think about his feelings for Buck.

I loved the montage with Hen choosing the perfect birthday outfit. I loved seeing a bit of Mara and Denny and them being adorable. And Karen is always a treat.

At first I thought this will be the classic trope of people pretending they've forgotten but planning a surprise party. This was better, though. It tied nicely with the victim story. Which was funny in a very sad way. Really great acting from both Aisha and Kevin. That moment with the balloons was just precious. And poor Buck feeling guilty and being responsible for not one but two houses. At least temporarily. And it was a nice touch that Athena was the one to remember.

I don't know what to think of Toni. This episode, she definitely lost further points with me. I love Marsha but Toni is slowly inching her way into the table with the other shitty 118 parents.

Yet again, nothing like expected, but very, very good.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

✨why I ended Marilyn Monroe the way I did… & thank you✨

hi loves,

first off—thank you. Marilyn Monroe was one of the most emotional stories I’ve ever written, and the love, comments, reblogs, and quiet readers who just felt it… you meant the world to me. every single word of feedback wrapped around my heart like a hug.

ending the story the way I did wasn’t easy. It was painful… but sometimes, grief and love live in the same house. this story wasn’t just about trauma—it was about healing. it was about showing how people survive the unimaginable and still build a life worth living. Jey and Rhea’s journey started in pain, but they chose hope. they built something out of the ashes. and that’s real life too. not always perfect, but still beautiful.

I wanted to write a story that reminded you that:

• you are not alone.

• your pain doesn’t define you.

• and your story is still being written.

if you’ve ever felt lost, silenced, invisible, or like giving up—I promise there is someone who cares. speak up. reach out. your life has value. your voice has power.

If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out to:

Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – just dial 988 (U.S.)

or visit 988lifeline.org

You’re not too much. You’re not a burden. You’re a miracle for surviving this far.

Thank you again for reading Marilyn Monroe. I’m grateful beyond words. You’re all so, so loved.

Forever writing, forever healing,

Ryan

💜⛓️🦖🌴 (because Jhea forever)

Last Chapter is HERE!

[batboyblog]

The Long Run by James Acker

Teenage Dirtbags by James Acker

Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli

Another Dimension of Us by Mike Albo

Wonders of the Invisible World by Christopher Barzak

Alan Cole Is Not a Coward by Eric Bell

Alan Cole Doesn’t Dance by Eric Bell

The Darkest Part of the Forest by Holly Black

In Other Lands by Sarah Rees Brennan

Felix Yz by Lisa Bunker

Last Bus to Everland by Sophie Cameron

Dragging Mason County by Curtis Campbell

The House of Impossible Beauties by Joseph Cassara

Peter Darling by Austin Chant

Carry the Ocean by Heidi Cullinan

The Love Interest by Cale Dietrich

Dear Mothman by Robin Gow

Half Bad by Sally Green

Half Wild by Sally Green

Half Lost by Sally Green

Heartbreak Boys by Simon James Green

Gay Club by Simon James Green

You’re the One That I Want by Simon James Green

We Contain Multitudes by Sarah Henstra

Totally Joe by James Howe

After School Activities by Dirk Hunter

At the Edge of the Universe by Shaun David Hutchinson

The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried by Shaun David Hutchinson

We Are the Ants by Shaun David Hutchinson

The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley by Shaun David Hutchinson

A Complicated Love Story Set in Space by Shaun David Hutchinson

The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight by Jeff Jacobson

Haffling by Caleb James

The Lightning-Struck Heart by T.J. Klune

A Destiny of Dragons by T.J. Klune

The Consumption of Magic by T.J. Klune

A Wish Upon the Stars by T.J. Klune

The Extraordinaries by T.J. Klune

Flash Fire by T.J. Klune

Heat Wave by T.J. Klune

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune

Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg

The Bridge by Bill Konigsberg

Destination Unknown by Bill Konigsberg

The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan

Every Day by David Levithan

Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan

Ryan and Avery by David Levithan

How to Repair a Mechanical Heart by J.C. Lillis

Take a Bow, Noah Mitchell by Tobias Madden

The Minus-One Club by Kekla Magoon

When Ryan Came Back by Devon McCormack

Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

Fraternity by Andy Mientus

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller

Hero by Perry Moore

I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson

More Than This by Patrick Ness

Junior Hero Blues by J.K. Pendragon

The City Beautiful by Aden Polydoros

When Everything Feels Like the Movies by Raziel Reid

Kens by Raziel Reid

Emmett by Lev A.C. Rosen

Jack of Hearts (And Other Parts) by Lev A.C. Rosen

Camp by Lev A.C. Rosen

Carry On by Rainbow Rowell

Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell

Rainbow Boys by Alex Sanchez

Rainbow High by Alex Sanchez

Rainbow Road by Alex Sanchez

So Hard to Say by Alex Sanchez

The 99 Boyfriends of Micah Summers by Adam Sass

The Darkness Outside Us by Eliot Schrefer

How to Get Over the End of the World by Hal Schrieve

All Kinds of Other by James Sie

They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera

History Is All You Left Me by Adam Silvera

More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera

Grasshopper Jungle by Andrew Smith

Freak Show by James St. James

Ray of Sunlight by Brynn Stein

The Dangerous Art of Blending In by Angelo Surmelis

366 Days by Kiyoshi Tanaka

The Language of Seabirds by Will Taylor

Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas

Wild and Crooked by Leah Thomas

Because You’ll Never Meet Me by Leah Thomas

Spin Me Right Round by David Valdes

Always the Almost by Edward Underhill

Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White

I've yet again updated my very big list, if you've read any of these let me know, if you need help picking one just ask!

[buddieisgoingcanon25]

In regard to the anon who talked about the wasted potential of 8x13: I believe that's because it wasn't supposed to exist. That's why the production code was 815 and Oliver confirmed the 2 parter was originally 13/14. They needed to move the 2 parter back a week for whatever reason- could literally just be a network meddling issue considering how hard they're promoting the 2 parter, maybe they preferred it to air on these days, or the CGI wasn't ready yet- so they had to create a plot that would make sense in between the episodes they already filmed.

It's like if you wrote a book and the publisher said you need to add a new chapter in between two that are already written without messing up the overall story. That's also what happened with Masks.

So either they took the Eddie storyline out of the 2 parter, put it here instead, and padded the hour out with a new Hen story (should be apparent if this happened soon from stills but I doubt because they would have just moved the existing footage- they wouldn't have re-shot it. We know from Aisha's BTS Ryan was shooting the grocery store scene at the same time they were shooting other scenes for Invisible) or they had to create a new plot that would fit in between the existing plots.

Which would explain why certain things that had already been established were basically just established again- Eddie and Chris making up, Diaz parents being the worst, Buddie facetiming- why the Hen plot was entirely standalone, and why instead of talking about Kim/ Shannon or Eddie wanting to go home his arc was a parallel to his ballroom dance trauma that we didn't even know existed. Chris moving in and Eddie telling Helena this was happening was a step forward but considering we know Eddie will be back in LA very soon it may not have been originally necessary to the story.

Thanks nonny for this explanation. I hope Eddie is in the 2 parter somehow. I can’t stand it when there’s no Ryan/Eddie on my television screen.

[plasticfangtastic]

American Royalty. Ch. 1

A Homelander X F!Reader fanfic

A/N: I am writing this alongside another fic so sorry for the publishing schedule altho I got 2 chapters done, this is my dadlander fic and hyperfixation explorations

Sypnosis: Homelander never wanted to remember you again, but after welcoming Ryan into his life, he thought of you, and the lie that tore you two apart, but now... thinking back, thinking of your betrayal-- was he perhaps wrong about who the father of your unborn child was? Did you perhaps told the truth all those years ago? That it was his.

Tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, OC characthers, child neglect, dadlander, romance.

Chapter One

Blue

It had been by pure chance, whether it had been a combination of forced reminiscing and exhaustion that Homelander had thought of you after all these years; These meetings had been proven wasteful of his time, nothing the PR and Digital Marketing departments could come up that was good enough, and somehow he had gone from irritated to just defeated.

He sulked in his chair listening to their meandering voices brainstorming potential ideas as to how Ryan’s new origin story had to be developed and handled, whether it was too squeaky clean or absurd, how much could they risk offending the child, how much of his mother should be kept from the public (not that they were very aware of the fine details, as Homelander had been more than just vague about it, he had simply no intent to divulge about his son’s conception, upbringing or his mother’s fate) Homelander would never allowed the public to look with pity or fear at his son, he would not allow them to brand him as a murdered over an accident– he could still hear his son weeping and shaking in his sleep, waking up in a fright, seeing invisible blood in his hands.

Homelander had grown overprotective of the boy, he was made indestructible but his mind and heart were glass, still pure and uncorrupted by the awful world they inhabited, he would never allow anything else to taint it and bring him nightmares– so this had to be perfect.  

To make it worse, the kid was growing impatient and depressed, forced to stay in the tower until this story was concocted, he couldn’t attend school or interact with other children until he was trained and learned his lines, making his father increasingly more paranoid that his son was slowly growing resentful. 

“Mister Homelander… what if we base Ryan’s mom off one of your other ex-girlfriends?” A rather tired intern had muttered– preferably somebody dead…”

The room shot daggers at the nameless intern but Homelander simply sat in silence and gave it a thought, he had plenty of unsuited mates disposed and handled in the past, the amount of NDA issued made for a small but noticeable stack alone, he looked at the table and the box of cannolis that the group had been munching on, looking at the small printed italian flag on the box’s side.

That he thought of you for the first time in years.

You had been his new personal chef, your interactions minimal as you brought him his meals, he hadn’t known at first how heartbroken you’d look as he returned half touched dishes over and over, it had become a competition against yourself to make him eat, every leftover morself a cause of grief, as if your honor and ego had been beaten mercilessly with every dirty plate.

One evening, Homelander sat on his couch watching a documentary by Orson Wells, he hadn’t noticed you there as you brought him dinner, the way you looked at him with spite waiting to throw the most likely untouched plate of pasta back at his face, it would get you fired and possibly killed but you couldn’t take it anymore. You were a chef, a professional, you had turned down a dream job and left the restaurant you loved for the honor of being Homelander’s personal chef, the job that would open you a thousand doors but it was without reward now it felt like your biggest mistake, no matter what you made he fucking hate it but offered no feedback, you had no clue what he wanted, what he disliked and liked, what he craved, or how he liked his meals– he simply left your food untouched.

Diverting his gaze from the film, he noted your food and that you were still there with a block of pecorino and a grater in your hands.

He stood up with a groan, lifting the silver cover to reveal boring pasta and bolognese sauce, it wasn’t styled exceptionally, it didn’t even look too appetizing, it was just some fresh linguine covered in meat sauce, he stared at you as if this was some sort of joke but your dead eyed expression was off-putting.

“Would you like some fresh cheese, sir?” Your voice might as well have been automated.

Frankly he didn’t want any cheese but pasta had to be eaten with cheese, he gestured for you to grate watching an off-white pile form on top of his pasta with no intention of stopping.

“That’s enough” he said sharply, he took the plate looking at the mound and then back at you who was still in the room, he wrapped his fork with the pasta doing his best not to stain his suit.

You just wanted to save the time with coming back to pick up the insults, but there he took the first bite of this homely dish heis eyes opened up, there hadn’t been anything special, you simply had taken some left over pasta and brought a jar of your grandma’s sauce, a recipe she had guarded fiercely ever since she stole it from some italian friend’s mom many many years ago, you adored this recipe, it had been the reason why you fell in love with food, you loved visiting your grandmother when it was time to jar the sauce, and when she served you a humbled serving of bolognese– he gave it a second bite letting the tangy and fresh sauce wash over him.

And that’s when he finally noticed you for real, how closely you watched him eat, smiling as he took another mouthful and mixed more of the fresh pecorino, there had been something warm about this meal, it lack pretense, it was something that no high end 5-star restaurant would serve but it tasted… warm.

From that point on, he looked forward to his meals, wanting to see what the fuck had you done to make food taste worthy of his body, noting you would personally deliver the meals after he failed to clean the plate on the previous one, he hadn’t even known your name but he noticed you.

You were cute, your voice had gained some warmth since that awkward first impression, he could tell it was these homemade meals that tasted the best, as if you put everything you had to make them taste delicious, there were no frills with these, just good homemade fair, made with love, he had began asking for things he had been curious but never served as if they were above his status like meatloaf, carbonara, shepherd's pie, etcetera. These were the kinds of meals the families he’d seen growing up behind the screen would eat, he had been the first to strike a conversation.

You listened, you talked, and before he knew it, he had found himself asking for your company at the dinner table. You were hesitant at first but he was handsome and charming, but above all he was the Homelander! While apprehensive you still took to his offer just to smugly enjoy seeing him enjoy your food, proud that you had triumph in this battle where so many had been defeated, you’d cracked the code and god it felt good.

It became part of your weekly schedule, having dinner at his penthouse and chatting about anything, he loved talking and eventually it became apparent that it wasn’t because he was in loved with his voice but simply… he hadn’t got anybody who enjoyed listening to him, you were attentive, you responded well and even if you weren’t sure about something you weren’t going to let him feel as if you weren’t approachable anymore, you were more than happy to hear him explain to you a topic because his eyes gleam like those of a small kid telling you about something new they learned at school– in truth you loved how happy he became when he could rambled about things, as if nobody in the world had ever given five seconds of their time to let him talk about strange events from history and his theories, tonite he wanted to talk about the Dyatlov Pass incident and star formations that he was sad that he couldn’t see from New York, wishing you could see how the sky looked like from his cabin.

You’d spend more and more time in his home as the conversations grew more frequent, as he wanted to hear more about your interests and hobbies.

Thinking of how cute you looked while baking, how cute your laugh was, of the way you always held him after long days, that first real date, that first time you held hands, the first shy kiss after dinner.

As he took a long whiff to catch some of that gentle sweetness, he thought of the last day you were together.

That sound.

The thing that’s the size of a bean.

The anger, his heart shattered, all the colors of the world had dissipated when he saw that tumor growing in your stomach, he wanted to hurt you as much as you did, to shut you up as you threw excuses, begging him to believe you.

But that thing wasn’t his.

It couldn’t be his.

You said it was his, that the baby you didn’t even know was inside you was his, but he couldn’t be the father.

His eyes widened, he stood up and left the room, his mind focused on your name. They had tried getting his attention but could only give up as nobody would dare to chase after him, Homelander found himself entering the analytics offices towards the first chump he spotted.

“Can you find me information on a former employee?” He said firmly, the junior staff jumped at his seat nodding frantically– their name was Y/N L/N.” he said quietly.

The staffer didn’t have to do much work, you were easy to find, your name attached to Brooklyn’s most loved pizzeria for the last couple years, your face on their socials, and even a video from some food channel following what it was like working in Brooklyn’s hottest pizzeria had you in it, your shop had been listed as the best two years in a row, Homelander couldn’t bare looking at your face, but he asked for an address.

That night after spending time with Ryan who seemed to be sulking more and more, as he watched him eat his dinner, he thought of you, the kid was meandering whatever was on his plate didn’t feel appetizing, his meal was no different from what it was served in a high-end restaurant and the kid had no desire to eat it, he wanted Ryan to have the finest things when all he wanted was to have his mom’s tacos– his son opted to head for bed early skipping dinner all together, it was almost 10 pm, a heavy feeling had been boiling in his stomach since that meeting.

Taking flight all the way to some red brick Brooklyn projects, hovering about until he encountered you.

Time had been kind to you but you looked tired, the glow in your skin now dulled, your appearance unkempt, your clothes worn and old, your shoes the nicest thing you worn but they still creased and dirty, you looked beyond exhausted, your eyes half closed and your arms dangling on your sides as you carried a couple grocery bags, he looked around at the constructions and rubbish, at the hooligans and wannabe gangbangers, and the rancid smell. Hundred buildings all the same, he wanted to get closer as he watched you walk alone in those sticky white painted brick walls, you stopped suddenly by one of the brown doors, there were only four other doors in that floor, waiting patiently, an old lady opens the door, you two exchanging pleasantries as you handed the lady two of your grocery bags, a small dog came to say hello and then… there she was.

She was small for her age, she didn’t jump with excitement or say much to you, just a slight bow to the old lady and she walked in front of you as you said goodbye, only stopping two doors down.

Your apartment was small, two small bedrooms, small kitchen and barely sparsely decorated, but it was clean and tidy, your daughter dropped her school bag, and headed for the bedroom while you moved to the kitchen, never really talking to each other, he found himself flying closer just to get a perfect vision of that child.

She was a mini-you, taken so much from you, whoever the father was it didn’t seem to have mattered in the end for the kid got nothing from him, she changed to her pajamas as you sat on the couch after throwing away your uniform to the floor.

You two talked briefly, you didn’t read her any stories before bed or kissed her good night, you simply stared at each other and talked while you stretched your feet.

The little girl entered her room, a tidy space, books piled up on the floor in sharp stacks against the wall, a desk containing some electronics and a couple stuffed animals.

She was a cute thing, just like you had been once, her hair short and her straight bangs covering most of her face, too long for it too be safe, she had your complexion and jet black hair, she sat on her desk turning the desk lamp and picked her Kindle up, looking at her clock then back at her Kindle, she sat there for a couple minutes digesting some pages until it was almost midnight, before heading to the living room– you’d passed out on the couch, she took your phone and put it to charge fidgeting with something before leaving it, turning the TV off, and finally turning around to slip a quilt on top of her mother.

Homelander almost felt sorry for the kid, after all you had done to him only to neglect your child, you were just as much of a scumbag as he had imagined, he had had enough wanting to fly away until he saw the little girl staring back at him.

The lights were off on the home, and it was dark with the streets below shaded piss yellow, he looked around wondering if there was something nearby that caught your daughter’s attention but she was staring straight at Homelander, she forced the window open peeking her small frame slightly out the window, in the dark starless night while strangers made a ruckus a couple streets from here, a bright twinkling of pale blue illuminated your home.

He got closer, something caught in his throat as he came only a meter away from your daughter.

She looked so much like you but her eyes even as they lost their unnatural light were so blue, as if the entire ocean lived in her eyes.

The curtains slid shut, his chin flicked in surprise as he caught the small figure plainly ignoring him, he was loved by all, especially children! Even those whose favorites were Noir, A-Train or Maeve loved him! Yet this little girl had just shrugged him off and ignored him, simply returning to her bedroom to shut the second set of blinds and jump straight to bed.

Homelander was left dumbfounded, not once had he seen such disinterest and callousness from a member of his safest demographic, so he stood in mid-air pondering about killing both of you briefly, just as the heat from his cheeks cooled down, he stared at the now sleeping brat, wondering about that inhuman blue light that glossed her big round eyes.

[yeszzs]

MiloxRyan AU: Soulmate String

[About 5.6k characters and 960+ words long..... I'm cringe and I'm free.]

Milo had a special talent for controlling the invisible threads that connected people to their loved ones. Despite being born with the ability, he was afraid of interfering with fate and chose not to use his powers.

His thread hung loose, like an unattached leash, trailing sadly on the ground with nothing to link it to. At first, this situation made him very sad, but everything changed when he got to college and met Eris.

Eris was peculiar. They had multiple strings attached to their fingers and limbs, but all the ends were black and torn, trailing behind them just like Milo's string. He was immediately drawn to this person and started to develop feelings for them. Unexpectedly, his previously limp thread began to twist around Eris' wrist and connect itself to the intriguing individual. Milo was ecstatic and swiftly concluded that this must be their soulmate.

However, Milo faced a significant problem. He had a rather bad reputation on campus and was frequently subjected to bullying by other students, particularly Ryan. Due to his meek demeanor, he was too intimidated to stand up for himself, so he harbored his bitterness quietly. Ryan, on the other hand, was rich, had a large social circle, and likely had caring parents – something Milo lacked. What irked Milo the most was that, despite Ryan's unsavory nature, the red string connected to the man's pinky meant that there was someone out there willing to love him despite his unappealing personality. Milo yearned for that kind of love and sought it from Eris.

Eris, however, had other plans. They wanted to completely rebuild Milo's entire being, reshaping everything about him, from his thinking process to the way he presented himself to others. Every aspect of Milo was thoroughly changed and modified by Eris. Milo happily remained undisturbed and allowed his love to do as they pleased. After all, his sole concern would always be the happiness of his soulmate.

...

On a certain Monday morning, Ryan had come to pester him again. This time he was greeted with a punch to the face and immediately grunted in pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Milo noticed that there was something around Ryan's wrist. As he took a closer look, he realized that it was a tattered black string that resembled a bracelet. But unfortunately, before Milo could investigate any further, he was struck and lost consciousness.

The familiar inky residue on Ryan's arm reminded Milo of Eris’ situation. There must've been history between Ryan and Eris for that to appear and the thought stirred up intense emotions that made Milo's blood boil and sent a rush of heat to his head.

He believed that his string had been severed during his childhood and was unable to repair itself due to the extensive damage it sustained. Meanwhile, Ryan seemed to be extremely lucky, as he received another string after his first one was broken. While Ryan was given this blessing, Milo had to make do with just one untethered string as he struggled to live life knowing that he would never find his true soulmate.

He was angry, envious, and frustrated. His gaze fixated on the red thread that encircled Eris' wrist, appearing pitifully loose as if it could be torn away at any given moment. In stark contrast, the thread fastened to Ryan's pinky tugged with force, affirming his destined encounter with his fated love in the days to come.

Milo felt a deep sense of injustice and refused to let Ryan find happiness. Not after being hurt and tormented by the man for so long.

...

On a Thursday night, Milo climbed into Ryan's dorm room window. He figured that since it was a weekday, the man wouldn't be out partying with his friends like he always was. Milo had especially spent his days carefully observing Ryan including his habits, his most frequented places, and his schedule.

There wasn't a possibility that Milo had made a mistake as Ryan lay on his bed, peacefully asleep, unaware of the man hovering over his resting frame. Milo retrieved his sharp pair of scissors and positioned them along Ryan's thread with much carefulness. His initial fear of disrupting fate faded away as his simmering resentment towards the man boiled over, compelling him to cross a dangerous line and abuse his power for the first time in his life. To Milo, this was retribution.

A nervous and excited smile began to form on Milo's lips as he snipped the string in half, watching Ryan's face scrunch up in a momentary state of terror before relaxing back into his pillow. The thread shriveled rapidly, its vibrant colors fading away at a remarkable speed until it resembled nothing more than a decaying, black string. Milo quietly laughed to himself, his hands trembling and his breath becoming increasingly shallow.

He relished in his victory for a few more minutes before retreating to Ryan's window and preparing for his escape. He was filled with giddy anticipation and longed to see what expression would be on Ryan's face once he woke up and realized his once bright and lively string was now torn and broken.

Unfortunately, what Milo didn't know was that fate had an odd way of compromising when unexpected obstacles appeared in the long run. Before Milo knew it, the loose red string that attached itself to Eris began to fade in color and extract itself from their wrist. As it crept and wriggled along, moving with excruciating slowness, it eventually reached a dorm that felt all too familiar. The thread slithered its way until it reached Ryan's deteriorating string, coiling and tightening around the remnants to fashion a new strand. However, no matter how much it twisted and turned, the color never returned to the new string.

[jackabbot]

You seem to be on neutral ground about the ship war (I try to do the same) and you also seem relatively well caught up on all 911 news. So I wanted to ask, do you think Buddie might actually still go canon?

Personally I don't think it's likely for several reasons, but a lot of other fans seem pretty convinced it's still on the table maybe even soon.

when it comes to shipping itself i am pretty neutral, yeah, when it comes to fandom behaviour... idk i have a bunch of people blocked and muted on both sides, so make of that what you will.

i will say that though that i personally have not seen death threats and slurs thrown around that much on one side, while on the other it's... yeah. we all saw how the common talking point is either "well he's a bad person so i am clearly a good person if i wish terrible suffering on him" or "we've always been hateful, but it's just for fun so you should all lighten up" and i'm not exactly down being associated with people like that.

the way i see it is that Tim wanted to (maybe still wants to) take the show into the direction of canon buddie eventually, (but this is where i remind everyone that we might get 7 more seasons or s8 might be the last, cuz you never really know)

i think he was setting things in motion for a lot of different things this season and that was supposed to be one of them, especially if you go by the interviews and how he talked about just doing what he wanted to do, without letting the fans' interpretations get to him... however that was before he was receiving death threats over a 3-minute cut scene that would've cost thousands of dollars in licensing fees to release, according to him.

it was before bt gained quite a sizeable fanbase, before people started to lean into his accidental invisible string theory, which is frankly a writing goldmine to stumble upon. he was incredibly excited for the bi Buck storyline according to Oliver and that storyline will forever include Tommy, as both Tim and Oliver mentioned as well (Oliver going as far as saying he hopes the character stays around regardless of where the relationship ends up going, because Tommy is now a core part of who Buck is).

certain part of the fanbase seems to think they know the actors personally and know exactly what they think and how they feel about each other and the storyline

(see: people saying that Oliver is upset about where the bi Buck storyline is going, even though he literally didn't comment on it at all since he's been on hiatus and now isn't contractually obligated to promote the show and give interviews.

also claiming that Oliver doesn't like Lou which may or may not be the case, though he only ever said majorly positive things about him, so did the rest of the cast and Tim. but even so, do they think Oliver is such a bad actor that he can't be a professional and still work with him? genuine question. it's a part of the grownup world to work with people you don't like, but actors aren't their characters and whatever Oliver feels about Lou, Buck still likes Tommy, so that's the end of that discussion imo)

anyway, my point is that Tim and Oliver and even Ryan to some extent were talking about not giving in the hysteria of buddie fans and just keeping the story on the track they want to set it on and only going into that direction if it makes sense for the characters and is a truthful way of telling their stories.

again, that was before the overwhelming aggression, general homophobia (which, wow), death threats made against Tim and Lou and (seemingly) chasing Lou off of social media.

i'd say it all depends on Tim and if he feels petty enough and enjoys writing for bt enough to take it away or if he wants to go with his original vision (which, obviously i don't know him or what goes on in his head, but i personally get the sense that canon buddie was the direction he wanted to go into)

all in all, it's all speculation, but the behaviour shown by some people in the fandom is truly disgusting and disturbing and i really don't think it's justified over some fictional men dating or not dating.

and as a sidenote: acting entitled towards a queer ship becoming canon is the dumbest fucking thing in fandom history. you do know that the ship that started it all, that appeared in countless media over the last 60+ years is still not canon, right? what makes you think that we "deserve" canon buddie? especially based on everything i just outlined above.