#one way to find a piece of media with a lot of women in it

[becuzmdsaidineededpersonality]

So, as an author who has published a mediocre F/F novel, I used to (kind of) feel this way about it too. But having been on "the other side", talking with tons of other lesbians and sapphic-leaning bi + pan women, and other F/F authors...I get it a bit now...

(sorry for the rant coming up and the fact I am probably going to have to put this into several reblogs to fit it all)

Now, this is just my own experience, so I am obviously biased. I am also going to keep it intentionally vague both to protect myself and others.

Part One: The Industry

About...two (?) years ago, I got the chance to be put on the "fast track" to publishing because I knew somebody who worked at the university with me and they were having this event that with this publisher that marketed itself as an indie queer publishing house...but it was more like the LGBT publish wing of a larger overall publishing house. It was supposed to be a way to publish "young queer talent." She knew I had talked about getting back into writing and I guess decided this was a way to get off my lazy ass and actually finish one of those manuscripts I was info dumping about.

So I got to work, did the thing, and sent it to the agent...editor...gatekeeper? (not really sure what her official title would be considered in this case so we will just go with agent because she was a practicing one when I worked with her but my experience was out of the norm compared to what most experiences will be) who worked directly with said indie publisher.

So first, I should state that like with any piece of media that goes through and is distributed by a bigger corporation, the creators don't have as much control as most people would like to believe.

Now, I want to reemphaize that the book I wrote was relatively safe, followed a lot of common lesbian media trope standards, was a historical fiction (very common media lesbian trope) and that...at most would have been a M or a PG-13...so we are talking very tame, very standard here. Nothing crazy or groundbreaking.

And wouldn't you know it...literally the agent talked about the main two characters should be gay men instead of two lesbians because "when people think of xyz time period, they think of gay men." Now, keep in mind I am not the first to write and release a fictional (or even non-fiction) story from this time period about a lesbian. I had no idea if the others I was able to find sold well or are well liked, from what I had seen on goodreads they had decent enough scores and from what I read were decent enough reads.

Now, I said no and explained that you couldn't just change the two main leads of a story to two men without having to go back and change almost the entire story. And luckily, that connection I mentioned before had stepped in for me and I was able to proceed.

But then there was an issue with the fact they were both lesbians. The agent then wanted a love triangle plot with some dude she made up who wasn't in the story. It really sucked and I said no. Then there was an issue with the fact the characters used and referred to themselves as the term for "lesbian" in the language of the characters in the book. They wanted to leave the sexualities of the characters more ambiguous. There were a couple of other things but I still remember the thing about this cut to black sex scene...I think this was the biggest fight in this whole mess.

They didn't want it in there. It wasn't graphic. It wasn't explicit. But you would have thought I wrote full blown porn with the way they were acting. And we fought about it and sent re-writes back and forth to each other, eventually meeting somewhere in the middle. It was allowed to stay but with a few adjustments to make it more...I think they said palpable...

It was published along with a couple of others. I was the only one who wrote a story with two lesbians leads who only have female love interests. In fact, I was the first for this publisher to have a lesbian lead in their story at all, from what I had seen and heard from others there.

I was the only author from that event who did not get a physical book release. I was also the only one without cover art. They just left me with a background color and the title in font. It was put at the very bottom of the page for the event release. They did not mention it on any of the social media posts for the event. I never got invited to do a Q + A type piece like the other authors did to help promote it. The cherry on top of it all was the M/M and gay male focus stories clearly had so much more creative control over their stories. They got to have full blown sex scenes. Their characters got to call themselves gay men and bisexual men. Their stories got to take place in a variety of locations in a variety of time periods with a variety of different life styles.

Now, the book still sells I guess...after all I do get some money from it every couple of months...which is nice and it wasn't why I wrote it and sent it out into the world but still...I can only imagine what it must have been like if I had wanted to be a full time author and had wanted to get my start. Or if God forbid this was something I was relying on for an income source.

And once again, I had a connection. I was invited to do this. This wasn't what most authors go through when trying to publish a story about something or rather someone who is "not economically viable."

I WAS ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES.

They likely go through much worse. And while the details still aren't clear because most of us will just tell you and others vagueness and all want to be anonymous to protect us from being seen as "difficult" or "controversial", there are still some stories you can find here and there similar to mine...rumblings about books that never came to be because of an industry that made it so hard for them to exist...so on and so forth...

Part Two: The Never Ending Critics From "Your Own Side", being pigeonholeed as a "lesbian writer", and the assumption of fantasy

Controversy and anything LGBT in media go together like PB+J. It is ineffiable. The grass is green, I know. At a conference one time, I overheard a woman saying "you can write a story about two pieces of toast falling in love and these fuckers would still find a way to make it problematic" and yeah, kind of have to say I have to agree.

So I had two professional (?) reviews...or at least people who weren't just posting a comment under something...both were women I knew...

The first review went like this: "This is a book about lesbians written by a lesbian for lesbians and it's really awesome that this was a lesbian book written by a lesbian and it's really awesome that lesbian readers have a book about lesbians written by a lesbian. Also, did I mention this book is about lesbians and was written by a lesbian?"

Now, I had a pen name and she used my actual name in her review and also basically outted me because I never once put anywhere with that pen name that I was a lesbian. Also, I never once said the book was for lesbians...anyone could read it. Obviously, lesbians more likely to but still. Nothing about the actual plot. Nothing about the characters (I don't think she even named them in her entire review) She later told me she had never even read the book and just gave me a high score and all this "lovely" praise for no reason other than wanting to "support me." Okay then...

The second review was with an individual who I butted heads with a lot in the program we were in together. I knew she was going to have an issue with it because of that scene...and sure enough...but we talked about it. She had actually read the book for what it was worth and our conversation, though we disagreed on many things, was a good one. I remember it fondly.

Now, because my book never really made it past a very niche circle and the most drama that came of it was it's publishing and this very small localized drama and certain other individuals who I had a falling out with spamming bad reviews...I don't really have much more personalized experience on this...so let us turn our attention to other more well known examples.

I think there are a couple of reasons that could potentially explain why so many lesbian and bisexual women you mentioned BUT I think a really big reason is how women and especially women who are lesbian or bisexual, get judged on our writing by the wider public, the larger LGBT population, and other lesbians and bi women...and a lot of times the harsher criticisms come from the latter group when you put something out into the world that is about a lesbian or a sapphic.

It's not secret that women and female characters are judged harsher, not taken as seriously as male main characters, and not given a chance by the public and fandom spaces...this can be for a multitude of reasons, a lot of which can be chalked up to misogyny and distrust due to all the tropes shoehorned in that make everything feel so...well...uninspired and repetitive at best, frustrating and even somewhat offensive at worst.

Problem is a lot of people don't understand and have never seen behind the curtain of what it really takes to get a book published, popular enough that you or I will discuss it on here. So when they see the same tropes being applied to fictional women in media over and over again, they take out their anger on the wrong people. And I can be guilty of this too.

But nobody, no matter how cringe or corny or tropey their book is, should ever have their sexuality called into question because of what they write.

We've already heard a lot of how a lot of this is attatched to bi women and the biphobia that comes with bi women being assumed to be lying about who they are because they "write bad F/F stories" but now, I want to also focus on how this discourse can and does affect lesbians.

Take Kelly Quidlen for instance. The amount of vitriol and harassment this woman gets for writing "cringe" F/F stories is nuts, especially since she's said and done stuff that probably warrants a stronger reaction but that's neither here nor there.

Now, this leads into another issue which is the fact that any book a woman writes is assumed to be her own fantasy and something she wants to actually happen, especially in the world of romance novels, which sadly, even if you write a story that should not be put in the romance category, by virture of being LGBT, it will still be put there by distributors and review websites, which is another issue for another time. So if she writes a cringe F/F story, this means she isn't actually who she says she is and will judged on that alone.

Also, coming out if you want to write a story about LGBT characters and topics, isn't an option anymore and agents will literally tell you that to your face. "Queer author who wrote this for queer people" is a marketing strategy now.

So I can completely understand why someone would want to write a story about a GRSM who is the opposite of what they are. M/M can provide a sense of separation between the book and who the author is in their private life.

Part Three: The Beast

A few months ago I was having a conversation that I actually surprisingly had had on the Internet before hand.

You see, I am I recently graduated women in gender studies masters program. (OK now nobody jump up with their pitchforks all at once, hear me out) my “specialty” (?) Or rather the kinds of media I was volun-told I would be writing about is/are video games, mainly due to a controversy that I had gotten myself into while I was still in undergrad. Anyway, you have a lot of interesting conversations but you also have a lot of conversations that make you wanna poke screws into your eyeballs and nail your ears to the wall. I am constantly at odds with my creative self and my intellectual self because I know that the society that we have created often makes it where these ideas conflict with each other in ways in which women are portrayed on screen and how different individuals think that women should be portrayed on screen and on the page.

Anyway, this conversation involved a couple of individuals and we were discussing representation in video games. We were talking about how AAA gaming might be one of the only spaces where sapphic and lesbian characters may have more representation than achillean and gay male characters do. Now I'm a bit skeptical of this because I think when you look at protagonists sure but NPCs probably not… but that's not really relevant to this conversation. We were talking about how it doesn't really matter how you portray a lesbian character in a video game because eventually there may or may not be a male mod who is going to make sexy mods of that character and that now that character is “ruined.” They said that the only way that there would ever be a video game that would be a truly progressive haven would be if all the characters were gay men and there were no female characters at all, that way these mods that make these sexy mods who often tend to have sexist outlooks on life wouldn't be able to do anything about it and this would be kind of like a punishment for them.

As a lesbian myself and someone who has studied so much media over the years and someone who has interviewed countless indie game creators who have made stories about lesbians and how hard it was to get even close to the amount of funding that stories about a protagonist that you can just swap genders and the genders that they're attracted to get in terms of crowd sourcing, I obviously pushed back on this idea because it fundamentally is focused more on punishing sexist people than it is creating actual meaningful representation with good storytelling for lesbian and sapphic women out there.

But just like when I had this conversation on the Internet, my voice was kind of drowned out because “well, you’re a lesbian, so you’re biased.” Now obviously the people that I was having this conversation with probably wouldn't want this to become a reality in the future and this was more just of an intellectual theory being practiced in a conversational academic setting rather than something that should or would be put into practice. We also are just master students at that time so I don't really think our opinions would matter that much to the greater gaming industry as a whole just yet. But I sometimes become terrified about how prevalent these ideas are in the mainstream as well. As I said before, this was a conversation I first had with randos on the Internet who were saying the exact same thing almost word for word and I was getting pushed back for saying how deeply problematic and frustrating it was that somebody would actually even entertain this idea as being a solution to sexism in gaming spaces.

This brings me to my final point. There's this thing that I experienced and I didn't really have a word for it when I was trying to publish my first book. You remember how I mentioned that when I was in the submissions process and it kept getting sent back because they wanted me to completely remove that cut to black sex scene and how later on I realized that it wasn't really so much that the indie publisher that I was working with didn't we time to go above a certain maturity rating but rather the fact that it seemed like they just didn't want my story to go above a certain maturity rating because it was two women who were only interested in other women and if it had been two men who were only interested in other men, it would have been a completely different story.

It's called the beast and you see it everywhere you go. In the tropes that are very commonly used in all sorts of lesbian media is the most indicative that this exists. Now I complain a lot about lesbian and sapphic media because I am so picky in general about the kinds of media that I like and if it doesn't meet the standard of entertainment that I want I probably am not going to focus on it unless there's something particularly egregious in there that I just have to talk about.

But this also hits close to home because I volunteer at a shelter that specializes in LGBT youth and let me tell you, these young lesbian and bi girls are not watching the lesbian movies that are coming out. They aren't really reading any of the books either. Now I like a lot of these stories but I had to set aside my own bias to get to the bottom of what really was going on… and what I found was that it wasn't really so much a hatred and dislike of stories about lesbian and sapphic characters but a hatred and aversion to tropes that are commonly used within these medias over and over and over again that often intersect with tropes that are very commonly used and associated with tropes put on female characters in general. I made a joking post a couple of days ago about the newest lesbian film that came out and let me tell you, the synopsis and story behind in this movie made me so angry that I actually broke my own promise to a friend of mine and we decided just not to see it because even I'm sick of it and based on how badly it’s numbers are doing, I am not alone in that sentiment. (Yes, obviously other factors are going on)

But as I said before, this has to do with the way that the publishing industry wants lesbians to be portrayed and in a world where you don't really have a lot of options to go about your own way of doing Things and you will literally lose opportunities if you don't do things a certain way, this will only continue.

But what I mean when I say the beast is... well, it made a joke that if anyone were to ever write a movie about my life, not only would it be extremely boring but you would get so much hate and you would be raked through the coals, I can already see the articles now. Ohh because I lived my life like a lot of other lesbians and sapphic women around me do I am not monogamous ( I’m not poly either) and I am not demisexual. I have sex with lots of women and I like to hook-up. I like to cruise. I like to meet up. I like go-go dancers. I like lesbian bathhouse events.

But even then, the book that I wrote wasn't something that reflected my own life or even something that I necessarily wanted to write. When I look back on why I chose to do it the way that I did, I realized that I was being subconsciously influenced by the lesbian media around me and the common tropes that are there. This is why I'm not mentioning the title or the publisher that I went through because I fear the beast too. But anyway, I'm just some rando on the Internet, my opinions mean very little. I hope some of this made sense and people who know got what I am trying to say.

I know it’s entirely hypocritical of me and doesn’t really make much sense.

But I’ve just reached an age where it makes me really sad and a bit frustrated when I see women who publish books about m/m romances when they themselves talk about being bisexual or lesbian.

They can write whatever they want and they do often write really beautiful ones, obviously because I’m reading them (which is where the hypocrisy comes in ) but it still makes me sad. You didn’t want to write about us ? About a group you say you are apart of ? The first published book you are putting into the world you don’t want to it be about those who are like you?

There is one author who has published her first book and I want to read it because it sounds really good. But it’s also upsetting me because I remember a few years ago she was talking about how bi and lesbian women shouldn’t be shamed for reading m/m fiction because there isn’t a lot of f/f fiction out there and like I agree I don’t think they should be shamed for it. But how you can say that (I mean I don’t agree with it but it was obviously something she believed to be true ) and then NOT add more f/f fiction into the world ??

I understand there is probably a multitudeof reasons like internalised homophobia, backgrounds in fanfiction, believing f/f fiction won’t sell as well, f/f books not being picked up as often, internalised sexism etc.

But it just makes me feel gross. Especially when I look at these stories and think “we could of had this plot but with sapphics ???????!!”

But it really does annoy me. As much as it makes me a raging inconsistent hypocrite who has no room to talk

[goldfades]

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

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

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

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

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

Seven months.

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

But in reality, it had been everything.

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

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

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

It wasn’t about Joe.

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

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

It was the dream. Your dream.

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

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

For you.

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

What happens when he sees you again?

--

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

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

And for a while, that was the point.

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

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

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

But he didn’t say that.

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

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

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

So, he drank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Loneliness.

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

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

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

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

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

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

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

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

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing was prepped.

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

And that’s when it really hit him.

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

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

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

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

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

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

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

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

But it didn’t. It never did.

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

--

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

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

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

No. Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

It was his city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were.

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

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

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

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

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

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

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

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

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

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

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

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

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

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

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

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

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

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

Yeah. That sounded about right.

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

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

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

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

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

You knew what they were thinking.

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

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

You ignored it.

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

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

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

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

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

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

This was alone.

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

And God, it was loud.

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

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

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

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

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

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

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

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

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

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

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

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

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

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

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

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

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

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

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

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

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

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

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

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

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

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

Didn’t know him like you did.

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

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

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

Because winning used to mean everything.

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

He had never felt more hollow.

--

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

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

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

You picked up new hobbies.

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

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

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

And for a while, it worked.

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

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

—

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

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

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

The words landed like a gut punch.

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

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

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

But inside, you were shaking.

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

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

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

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

The unraveling.

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

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

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

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

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

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

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

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

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

He knew your moods before you did.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

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

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

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

You had never held back.

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

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

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

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

But it all felt wrong.

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

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

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

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

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

But your body knew.

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t his family.

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

And it wasn’t him.

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

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

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

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

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

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

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

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

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

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

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

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

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

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

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

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

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

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

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

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

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

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

Because he was there.

Joe.

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

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

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

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

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

You felt sick.

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

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

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

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

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

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

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

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

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

She wasn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

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

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

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

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

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

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

But he had been wrong.

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

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

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

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

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

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

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

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

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

But it didn’t.

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

It was shock. Discomfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he felt it.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

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

No, this was performative.

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

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

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

And that? That was unbearable.

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

No. No, no, no.

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

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

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

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

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

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

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

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

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

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

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

It made him move.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

Just like that.

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

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

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

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

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

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

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

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

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

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

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

--

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

All of it.

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

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

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

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

He missed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knocked.

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

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

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

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

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

He broke.

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

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

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

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

So he just kept going.

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

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

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

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

But he couldn’t.

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

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

But there it was again—that ache.

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

He was still your Joe.

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

And you could have.

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

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

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

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

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

Because fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

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

And then, you let him inside.

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

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

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

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

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

So you told him. You told him everything.

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

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

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

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

Your heart clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to try.”

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

But you weren’t finished.

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

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

The next few weeks felt new.

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

This was different.

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

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

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

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

Joe never stopped trying.

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

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

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

Really listened.

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

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

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

And Joe had never been happier.

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

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

He showed up for you. For everything.

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

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

And he realized—this was you.

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

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

But you.

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

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

And you had never wanted to be one.

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

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

But because you had chosen him.

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

--

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

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

This was better.

This was right.

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

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

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

And the worst part?

You did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

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

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

The crowd erupted into applause.

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

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

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

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

Now, it was effortless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were just here. With him.

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

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

Joe was on one knee.

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

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

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

Only love.

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he whispered.

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

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[someidiotwithalaptop]

So I just saw a reblog of this going all "oh this was really hard because a lot of people don't write good female characters :(" and it activated the spiteful bitch in me because honestly, skill issue.

There's several pieces of media that have a whole list of ten all on their own:

RWBY - Ruby, Weiss, Blake, Yang, Pyrrha (Nikos), Nora, Raven, Summer, Winter, Emerald

ATLA & Related - Katara, Toph, Suki, Kyoshi, Korra, Asami, Azula, Ty Lee, Yue, June

The Locked Tomb - Gideon, Harrow, Camilla, Nona, Ianthe, Pyrrha (Dve), Aiglamene, Mercymorn, Abigail, Jeannemary

A Song of Ice and Fire - Arya, Danaerys, Brienne, Nymeria (yes she's a direwolf but I stand by it), Olenna, Ygritte, Sansa, Shae, Asha, Missandei

And if I were to limit myself to one character per piece of media:

Keladry of Mindelan (Protector of the Small), Lyra Belacqua (His Dark Materials), Riza Hawkeye (Fullmetal Alchemist), Tara Maclay (Buffy the Vampire Slayer), Blanca Evangelista (Pose), Isabella Trent (Memoirs of Lady Trent), Ayda Mensah (The Murderbot Diaries), Chihiro (Spirited Away), Natalie Scatorccio (Yellowjackets), Elphaba Thropp (Wicked)

There's tons of fun and entertaining female characters out there! There's tons of complex dark and tortured female characters out there! Hell, there's tons of female side characters or love interests that are more interesting than the story gives them credit for, and aren't really done proper justice, that are worth getting fixated on and writing fanfic about! Lord knows people will happily do that if there aren't enough compelling men. It's not that they don't exist, you just have to actually look for them.

Name ten female characters you like, you get zapped if it's jsut a male character you call a babygirl or other feminine nicknames because I can't see people calling Lestat coquette again

[glowettee]

do you have any posts abt decentering your life from men? i think i rely on male validation wayyyyyy too much lol. love your content btw ✨

✧˖° how to stop centering your life around men (because you have way better things to do)

(a guide to decentering men, breaking free from male validation & making yourself the main character for real this time)

so you’ve noticed it... the way your mood shifts depending on whether or not he texts you back, the way your confidence is high when you’re getting attention and low when you’re not. maybe you catch yourself subtly performing when guys are around, or maybe you find yourself molding into the kind of girl you think they’d want.

and honestly? same. we’ve all been there. society trains us to believe that being wanted is the ultimate achievement, that our worth is measured by how desirable we are to men. but that’s a lie. your life was never meant to revolve around them. you were always meant to be the sun, the main event, the entire storyline.

i really hope this post can help you understand you were never meant to revolve around them. love you - mindy

✧˖° step one: start seeing them for what they actually are

listen, it’s time to be so for real with yourself. ask: do I even like this man, or do I just like the attention? do I actually think he’s interesting, or do I just want him to think I’m interesting? do I want him, or do I just want to be chosen?

because half the time? the men we obsess over are painfully mediocre. and yet we assign them so much power. letting them dictate how we feel about ourselves, letting their validation (or lack of it) determine our worth.

take a step back. stop romanticizing them. start seeing them as human beings. flawed, regular, not the prize. the real prize? is you.

✧˖° step two: detox from male validation (yes, a real detox)

you don’t realize how much male validation fuels your self-worth until you cut it off. so let’s go cut. it. off.

for the next month, no:

dressing for male attention (dress for you instead).

posting just to see if he will like it.

checking who watched your stories.

replaying conversations to see if you sounded cool enough.

instead, every time you feel the urge to seek male validation, replace it with self-validation.

take pictures just for yourself.

romanticize your own opinion of you.

remind yourself that your value doesn’t shift based on their perception of you.

✧˖° step three: become the most interesting person you know

a lot of us center men in our lives because we have nothing else filling that space. so fill it. with things that actually excite you.

start a niche hobby that makes you feel alive (pottery, screenwriting, blogging (girlblogging to be exact), literally anything).

go to cafes alone, sit in the prettiest spot, and enjoy your own company.

build your dream life piece by piece, your wardrobe, your routines, your vibe.

when you’re truly obsessed with your own life, the need for male validation just… disappears. because suddenly, you’re so content, so full, that their attention feels like an afterthought.

✧˖° step four: unfollow the pick-me content (yes, even the guilty pleasure stuff)

what you consume matters. if your feed is filled with “how to make him obsessed with you” content, if you’re constantly absorbing media that glorifies male attention, you’re subconsciously reinforcing the idea that men = purpose.

so let’s cleanse. unfollow the pick-me content. mute the male gaze influencers. instead:

fill your feed with confident, self-sufficient women.

read books by powerful women who own their narrative.

watch movies where the female lead’s story isn’t about a man.

you are not the supporting character in a man’s story. start consuming content that reminds you of that. you are a goddess, an angel, the main character of YOUR story! please remember that <3

✧˖° step five: enforce the highest standards (with zero guilt)

decentering men doesn’t mean avoiding relationships, it just means refusing to settle. it means knowing that you don’t need male validation to be worthy. and that means setting real standards:

if he’s inconsistent? he’s gone.

if he makes you question your worth? he’s out.

if he needs you to shrink yourself to fit into his life? bye.

your love life should enhance your life, not become your life. you don’t need to be chosen. you need to be cherished. there’s a difference.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips ✧˖°

some little things that helped me fully break free from male validation: ➝ talk to yourself like you’re the love of your life - hype yourself up in the mirror, take yourself on cute dates, write love letters to you.➝ wear perfume, do your hair, and put effort into your looks even when you’re alone. let your beauty be for you, not for male approval. ➝ when a guy doesn’t text back, shift your energy immediately. instead of spiraling, get up, put on music, do something fun. do not make him your focus.

✧˖° homework: shift your energy back to you

for the next week, every time you catch yourself seeking male validation, pause. redirect that energy inward. do something for yourself instead. and watch how your entire aura changes.

because when you stop chasing their approval? you start living for real.

love you <333 so sorry this reply was sooo late

xoxo mindy

[ecoterrorist-katara]

Why I feel like Ka/taang is one-sided, despite textual evidence 

ATLA does try to convince us that Katara has romantic feelings for Aang. For example: she seems thoughtful when she realizes that Aang is a powerful bender; she’s offended that he didn’t want to kiss her in the Cave of Two Lovers; she gets jealous when Sokka says On Ji and Aang look good together.

So…what’s wrong with anti-Kataangers? Do we just lack media comprehension? 

To be clear, on their own, these gestures can indicate romantic interest. But at the same time, we have stuff like “Aang is a sweet little guy, like Momo.” We have her ambivalent facial expression after he kisses her before the eclipse, and her hedging during Ember Island Players, and her anger when he kisses her anyway. In the context of these conflicting cues, Katara’s possibly romantic reactions can absolutely be interpreted in a different way, because: 

Acknowledging a friend as a potential romantic interest is not the same as actually being romantically interested in them. (Imo this is something young women struggle with, due to a combination of romance-centrism and heteronormativity that make women feel like they should be in romantic relationships, and that boys and girls who share intimate and deep feelings for one another must be romantically into each other) 

Wanting someone to find you desirable is not the same as desiring that person. (Which is something a lot of women, especially young women, struggle with. Remember all the discourse around Cat Person back in 2017?) 

Being jealous when someone flirts with your friend is not the same as wanting to be with your friend. (Especially when you see your friends as family, or if you’re accustomed to a specific type of devotion from that friend. It is jealousy, and it is possessiveness, but it doesn’t always arise from romantic feelings) 

Growing up in a patriarchal society means that your desires are always filtered through what men want from you, sometimes in an abstract male gaze-y way, and sometimes in a very visceral and interpersonal way when a boy wants you specifically. And Katara’s reactions are just that — reactions. Reactions to what other people — including Aunt Wu, Sokka, Aang himself — have insinuated about her and Aang. She’s not really proactive in her interest in Aang: we don’t really see Aang, romantically, from Katara’s POV. Under the framework of “Katara is reacting to a romantic prospect she’s kind of uncertain about,” it is completely plausible — and indeed likely — that she would sometimes act in ways that indicate romantic interest, in addition to moments where she indicates the opposite. 

Ka/taang shippers often bring up other evidence, like Katara’s despair when Azula hits Aang with lightning, or how protective she is of him when Zuko joins the Gaang. The thing is, these pieces of evidence aren’t necessarily indicative of romantic love. The fact that Katara genuinely loves Aang makes the whole thing more complicated, not less, because — especially at that age, especially when Aang is twelve years old and grew up in a sex-segregated society of monks — it is really difficult to tell the difference between platonic love and romantic love. Their mutual devotion is layered and complex yet straightforward in its sincerity. What was not straightforward, until the last five minutes of the show, is whether this devotion on Katara’s end is romantic. The romantic arc for Katara and Aang is not really an arc, as Sneezy discusses in this classic ZK video. Katara actually becomes more conflicted over time and we never see an event that clarifies her feelings. She seems more interested in him in The Headband than on the Day of the Black Sun, and she has never been more hostile to his romantic overtures than in the penultimate episode. 

And in light of this, it’s pretty easy for fans to fill in the blanks with a different interpretation: maybe Katara’s weird expression after their kiss at the invasion means she didn’t enjoy it; maybe the kiss made her realize that she doesn’t actually feel that way about Aang; maybe against her will and her better judgement, she’s developing feelings for another person, a person who hurt her and whom she fervently tried to hate until he pulled off what is in my opinion the greatest grovel of all time in the form of a life-changing field trip. Maybe. Am I saying that Zutara has more romantic interactions than Ka/taang? Of course not. But ironically, the lack of romantic interactions means that it’s not inherently one-sided, the way Ka/taang became in the latter half of season 3.

I’m not arguing that Katara’s unequivocally not into Aang. Obviously the text declares that she is, because they get married and have kids. But I am saying that there’s a very good reason that so many people, especially women, see Katara’s interest in Aang as ambiguous. It’s not because we can’t pick up “subtle” hints of growing affection. It’s because we know not all affection is romantic, and it’s really easy for someone else’s insistent romantic intentions to muddle what you want.

P.S. I first started thinking about these topics (platonic vs romantic love, desiring someone vs wanting to be desired, etc) in the context of compulsory heterosexuality, a term describing how queer women contort themselves into relationships with men even if they’re not really into men. I saw a post a few days ago joking about why so many queer women seem to be into Zutara. I wonder if part of the reason is because as queer women, we are very sensitive to the ways in which we can talk ourselves into wanting things we don’t actually want, and Katara’s romantic interest in Aang can be easily seen that way. 

[ivysangel]

…vampire!jason thoughts… you must provide them im desperate…. -🐞

(ik you probably expected #real smut, honestly i did too but this ended up turning into a whole bunch of lore/headcanons/whatever tf. i'm so sorry bae cw: talks of consuming blood)

you ask, you shall receive. i've been thinking about jason and dick as vampires in relation to each other, so this'll be a post about both of them just for the sake of comparisons. also, in my mind, this au takes place during the 19th century because i've conflated vampirism with the victorian era, and it's also no capes in regards to vigilantism bc vampires do love a good cape.

in this victorian era, vampire au dick would be either a nobleman or straight up royalty. he's got status, money, and a pretty face, and he uses them all to his advantage when it comes to feeding. you know in the originals or itwtv when they host an event that's actually a cover for them finding their next meal? yeah, he does that. he flirts with all of the ladies, plays into his charms, and sweeps women off their feet. and at the end of the night (sometimes even mid-ball), he coaxes them upstairs and ravishes them, sometimes in more ways than one.

i think for dick feeding is something he can have fun with, knowing that he holds such a high ranking in society that when bodies of people he's been seen with show up around town, people turn a blind eye. and even when someone does try to investigate, the wayne family checking account talks enough to shut down anything beyond a questioning.

in many pieces of media surrounding vampires, there are people who know about vampires and choose to feed them their blood. there's a bunch of lore that explores the idea that a vampire bite is almost orgasmic and kind of addictive, which is why some people are more than willing to put themselves in harm's way by either being employed by vampires or by straight up just throwing themselves into a vampires line of sight with open wounds.

with that being said, i think dick grayson likes the chase. i think that even if his father (bruce, who is also a vampire in this au because vampire families are just superior) has people on his payroll to provide blood for them, he's going to go out on his own to flirt a bit, get laid, and then have his fill.

which brings me to my next point; while feeding, like sex, is an intimate act, it's far from necessary for dick to need an emotional connection with a person he feeds off of or even a physical one. sex and feeding are related but not totally synonymous, and if he needs to just feed or just get his rocks off, he can. is it preferred? maybe not. i believe he does like the mess that comes with doing both at the same time.

ok so for jason, ugh so obsessed with him as a vampire because i think it's so in line with his canon story. in a lot of vampire lore, to become a vampire, you have to consume the blood of a vampire and either die or be on the brink of death, which is just so. it's so jason dying and being revived by the lazarus pit coded. and even the way he inevitable that he will spill blood post-revival in both this vampire au and his canon storyline…it's almost prophetic.

anyway, jason's approach to vampirism is quite different. i think he struggles with it no matter how long he's been one. he can't fully grasp that he's immortal; he looks in the mirror and sees that he hasn't aged a day and he feels sick. being a vampire for him feels like a curse and he only continues living because he's scared to die (again).

he doesn't stay anywhere too long, typically hopping from town to town in the middle of the night when less people are around. he believes himself to be out of place amongst normal people and he's paranoid that people can smell the iron on his breath when he talks to them so he makes it a point to have minimal interaction with people.

it's crippling, he drives himself mad with the solitude, but i feel like another reason why he continues to stay alive is to spite his creator, whoever that may be. he's most definitely got an agenda, in true jason fashion. i just don't know what it is yet.

he feeds only when he needs to but tries not to let the hunger get too intense because i do feel like when he loses control, he's the stefan salvitore type. a ripper. but he's pretty good about it and is almost polite when he's feeding? like he finds a victim and says i'm sorry before just absolutely tearing into their jugular.

i just really think he grapples with his own mortality, or lack thereof, and how it exists at the expense of others. so he is genuinely ashamed of who he is and what he's become. so, while blood drinking is something he needs to survive, it holds a lot of weight for him, which is why i think drinking blood and sex are pretty equal for him when it comes to intimacy level.

that brings me to my MAIN point (which isn't really a main point because it's being reduced to a small paragraph at the end of this post), all of that was background for this, eek. the act of drinking blood during sex is so. big. for him, it's eye-opening, life-changing. the amount of trust required on both ends for this to happen…at that point, it's basically end game for you two. and it's so funny because that's just a normal tuesday for dick.

anyway, i do have more thoughts and more lore, but this got really long, so i'll cut it off here

[zolo-san]

I know I just rambled in the tag, but if you took the time to read all that, might I direct you to this post & my ramblings there as well~

Something about Zoro being one of the most misunderstood and mischaracterized characters in One Piece is funny (not haha funny, funny sad) to me because?? That’s literally how his introduction starts?? With people misunderstanding him and thinking he’s some big, monstrous demon who kills with cause and cannot be trusted or tamed.

Meanwhile the actual Zoro is a driven guy who is often both literally and figuratively directionless in life and found his goals in life through good people (first Kuina and then Luffy). He's tied up in the Marine base not due to those actual crimes he commuted (well not inherently anyway) but because he ‘disrespected’ a Captain's son and stood up for a little girl. He accepts the challenge they present to him and because Zoro himself is a guy that puts his money where his mouth is he assumes the Marines will uphold their end of the deal and let him go (note the actual shock when Koby tells him the truth)

He joins Luffy's crew but also outright says he’s not gonna let his goal take second place to Luffy or anyone else's for that matter, he bears the weight of two people's dreams, his heart isn’t going to be swayed by some pirate.

Speaking of Kuina, her impact and influence on Zoro's life isn’t talked about enough for my liking. She was Zoro's first friend, his first rival, his first goal. He looked up to her so much and his reaction to her passing cracks my heart in half every time because you can seem him just..go numb. Kuina, dead? Kuina, the strongest person he knows, gone? Kuina, who swore to him just yesterday they’d race to the top of the world together, doesn’t exist anymore. His blank face only cracking within the privacy of his sensei before he begs. He begs on his knees, tears streaming down his face please please please let me take Kuina's sword with me. Let me take our dream to a high neither of us could imagine. I won’t let her name die here.

On top of gaining the Wado Ichimonji that day Zoro also gained…fear. Not of death, well at the very least not his own, he gained his fear of not being enough. Kuina kicked his ass every way a person could and still died, what could someone like him do? So he trains…and trains…and trains some more. Overly, obsessively, constantly telling himself he’s not enough, he’s weak, he can’t protect anyone like this and everyone's death would be on him.

As for Zoro being cold and stoic that’s just…not completely true? He’s not stone, he can be excited or sad or angry just as much as most characters he just sucks at showing it canonically (Kuina thinks he hates her before their final fight after all). Sure he’s not as forthcoming about it as some of the other Strawhats but Zoro's more of an action guy anyway, he'll show his love with his protection and unwavering faith.

In conclusion, Zoro is a ridiculously stubborn, incredibly loyal, mildly emotionally constipated, do what you say/say what you mean kinda guy.

(Also that whole ‘Zoro would kill the whole crew if Luffy asked him to’ thing? Top ten stupidest things I’ve ever heard from the fandom and that’s saying a lot. He’s loyal not brainless and heartless guys if Luffy asked him to do that, he would never but I digress, Zoro would square the fuck up with him so fast. DPMO.)

[ladyloveandjustice]

Winter 2025 Anime Overview: ZENSHU

Premise: Natsuko Hirose is an animator and director lauded as a genius, but she’s struggling with her newest movie, insisting on doing everything herself. Then she dies from food poisoning and is transported to the world of her favorite anime movie, the one that inspired her career. Natsuko finds she has the power to literally draw and animate beings that will then fight the monsters attacking them—can she use her power to save the day and avoid the movie’s tragic ending?

Zenshu is a love letter to animation, artistic inspiration, and stories in general. I’ve been waiting for an isekai anime that actually uses the “transported into the world of my favorite piece of media” in a creative and meaningful way that explores storytelling and the ramifications of interacting with a narrative, and Zenshu is finally it.

Natsuko is struggling with creating a movie about "first love" because she’s never had one, and then bam, she’s transported into the world of A Tale of Perishing, a movie that flopped hard (likely due in part to how depressing the ending is) but it’s been Natsuko’s favorite since childhood and was what inspired her to become an animator.

Natsuko specifically using her animation prowess to save the day is just also an amazing idea, and it looks great. She basically pulls out her pegboard, and then undergoes a magical girl transformation that just ends with her being at her desk. The animation she creates then rises up and beats the monsters, and they’re usually references to something—the first one being the God warrior from Nausicaa.

There’s a lot of fun little gags, like her needing to sleep for three days after because that’s how long that sequence would normally take to animate and a lot of little nerdy in-jokes, like Natsuko being in rapture at finally getting to eat anime food, or coming up with a sentai pose for her team.

(And speaking of references, Natsuko's first hit show was a clear combination of Sukeban Deka and Sailor Moon, which I now dearly want to exist in real life).

Suiting a show about an animator, the animation for the series is consistently gorgeous and full of individuality. The comedic and storytelling strengths of the director and screenwriter duo of Mitsue Yamazaki and Kimiko Ueno (two women who previously worked together on adapting Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-Kun, one of my favorite anime) are on full display here too.

Natsuko is a fun and relatable character, avoiding some of the typical tropes for anime girl leads- she’s an adult, she spends the entire anime in an oversized hoodie and jeans and a lot of it with her hair covering her face Cousin It style, and when her “style” is pointed out as sloppy, her response is “I’ll dress how I want." She’s cynical and sarcastic and a huge nerd. It’s fun to see her automatically clash with the characters she’s loved since she was a child, showing that characters we love can be annoying as real life people, which I’ve always wanted isekai to explore.

The other characters are fun too—Luke is our stereotypical Hero character, but spending all his time fighting evil has actually made him extremely socially clueless, and he reveals himself pretty adorable after a while. Natsuko and the cute little mascot unicorn hate each other on sight, and it’s incredibly fun.

The often puts a clever twist on some tired tropes—Natsuko runs into Luke’s damsel in distress love interest (who's supposed to end up fridged, to boot) and rather than fight with her over Luke, Natsuko leads her to realize she actually has agency and can be whoever she wants—the result is amazing, and includes some lighthearted criticism of misogynist narratives. I go into it in detail in this post, minor spoilers.

The show is also very queer positive. We’re introduced to a dragon-person who, in the dub, uses they-them pronouns. In the sub, some viewers interpret them as a lesbian, but whatever your take, they're queer regardless, and Natsuko indicates some physical attraction to them. They’re also a great character, funny and tragic and cool all at once.

One episode goes into the people who have crushed on Natsuko over the years (while she remains oblivious) and the first one is a young girl and classmate of hers, who identifies Natsuko as her first love. I go into more detail about how sweet this part is in this post. It’s just a very casually queer show, and I appreciate that.

The themes of the story are interesting, the show explores the pressures of being a creator, the way you can shut others out and insist you know best, and what inspiration is. Natsuko begins to struggle with the fact A Tale of Perishing is her favorite movie in part because of how it puts a more dour spin on a fantasy story, and it's inspired her so much...but now the characters are real people she cares about. So she has to stop their fates even if it messes with the creator’s vision. But the question is, CAN SHE, or are they literally doomed by the narrative?

The ending is where things get a little muddled. It isn’t bad, but it’s rushed compared to the rest of the show, and feels a little too easy. I wish Natsuko had interacted way more with the original creator and we’d really gotten a clash of their opposing viewpoints. I feel we barely scratched the surface.

Going into slight spoilers territory with this paragraph, skip if you don't want any: The ending I think, can either be interpreted as either 1. Fanworks and interpretations are valid as hell and creators who look down on them are wrong (this is a bit of a stretch since the series doesn’t mention fanfic or doujinshi at any other point) or 2. It’s fine to take inspiration from your creative heroes, but you have to be willing to do something different, and accept the support of others. Conversely, a creator that is too precious about their work, who shuts out others and who looks down on those who take inspiration from them because they’re doing something different, is wrong and misguided.

That’s my best guess, but as I said, the themes get muddled in the last episode, in a way it takes some serious thinking to decipher a message that’s super applicable to real life. Like “these characters are real people now” is a nice motivation and drama, but not one that seems to a ton about art, though it does play into the theme that Natsuko needs to learn to let others in and connect to them.

Like I said, it’s not a bad ending, I was happy with it, it just felt a little undercooked. There were characters I wanted to explore a bit more. show’s message about art could have been stronger, and it left some potentially really interesting and meaningful stuff on the table...but the show was still amazing. I loved its creativity and characters all the way through.

The story is good, the characters are lovable, and the animation is top-notch. This has already earned it’s place on the top anime of the year list and I really implore you to check it out if you love anime and art at all! It's a thoroughly good time.

[autumn-foxfire]

I bitch a lot about the bad writing for the women but I assure you the feelings are mutual for the men.

Shinichi and Kaito's misogyny and sexism are something is find incredibly painful about their characters and there are actions committed by the both of them that I would never forgive if they weren't fictional characters.

For Kaito it's how he harrasses Aoko. The skirt flipping and sharing the colour of her panties is awful and I don't care if it's a "product of it's time" as it should have NEVER been a product of its time. And the anime has been remade twice and both times they include him doing this to her. And with Gosho making the movies canon too, which we see with him including more and more movie things into the series, that means him trying to grope Ran was also canon...

For Shinichi his treatment of Ran is beyond gross but there is a thing he's done that is just as gross as Kaito's behaviour and that's trying to keep a picture of a sexual nature (Ran's boobs taken without and then given to him without her permission) that she asked him to delete and he tried to save it instead. That is unforgivable and when I saw that in the anime I was beyond creeped out. He has also tried to get into the bath with Ran again, but this time on purpose knowing that it would be wrong to do so.

There are probably more instances with the two of them but these are the ones at the top of my head.

Now I am completely aware these are tropes meant to be funny in nature but as a woman I can't find them funny. They make me feel gross. How the author writes and treats women in his series is beyond appalling to be honest, but this is the standard for many anime and manga too, and he's not the only one doing so.

You're probably thinking "if she's so disgusted why does she keep consuming the series?" and I don't blame you for thinking that way, but I'm just being critical of a piece of media that I otherwise enjoy a lot and if I stopped consuming stuff I had problems with I would end up with nothing to enjoy because everything has problems. I just want to vent my feelings in my personal blog about how frustrated I am with the writing of these characters at times.

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

The appeal of One Piece

I know everyone's a bit sour on One Piece after the clown stunt tumblr pulled, but with the live-action series out and the anime popping off on social media, there's more eyes on this goofy pirate story than ever, and I've been dying to talk about it, so now's the time.

A lot of the conversation around One Piece is steeped in hyperbole, and it's hard not to be hyperbolic when you're talking about a work of almost unprecedented length and popularity. With that in mind, I wanna try to explain what makes One Piece so good in a way that is concise, spoiler-free, and that will give you an idea if this might actually be a story you'll enjoy.

And I do actually think a lot of people who would enjoy One Piece are currently writing it off, and I think a lot of the blame lies on assumptions people have about shonen as a genre. One Piece is no doubt a shonen, with young and teen boys as the primary demographic, but it is also first and foremost an adventure story about a group of quirky outcasts setting out to follow their dreams, despite (or often in spite of) the crushing weight of reality.

But you can't have an adventure story without a world to set that adventure in, and what a world Eiichiro Oda has crafted. One Piece manages to feel like it has fully realized an entire planet, with every island we travel to having a very distinct sense of culture and visual identity. A lot of care has gone into building the history and politics of these places, and the mechanics by which their more out-there elements, like the sky-high ocean geyser or the mountain with an upside-down waterfall, function. As such, it is a setting that afford its story a lot of variety, while also being able to tackle a lot of very heady topics like authoritarianism, racism, and abuse in intelligent, nuanced ways.

But just as important as all of islands we visit are the wonderful characters we meet. A lot of people aren't into One Piece's exaggerated cartoon aesthetic, and I respect that, but it does lend itself to a lot of very unique faces and body types that make its cast of 1000+ characters a joy to behold. This is admittedly less true of the more conventionally attractive women, many of whom look very similar, but this is does not extend to their writing. Oda is very good at imbuing his characters with life, pulling on their histories to give them personalities and quirks that are often as funny as they are sad. Everyone I know that reads One Piece has a side character that they stan hardcore for, be it the lovable klutz Donquixote Rocinante or the petulant ghost girl Perona.

And all of this is especially true for our protagonists, the Straw Hat Pirates, each one of which is a deep, multifaceted character whose drive and dreams can be traced back to their often heartbreaking origins. I know I mentioned it at the top already, but at its core, One Piece is ultimately a story about a group of hurt, lonely individuals who find in each other not just friends, but a family that will support and protect them as together they chase their dreams in the face of a world whose systems have been built to squash them underfoot.

All of this is brought together by Oda's exceptional artistic skill. While as mentioned earlier, One Piece's cartoony artstyle isn't for everyone, it's by no means an accident. One Piece is a story set in a cartoon world, and Oda is able to give even his most ridiculous characters and places a tangible sense of physicality, making everything feel real within the confines of the page. While Oda has a team of assistants to help him, he still does the brunt of the art himself, and his dedication to his craft means the comic is full of panels that are breathtaking in their complexity and visual density.

But it's not just his technical skill that makes the art of One Piece so good, it's that Oda is also very good at letting his art speak for him. Compared to a lot of other big shonen manga, One Piece doesn't lean as heavily on the dialogue to give the readers all the necessary information, but can convey a lot of what is happening and how characters are thinking and feeling through its artwork. There's some sections where this doesn't hold as true (and they are frequently less well-liked as a result) but it makes One Piece a far lighter read than its soon to be 1100 chapter-count would make you believe.

But the thing I think makes One Piece the most exceptional of all, and what makes me recommend it despite its length, is that as a story, One Piece has a remarkable clarity of vision. One Piece has a stance and a worldview that it does not waver on, and it is present from the very beginning. It's is romantic story, about the power of faith and dreams, about people's right to be free and be who they want to be, and about how the beauty and wonder of the world makes its worth its danger and uncertainty.

One Piece knows what it wants to be from the very beginning, and because of that you don't have to wait for it to get good. A problem that a lot of longform media struggles with is that the opening hours are a slog to get through, because it doesn't show you its hand early enough for you to know if it's something you'll like, and that is not a problem One Piece has. It is exactly what it is going to be from the beginning, only in a simpler, cruder form that it is going to expand upon to become the sprawling pirate fantasy epic it has grown to be. This clarity of vision also makes One Piece very rewarding for attentive readers, as it frequently hints at future places and characters, and plants story seeds that it pays off hundreds of chapters later. It does a lot to make the world feel big and interconnected, and makes One Piece very fun to re-read as you pick up on things you missed the first time around.

It is frequently recommended that new readers start with the initial 100 chapters, the East Blue saga (which is what the live action series adapts, for the record), to see if One Piece is right for them, and that's the note I am going to end this post on, as well. East Blue uses its 100 chapters to tell a fairly self-contained story that introduces the first half of the core cast, setting the stakes and building its world while giving you plenty of interesting places, bizarre creatures, and wacky action all the while. It is One Piece showing you its hand, with the promise that if you like what you see, it'll have so, so much more in store for you

[exasperatedfey]

Medieval May Reading Bingo

Happy May! To celebrate I've decided to create a reading challenge where I read medieval texts in May. Full disclosure, this is inspired by another reading challenge on storygraph with a similar name posted by a user called maryshelleywasright. That challenge wasn't long enough for me so I made this!

Absolutely no pressure to join me but I thought it would be fun to open up the challenge to a wider pool of people (especially my Arthuriana mutuals @gwalch-mei and @mordred-galahad). To anyone wondering where the hell to find texts for these prompts your local library might have some! I would also be remiss in not mentioning @queer-ragnelle who runs the Arthurian Preservation Project on her blog. They've done so much work in making Arthurian media of all kinds accessible! If you'd like to post about this challenge you can use the #medievalmay tag.

While I will be reading mostly arthurian texts to prepare for another reading challenge I'm thinking of putting together for August, that doesn't have to be the case for you. The only criteria is that it has to be a text written from 900 CE to 1500 CE. It can be from literally anywhere in the world as long as it fits a bingo prompt. Go nuts lol.

Would Be Cancelled on Ye Olde Twitter - Read a medieval text where the protagonist would absolutely be cancelled on Twitter. Up to you to interpret whether the character's actual personality would get them cancelled if you put a phone in their hands or if they would get cancelled if their story started trending in modern day. Whatever you think is funnier.

God Forbid Women Have Hobbies - Read a medieval text where a woman is the main antagonist. The more evil she is the better.

You Probably Could Fix This One TBH - Read a medieval text where you probably could fix the main character. How much of a fixer-upper they would be is up to you, as long as you can make a case for why/how you could pull it off.

Oh No! My Hubris - Read a medieval text where the main character's hubris comes back to bite them on the ass in a big way.

Reading This Will Make You Fun at Parties, We Promise - Read a medieval text that will be a real conversation starter at parties.

You Can't Fix This Loser But You Can Watch Their Life Implode - Read a medieval text where the main character is completely unfixable. Where they are on the scale from "kind of a mess" to "so much of a human trash fire that mere proximity to them would cause popcorn kernels to pop" is up to you.

No Maidens? - Read a medieval text where the protagonist fumbles a love interest in a spectacular fashion. They can win them back but the initial fumbling must happen.

Surprisingly Cool About A Lot of Stuff - Read a medieval text that's cool about things you wouldn't expect for the time period. Specifically race or gender, but it can apply to other topics as well. "Cool" doesn't equate "Perfect" so the text doesn't have to pass modern day standards, an effort just needs to have been made.

Some Freak Ruins Everything - Read a medieval text where the good vibes have been ruined by some weirdo ruining things. The main character can be cleaning up this mess and not the one who caused it. It can happen off screen or prior to the story, as long as some freak somewhere has decided to be a problem the prompt applies.

An Accurate Adaptation Would be Rated R - Read a medieval text with a bananas amount of violence.

Special Guest Star: Blorbo From My Shows! - Read a medieval text that's inspired a piece of more modern media you are already familiar with.

A Is For Adultery - Read a medieval text where one of the main characters commits adultery.

FREE - Real literally any medieval text you want.

(To the Tune of Who's That Girl) Who's That Knight? - Read a medieval text where the main character has a mystery surrounding their past or identity. The main character doesn't actually have to be a knight, I just thought the prompt name was funny when I thought of it at work.

Cell Phones Would Have Made This Worse - Read a medieval text where the characters having cell phones would have made the situation much worse.

The Eternally Burning Fires of Guilt (And Shame!) - Read a medieval text where guilt and shame are major themes. You can also pick something that you feel guilty about not having read yet. This prompt is very flexible!

Born Too Early To Go To Therapy, But Just In Time To Go On Quests - Read a medieval text where the main character would really benefit from some therapy, but unfortunately they live during medieval times. Epic quests aren't a replacement but they're better than nothing.

Somewhere That Isn't Europe - Read a medieval text that has as little to do with Europe as possible. After all, other places had literary traditions. It isn't fair that Europe hogs the spotlight 24/7.

Some Freak Fixes Everything Somehow - Read a medieval text where the problem is solved by some freak. Said freak doesn't have to be the main character and the fixing can happen off-page.

Not-So Medieval Gender Roles - Read a medieval text that fucks with gender roles of the time. How much and in what ways is up to you.

The Author's Poorly Disguised Fetish: Medieval Edition - Read a medieval text where you get the sense the writer was transcribing it one-handed at certain moments.

Turbo-Doomed By The Narrative - Read a medieval text where the protagonist might as well have a giant neon sign over their head that says "THEY'RE FUCKED".

And They Were Comrades in Arms (My Lord They Were Comrades in Arms) - Read a medieval text known for it's homoeroticism.

Cell Phones Would Have Fixed This - Read a medieval text where cell phones would have resolved the center conflict pretty quickly or prevented some horrible tragedy.

Hey Kid, Ya Like Proving Yourself? - Read a medieval text where the protagonist is the new kid on the block and has to prove themselves with a great deed or two.

[twopoppies]

Speaking of social media, is it true that harry defended Ow from the hate she was getting online and specifically mentioned larries on tw? I wasn’t around when that happened. How did the fandom react and what do you think about it?

Hi, love. No. That's not what happened at all. But that's how some harries and antis twisted it. What he said was:

Styles is not the most online person — he uses Instagram to look at plants and architecture posts, has never had the TikTok app, and calls Twitter “a shitstorm of people trying to be awful to people” — but he’s still aware of how those small, toxic corners of the internet are treating the people closest to him. “That obviously doesn’t make me feel good,” he says, carefully. It’s a tightrope he’s treading in discussing this. He wants to — and does! — see the good in his fans, but there’s no denying that like every large online community, this one has a faction that runs on hate and anonymity. 

[...] “Can you imagine,” he says, “going on a second date with someone and being like, ‘OK, there’s this corner of the thing, and they’re going to say this, and it’s going to be really crazy, and they’re going to be really mean, and it’s not real.… But anyway, what do you want to eat?’ ”

While Styles takes comfort in knowing his whole fandom is not like that, he still wonders about how to respond when the noise gets too loud. “It’s obviously a difficult feeling to feel like being close to me means you’re at the ransom of a corner of Twitter or something,” he says. “I just wanted to sing. I didn’t want to get into it if I was going to hurt people like that.”

It's particularly the middle paragraph people glommed on to and made about larries (particularly the "it's not real" part). But also the author uses the phrase "small, toxic corners of the internet." This is just idiotic to me. Yes, of course he could mean larries. But he literally could mean any group of fans. I can think of a LOT of toxic corners of the internet where people are disgusting to others. And it doesn't mean he's speaking about Olivia, either. That reads like a hypothetical situation IMO.

This is a man who isn't going to discuss or confirm his relationships or his sexuality. But he's going to be incessantly asked about both. So he's going to give vague or hypothetical answers. For example, he says earlier in the piece:

Styles, without prompting, points out how silly he finds some of the arguments about how he may identify to be: “Sometimes people say, ‘You’ve only publicly been with women,’ and I don’t think I’ve publicly been with anyone. If someone takes a picture of you with someone, it doesn’t mean you’re choosing to have a public relationship or something.”

Obviously, Harry is a master at swerving a question he doesn't want to answer. And this answer is a lot of semantics. But he has a right to answer that way.

So, if you look at Holivia from a bigger picture stance and take in everything we know about it, then look at this interview (which was specifically arranged to promote DWD), you can decide for yourself if he's defending her. Personally, I don't think he was considering her in his answer at all because I think Holivia was 100% a PR relationship. But he a good person who wouldn't want anyone to be hurt, even if they weren't actually his girlfriend? Yeah.

Full article here

[pretty-mik-97]

The Other Woman or the Other Victim? (Ari’s Story in Tears on a Withered Flower)

Ari, in my opinion, is a painfully realistic representation of how young women are manipulated and used by men who don't respect them as human beings.

Whenever we're introduced to a mistress/side chick in every piece of media, typically, we all automatically villainise her. Or in damn near every case, the mistress is portrayed as the villainess/antagonist. A good example I can think of is Yena Ban from Muse on Fame.

Then we have the mistresses/side chicks who are villainises, but the only thing they're good for is to make the female lead good. Some good examples I can think of are Sumin from Marry My Husband and Aisha from Divorcing My Tyrant Husband.

And a lot of the time, these women go after or pursue taken men knowingly, and a lot of the times, these men give into the temptation and end up cheating on the female leads with these mistresses.

And who receives the most backlash and hate and becomes the punching bag? The mistress, of course. Because she knowingly pursued a man who's already in a relationship and is the homewrecker - as if the man wasn't an active participant in the affair/cheating.

But then we have Ari - a 25 year old young woman who works at the same company as Mincheol, develops feelings for him but unknowingly becomes his mistress, and has no idea the mofo is married. She then finds out about it, gets pissed (rightfully so) at Mincheol for lying to her and leaves him, only for her to take him back after he sweet talks her enough to give him another chance.

"Then she doesn't have an excuse since she's taking him back after knowing he's got a whole wife."

You'd be right. I also thought the same thing and was like: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

But here's the thing:

Ari is a perfect example and representation of young women who get preyed on and manipulated by grown ass men, especially married grown as men.

I would know coz I had TWO grown ass married men attempt to make moves on me (gag). One of them was a work colleague and the other was a family friend who've I've known since I was 8 years old (mind you, I've known his wife around the same time as him before they got married and have met their kids). And I'll be 26 this year.

These men don't even view these young women as people. Like we've seen and read the way Mincheol describes Ari when he's with her and when he thinks about her. A toy that he can pick up and play with then throw away when his bored. Not to mention, Ari is everything Mincheol wishes Haesoo were. You see this through the way he criticises Haesoo for not making herself pretty and being tired all the time. (Even though he knows she works three jobs to pay back the debt HE PUT HER IN and CLEARLY sees her coming home tired, exhausted and damn near lifeless.) But she's NOT Haesoo.

And I honestly and genuinely feel bad for Ari coz she's in her 20s, a period in her life where she's trying to find her place in the world, figure out who she is and what she wants. So obviously, she's entering into the real world with a bit of a naive perspective and experiencing a lot of things for the first time, and that's what men like Mincheol prey on.

She is genuinely in love with this man. Like baby girl already sees him as her future husband and is already picturing a life with him. Meanwhile, this mofo is lying in bed next to her, wondering when Haesoo is going to call him and take him back.

And one thing about men like Mincheol is that no matter how many times they cheat, they will NEVER leave their wives for young women like Ari. That's the sad and harsh truth. And I wouldn't put it past Mincheol wanting to win back Haesoo so he can pull the same shit again.

And I personally find it refreshing that there's a story that doesn't villainise the mistress or make her the stereotypical mean girl out to ruin and bully the female lead even though the readers are still going to villainise the mistress just coz she's not the protagonist.

Coz stuff like this DOES happen in real life. Young women fall prey and get manipulated by these men who whisper sweet nothings and make promises they will NEVER keep just to trap them to be their toys whenever they want something their wives can't and won't give them.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

No One Else But Us

Pairing: Sean Strickland x Singer!Reader

Summary: In a raw and unfiltered interview on The Joe Rogan Experience, a world-renowned singer opens up about her tumultuous and unbreakable connection with UFC fighter Sean Strickland. As Rogan navigates through her past and present with Sean, she speaks candidly about love, loss, jealousy, and the deep wounds that refuse to heal.

She adjusts her headphones, exhaling quietly as Joe Rogan leans forward, his expression softer than expected, a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his fingers on the desk. “We have to talk about it. It’s impossible not to.”

She swallows, her fingers tightening around the armrest. “I know.” Her voice is quieter than before.

“Your career speaks for itself,” Joe continues, nodding. “You’re one of the biggest artists in the world. But the truth is, your music—a lot of it—has been shaped by one person. And after everything, he’s still in your life. That’s heavy.”

Her throat tightens. “It is.”

“Can you walk me through it?” Joe asks gently. “Because from the outside looking in, your relationship with Sean... it’s like a storm that never settles.”

She shifts slightly, tucking her hands into her lap. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Joe leans in. “Start with why you stayed.”

She sighs, glancing away before finding his gaze again. “Because... because when you love someone that much, it’s not about leaving or staying. It’s about understanding. And I understood him in ways no one else ever did.”

Joe nods, letting the weight of her words settle between them. “And where do you two stand now?”

Her voice wavers. “There’s distance.”

“But he’s still in your life.”

A small, sad smile touches her lips. “Yeah. He always will be.”

Joe studies her carefully, his voice steady but kind. “That’s a lot to carry.”

She nods slowly, her gaze distant. “It is.”

“You said in an interview once that the hardest part wasn’t the fights, wasn’t the media, wasn’t even the breaking up. It was knowing he would always be a part of you, even if he wasn’t next to you. Do you still feel that way?”

She blinks, emotion thick in her throat. “Yes.”

Joe exhales, sitting back. “That’s real love, isn’t it?”

She closes her eyes briefly, nodding. "Yeah. It is."

Joe studies her for a long moment before asking, "Do you think you two will ever get back together?"

She exhales, her fingers curling slightly against her lap. "It would be hard," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I know there's no one else for either of us but each other."

Joe pauses for a moment before leaning in again, his voice softer now. “How does it feel, seeing him with other women?”

Her breath catches, fingers tightening in her lap. She exhales sharply before forcing out a laugh, though it lacks humor. “It feels like hell.”

Joe watches her, waiting for her to continue.

She shakes her head, voice lower now, more raw. “It’s not fair. I was there when he was breaking. I held him together when no one else cared if he shattered. And now, I have to sit back and watch him hand pieces of himself to someone else like I never existed?”

Joe’s expression darkens with understanding. “That sounds agonizing.”

She nods quickly, eyes burning. “I know it’s irrational. I know I don’t own him, but it’s like—how do you just accept that? How do you watch the person you gave everything to move on like it didn’t cost you everything to love them?”

Joe exhales, shaking his head. “That’s a brutal feeling.”

She bites her lip, voice thick with emotion. "Yeah. It is."

Joe hesitates for a moment, then leans in slightly. "I have to ask—there's a rumor that you... got into it with one of Sean’s exes. That you actually fought her. Is there any truth to that?"

She exhales sharply, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "Yeah. It's true."

Joe raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "Alright, what happened?"

She leans back slightly, shaking her head as if replaying the memory. "She showed up at an event—smug, acting like she had something over me, like she knew him better than I ever could. And I just... snapped."

Joe nods, listening intently. "So what went down?"

"I confronted her. She said something snide, I said something worse, and then it just escalated. Next thing I knew, she was on the ground. Security pulled us apart before it got worse."

Joe lets out a low whistle. "Damn. So how did you not end up facing charges?"

She lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Sean. He convinced her not to file. Said it wasn’t worth it. And then—get this—he broke up with her right after."

Joe tilts his head. "So what happened between you two after that?"

She sighs, glancing down at her lap. "We briefly got back together. It felt inevitable, you know? But... we still weren’t ready. So we split again. For real, that time."

Joe watches her carefully. "And yet, here you are, still talking about him like he's the only one who matters."

She presses her lips together, then nods slowly. "Because he is."

[deepdreamnights]

Hey there, saw your post re: harassment around artists using gen ai and thought it was great esp with the debunking of data usage myths. Would you share your thoughts regarding concerns that models are being trained to copy specific art styles and thus pose a direct threat to the artists whose art styles are being used?

Well, there's several levels to that.

The main one is that on copyright grounds, styles are explicitly non-copyrightable. Moreover:

No one's style is unique

No one's style is unimitatable by analogue means.

The second point is important, because anyone can go on Fiverr right now and and find someone to replicate any given art style, and every competent draftsperson has to be able to do it to some degree or another. No major animation house, art studio, or comic company has ever hired someone because they couldn't find someone else that could imitate the surface-level aspects of their style.

The first point is just a matter of basic reality. Ex-nihlo creativity either doesn't exist or is so rare as to be a once-in-an-epoch thing. Everyone builds on the influences that they learn from, and if you think someone has a unique style what they really have is a different media diet than you.

For example, Don Bluth. Born 1937, aged 15 in 1952.

Same year Time released this this picture of Burlesque Performer Dale Strong.

Someone made an impression.

Marilyn Monroe was also a national sex symbol when Bluth was a teen, putting some context to most of his other ladies, but especially Goldie Pheasant (or maybe she's more Jayne Mansfield, hard to tell through the bird-ness). His art style has obvious roots with Tex Avery and I would guess he read Mad Magazine a lot as a kid.

And Not to hang the guy out to dry alone, I was a teenager in the 1990s, and most of my sexy fictional ladies are 9/10 some combination of Dana Scully, Peg Bundy, and Rhonda Shear.

The point being that style isn't something you create intentionally so much as an accumulation of influences, drawn from the commons. Attempting to claim ownership of such a thing is by itself an act of theft in my view, and allowing them to be protected under the law would mean a judge being shown exactly how many pieces of prior art the Walt Disney Corporation owns that your work superficially resembles. Why, they'll even run it through a style recognizing AI to make sure they catch them all.

But let's talk about style matching.

It just takes one image now, and doesn't require training.

Which I'm sure sounds frightening, but this has been the situation since February for Midjourney, and it was available in the Stable Diffusion ecosystem long before that. If the threat were as pronounced as feared, we'd have seen the impact by now. And we haven't, and we're unlikely to, for several reasons, several of them listed above.

The largest is that style isn't even close to the be all/end all of what an artist brings to a given project. And the kinds of execs who are making a 'replace 'em with a robot' kinda decision aren't the kinds of people who care about art style beyond how much it looks like the most recent successful thing. And nobody's ever needed a robot to ride coattails.

But the next largest part is that AI style imitations aren't really accurate because the robot doesn't see style in the same way we do. It's all just math to the robot, and it prioritizes what it notices, not what we do.

I'll demonstrate.

Jack Kirby will be my example, for several reasons.

He has a bold and identifiable style, he's arguably the most famous artist in western comics history, and he has many analogue imitators and homagers.

Using Midjourney and prompting "an illustration of dana scully by jack kirby, 1968, in the style of 1960s marvel comics --ar 3:4 --s 15"

Using the base model, on the first roll we get three complete style mismatches and one that's kinda close, though I'd say that's way more Sal Buscema or John Byrne.

Kirby's women had a certain, difficult to describe oddness about their faces that the robot doesn't seem to grok, and it doesn't touch on the kinds of wild patterns and bold black/white swatches that make Jack's work feel 'jack'.

Tom Scioli's take on Kirby is a sort of lovingly flanderized parody, but it captures the spirit of Jack's art much more directly even if a lot of individual details aren't period-accurate. He draws Kirby the way you remember Kirby from your childhood, but I don't question whether the page above is trying to be a Jack Kirby homage or one to Sal Buscema.

But Midjourney has style reference, so we can inject the Kirby right in. Using the picture of Sersei dancing from above with the same prompt, we get:

Well, the work is more convincingly period, but again, we're not terribly close to being on-point. In fact, they're not very consistent between each other. Top left is any 80s marvel fill-in artist. Top right is maybe Kirby-esq. Bottom Left is flat out Jim Lee, bottom right is very Byrne-y.

Using three reference images to give the best shot, I'm also moving to using images of a similar color style, and all with a woman as the central focus. I have included the infamous Crystal pin-up shot because as I said, Kirby women have a certain oddness to them (fondly).

Results (MJ 6.1 on the left, Niji 6 on the right):

It all says 60s-70s Marvel, but I don't think Kirby would be the first guess for any of them. Maaaaaaybe the lower-left Dana in image #2 if you squint.

And that's Jack Kirby. Massively popular and prolific with a career spanning decades. If anyone in the comics space should be impersonatable by this thing, its him.

I'm sure you could train a LORA to get closer, and sure, the tech is only going to get better from here, but by the nature of how the system works no generation pulls just from what is referenced. Every generation is both blended with other concepts and emphasizes only what the machine catalogs as relevant, not what we might.

There's not much to stop someone from imitating your style with a machine, but there was nothing stopping them from doing the same with an underpaid freelancer. The results are likely to miss the mark regardless.

If the client wants you, they'll try and get you. If they just want something kinda like you, they've always had an avenue to that.

Fortunately, you're more than your style, and whatever anyone can do with the machine, you can do better because you've got access to both.

[maximumqueer]

In lieu of the second season of OPLA starting production, I want to talk about my mixed feelings on the first season of it.

Because I got into the anime and manga through the live action. So I will always like it at least a little bit for introducing me to honestly my favorite piece of media ever. But now that I'm caught up with the anime and manga, and know the characters and story better, I find myself having more criticisms of it.

The overall narrative is rushed in a way that leads to important character moments being glossed over. Syrup Village in OPLA is a good example. Usopp does a lot less in the live action, most of his big emotional beats cut for what I can only assume were time constraints. Reducing Gin's role to a one time appearance, and the Don Krieg Pirates to a cameo also feels like a product of the limited runtime, and cheapens Sanji's reasoning joining the crew, as we never get that moment where Luffy witnesses him feeding a starving man, and decides then that Sanji will be is cook. Replacing it instead with Luffy seeing him fight and tasting his food. Which in my opinion kinda misses the point of why Luffy wanted him to join. And that was because of Sanji's kindness, which is not nearly as present in the live action.

OPLA also removes a lot of side characters from the islands the main cast visit, making the world feel smaller, and the stakes lower. Like, the reason I personally cared so much about Luffy and Co. helping out places like Orange Town, Syrup village, Cocoyashi Village, is the people that live there who we get to know (in the anime and manga). I feel far more invested actually knowing the names of several of the people and the village, and knowing that their lives will be better after the big bad is taken down. It's not just a fight for the sake of having a fight, but a fight to help out a group of people who need it.

These characters also end up trying to free themselves from the big bad. Them playing an active roll, and not just being used as hostages (like they were in the live action) is just so quintessential to One Piece in my opinion. Having characters native to the island already willing to stand up to the force controlling them, and Luffy's involvement being to aid them, and not just swoop in a save a group of passive bystanders who were simply waiting for a hero to save them, is subversive for shonen (hell just fantasy in general) and having the live action remove that just feels wrong, as characters having freedom and agency is a big overarching theme in One Piece that has been there since day one.

Then there is the characterization. Zoro is probably the most egregious change. Zoro (bur especially pre-ts Zoro) was far goofier than his live action counterpart. And I do think that that level of goofiness is essential to him as a character. Like, I cannot picture OPLA Zoro attempting to cut off his feet, fail, and then decide to strike a cool pose while he is slowly turning into a wax statue. I cannot picture that version of the character beefing with a bird while lost, when said bird is LITERALLY a compass. OPLA Zoro just feels like your stereotypical stoic cool guy, when he is very much not. He is a bit of a loser (affectionate) and to see him be treated like he isn't feels off. Nami and Sanji are closer to their anime/manga counterparts, but are still different.

OPLA Sanji is not pathetic enough. To use an analogy, OLPA Sanji would take off his coat to place it over a puddle so a pretty woman didn't have to get her shoes and feet wet. Anime/manga Sanji would hurl his body onto the ground, and have the woman use his back to prevent getting her shoes and feet wet. They said this change was to dial down the more pervy parts of his character, which is fair. But that aspect of his character only really starts up in a bad way in Thriller Bark. The part of the series that adapted was when Sanji was pretty much only presented as a hopeless romantic who worships the ground all women walk on and would do anything a woman asked of him.

Nami is similar to Zoro, in that she is just to serious. They both lack the whimsy their anime/manga counterparts have. And she just feels a bit more one dimensional in the live action because of it.

As for Luffy. Him referring to himself as a "good pirate" just feels all sorts of wrong. He has never shied away from that label, and never has had any issue with being lumped in with "bad" pirates in the anime/manga. He never was angry about being framed for crimes, but I get the feeling that OPLA Luffy would be more likely to be angry about that, because he is a "good" pirate. This Luffy doesn't feel like he would go on a rant about not wanting to be viewed as a hero. They also made him nicer overall, and this sounds like a weird thing to complain about, but Luffy not holding his tongue and just telling people how he feels about them, positive or negative, is what makes him as a character work. Is what separates him from a typical run of the mill shonen protag. Him being a kind, but not nice and overall blunt in conversation is pretty integral to his character, and I can't help but feel that the writers and directors of the live action were afraid of keeping this character trait because it could make him unlikeable. (despite that fact that he as been #1 in literally every One Piece popularity poll)

And obviously this is not a critique on the actors, I think they did a phenomenal job portraying their respective characters. This is more about how the writers/directors/producers decided to adapt and change the characters.

I kind of suspected that when I watched the anime (a more one to one adaptation of the manga) as well as read the manga (the source material) that I would end up having more issues with the live action. I do still like it for what it is, and I'm planning on watching the second season when it comes out, I just wanted to share how my opinion on it changed after reading/watching and catching up with the anime and manga.