#AND THE VERY END of the episode/the parallel with the two brothers back on the enterprise. you had everything there!!!! and then you go-

[trialsandtribble-ations]

The character arc lore could have had

[pedrosd1ckrider]

Strawberry Moon.

part two

a/n: This is my attempt—after finishing the second episode of season two—at not losing my mind. It’s going to be a series, or at least I hope so. I’m new here, so please be kind with me; I’m still learning.

Also, English is like my fourth language, so I might make plenty of mistakes—I welcome every polite feedback.

Tags: 18+ MDNI, female reader x Joel Miller, age gap, masturbation (f! receiving), reader might or might not have an hand fetish, grumpy&sunshine vibes, grumpy Joel, sunshine reader, mean Joel (I love him), neighbor Joel, no physical description of reader just that she has hair and is feminine (I imagined myself while writing it, I’m sorry), she fell first vibes, love confession at the very end, food consuming, mostly fluff, Sarah is in here, Sarah throws a punch, fighting, reader is an English teacher. Let me know if I forgot anything 🫶🏼.

Word count: how do we do that? I don’t know someone teach me.

Summary: You recently relocated to Austin, Texas, and began working as an English teacher at a school. Despite your warmth, professionalism, and efforts to be friendly and approachable, you find yourself subtly excluded—particularly by the people you most wish to connect with.

Joel Miller was the kind of man you never really reached. Not truly. He wasn’t just good-looking—he was infuriatingly, ruggedly handsome in that way that made you feel like you were trapped inside a Texas Marlboro ad with no escape. Dark brown hair, always a bit messy, with just enough gray streaks to make you question your entire preference for younger men. He looked like someone who didn’t try to be attractive. He just was. Like the universe owed him something and paid him back in bone structure.

You’d just moved into the house across the street from his. Cute little place. New beginnings and all that. And yet, despite your visible existence as a fellow human being with a mailbox and a garbage bin, Joel never once looked at you. Not a glance. Not even one of those polite half-smiles people do when they see you. Nothing. It was like you lived in a dimension parallel to his—but slightly less important.

Now, look. You didn’t expect a welcome basket or anything, but one day, you worked up the courage to say hi. Just a simple, classic, neighborly hi as you saw him working on his truck—grease on his hands, sun catching on his arms in a way that made your brain forget the alphabet for a second. So, you said it. Clear as day. Loud, even. Because your voice? You could shout over a cafeteria full of hormonal teenagers and still be heard.

And Joel? Joel fucking ignored you.

Like, didn’t-flinch, didn’t-look-up, didn’t-acknowledge-your-existence ignored you. As if your entire being was a rogue breeze passing through his mechanic zen. You’d almost convinced yourself he might be deaf in one ear or deeply entranced by the carburetor, but no. He’d just chosen violence via indifference.

And you felt… not exactly crushed, but definitely mildly offended. Who ignores a friendly hi? Was it the tone? Was it the moment? Was it you? You’d been ghosted by men before, but never in broad daylight and never by someone who lived twenty feet from your recycling bin.

Honestly, it was just a goddamn greeting. You weren’t proposing marriage. You weren’t asking for sugar or spiritual guidance. It was two letters. Hi. H and I. The minimum viable product of social interaction.

Apparently, even that was too much for Joel Miller.

Unlike his older brother—The Human Brick Wall That Was Joel—Tommy was… pleasant. Sweet, even. The kind of guy who actually smiled when he saw you, like a normal, functioning member of society. He said “Good morning” with the gentle optimism.

Tommy had this easy charm about him. The kind that made neighbors wave, dogs wag their tails, and old ladies suddenly remember they had cookies to give out. He was warm. Friendly. The type of man who’d help you move a couch without complaining, and then thank you for letting him help. It was adorable. Unsettlingly so.

And, yes, in the beginning, he tried. Poor guy gave it an honest shot. A couple of subtle hints here and there—a slightly-too-long glance, an offer to fix your leaky faucet, which, let’s be honest, was fine until he touched it. You knew where it was headed. You’ve been a woman on this planet for more than fifteen minutes—you recognized the signs. So, you shut it down.

Because it wasn’t about looks. Tommy wasn’t unattractive. He was objectively cute in a younger-brother-of-the-brooding-loner kind of way. But he was… well, Tommy. You couldn’t imagine him shirtless in your kitchen. You could, however, imagine him helping you set up your IKEA bookshelf and then staying for tea. He was a friend. Full stop. And not every man on Earth was destined to be your love interest. Especially not the ones who made really enthusiastic small talk about fishing.

It wasn’t personal. It was just… simple math. Chemistry: zero. Compatibility: fine, but platonic. Vibe: golden retriever. And while golden retrievers are lovely animals, you don’t date them. You pat them on the head and say, “Thanks, buddy.”

So that was Tommy. Kind, respectful, slightly too eager—but ultimately harmless. If Joel was a closed steel door bolted from the inside, Tommy was the welcome mat in front of it.

So, naturally, you made it your mission in life to get Joel Miller to like you. Or—realistically—tolerate you. Bare minimum. You weren’t asking for friendship bracelets or homemade chili, just a simple, human hello. One word. Two syllables. Low stakes, emotionally. But somehow, this man had turned basic neighborly civility into an Olympic-level sport of avoidance.

Which was especially baffling because his daughter, Sarah, was an absolute sweetheart. Polite, kind, bright-eyed in that way kids are when they haven’t yet realized how disappointing adults can be. She smiled at you every morning like she hadn’t been raised by a walking sandpaper storm of a father. So clearly, the problem wasn’t the gene pool—it was specifically Joel.

And look, you weren’t one of those people who needed to be liked by everyone. That wasn’t your style. You were fine being a little bit much for some people—occupational hazard when you spend your days herding hormonal teenagers and explaining the difference between “their” and “they’re.” But Joel lived right across the street. Directly. Diagonally would’ve been tolerable. Even next door, you could ignore. But no—his house stared into yours like a permanent middle finger from the universe.

You needed him to not hate you. Because what if you had a real emergency one day? What if you were choking on a grape or got mauled by raccoons or—more realistically—your water heater exploded and flooded your kitchen? Would Joel help? Probably not. He’d give you one of his famously unreadable stares, mutter something about “bad timing,” and go back to tinkering with whatever mysterious part of his truck needed twelve hours of maintenance every Saturday.

And yet, despite all of that, you tried to make peace with the man. For Sarah’s sake. Sweet kid. She didn’t talk much in your class—English clearly wasn’t her favorite. Math kid, definitely. You could tell. She had that quiet energy of someone who found comfort in equations and structure. But when she did speak, she had sharp insights, the kind you didn’t expect from someone so quiet. Her writing wasn’t flashy, but it was thoughtful. And clean, mostly. A few spelling issues, sure, but nothing tragic. You’d seen worse. Much worse.

The point was: if Sarah could be nice, there was technically hope for Joel.

Very, very theoretical hope. But still.

You were in front of your house, watering the strawberry plants you’d decided—on a whim that turned into a full-blown commitment—to grow from scratch. Strawberries, of all things. Delicate, temperamental little divas of the garden world. But they were beautiful, and sweet, and they made you feel a little victorious every time a new bud peeked out. You were good at this kind of thing—flowers, herbs, kids, anything that needed patience and gentle stubbornness. The so-called “feminine” arts, as if nurturing life and seasoning food were less impressive than, say, rotating tires.

You’d been mocked for it, of course. Some people rolled their eyes at women who liked “girly” things, as if softness equaled weakness. But not you. You loved being who you were. You loved your mid-length skirts that swished around your calves. Your fitted tops that hugged you just enough to remind you that your body was yours and that you looked good in it. You loved doing your hair every morning—even when it meant getting up early—and painting your face in shades of confidence. And pink. You really loved the color pink.

Which is probably why Joel Miller looked at you like you were an alien from Planet Bubblegum the day you painted your picket fence—not white, not beige, not “eggshell”—but a soft, joyful pink. The look on his face was something between suspicion and mild existential crisis. As if the very existence of a pink fence in his line of sight challenged his understanding of reality.

He didn’t say anything, of course. That would require actual verbal communication, and Joel seemed pathologically allergic to that. But he looked. One long, confused, judgment-laced stare.

You didn’t mind. You weren’t trying to impress him. (Except for the part of you that absolutely was.) You just liked beautiful things. And you were tired of pretending beauty had to be neutral or quiet or beige. If pink fences and strawberries made you happy, then so be it. Let the man stew in his masculinity while you cultivated sweetness and color and a garden that actually responded when spoken to.

At the very least, the strawberries didn’t pretend you were invisible.

You didn’t even hear Sarah approach at first—you were far too engrossed in a very serious, one-sided conversation with a particularly stubborn strawberry plant that had decided to wilt, just the tiniest bit, despite your diligent watering schedule and regular pep talks. You crouched in front of it, brow furrowed, whispering something along the lines of, “You’re stronger than this. We don’t give up just because the sun’s rude today.”

“Hello, Miss,” came a soft voice, polite as pie and twice as sweet.

You blinked, startled, and glanced up from your strawberry-in-distress. There she was—Sarah Miller, ponytailed and sun-kissed, standing on the edge of your lawn.

“Hello there, young lady,” you replied with a warm smile, standing and brushing your hands off on your skirt. “I was just giving this one a bit of a pep talk. She’s being dramatic today.”

Sarah giggled and took a tentative step forward, eyes scanning your little patch of soil like it was the botanical gardens. “They look really nice,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to strawberries before.”

“Well,” you said, “that may be why so many people end up with bland fruit. You have to nurture flavor. It’s all about emotional support.”

She laughed again, a little louder this time, and pointed to the one you’d been scolding. “That one’s just shy.”

“Oh, is that what it is? Shyness? And here I thought she was just a diva.”

Sarah grinned, hands clasped behind her back, and then, almost offhandedly, said, “You know, strawberries are my dad’s favorite.”

You paused. Blinked once. Excuse me?

Joel Miller? Mr. Grimace-and-Glare? Favorite fruit: strawberries?

“That so?” you said casually, as if your entire worldview hadn’t just shifted on its axis. “Wouldn’t have pegged him for the strawberry type. Maybe black coffee and regret, but strawberries?”

Sarah shrugged, clearly unfazed. “He used to make pancakes with them on Sundays, when he wasn’t working.”

Pancakes. With strawberries. The man who looked at your pink fence like it was a personal insult to his masculinity made pancakes. With fruit. On Sundays.

You managed to keep a straight face—barely. “Well, I guess I better keep them alive, then. Just in case he ever wants one.”

She nodded solemnly. “He wouldn’t admit it, but if you gave him one, he’d eat it.”

You smirked, amused by the image of Joel Miller reluctantly accepting a strawberry like it was a peace offering from an alien race. “Good to know,” you said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sarah smiled, and you suddenly understood exactly how she’d turned out so sweet. It clearly skipped a generation.

“Sarah, we don’t talk to strangers,” Joel barked from across the yard. You didn’t even turn your head. You didn’t need to. You felt the words hit like a slap across the back of your neck, hot and humiliating. Strangers? Seriously? You were her teacher. You had literally graded this child’s essay on “What America Means to Me.” (Mediocre thesis, strong conclusion. B+, but generous.)

You lived across the street, for God’s sake. You’d waved at him. Multiple times. You’d smiled. You’d even once offered him banana bread, which he had declined.

Your jaw tensed as you turned back to your strawberry patch, trying not to mutter something illegal. You focused on the plant—the wilting one, of course, the dramatic one—gently adjusting her leaves as if she were a fainting Victorian maiden.

“I swear to God,” you whispered to her under your breath, “if I ever murder that man, it won’t be entirely unjustified.”

You gave her an extra-long pour from the watering can, channeling your frustration through hydration. Joel Miller, patron saint of unwarranted suspicion and gruff, caveman energy. You didn’t dislike him, not really. Dislike would imply he occupied emotional space in your mind on purpose. He was more of an ambient irritation, like a mosquito in flannel.

Still, something about him made you keep trying. Like poking at a vending machine that keeps eating your quarters. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was because Sarah was such a good kid and you couldn’t fathom how someone so sweet had come from someone who looked at you like you were a live grenade in a pink sundress.

Or maybe—God help you—it was the arms. Or the voice. Or the fact that he’d probably smell like cedar and mechanic sweat if he ever stood close enough for you to confirm. Not that you were thinking about that. Obviously.

You sighed and whispered to the strawberry again. “You ever fall for someone who makes you want to commit a misdemeanor every time he opens his mouth?”

The strawberry said nothing, which was probably for the best.

Monday morning found you—yet again—rising at six. You rolled out of bed, stretched like a cat, and began your usual ritual of transformation.

Makeup first. Not because you needed it—God no—but because it made you feel good, pretty even. Foundation, blush, a whisper of shimmer on the cheekbones because why not glow like a romantic heroine in a mid-2000s perfume ad? Mascara followed, precise and practiced, and a slick of lip gloss that smelled like strawberries.

You slipped into your favorite calf-length skirt and a soft blouse that matched—something pastel. Then came the shoes (sensible, but cute), and your two bags—one for your lesson plans, the other for everything else, which included snacks, emergency stationery, and a pepper spray shaped like a pink cat.

The drive to the school at the end of the road was blessedly short. That was half the reason you’d bought the house—well, that and the big windows, the lemon tree out back, and the quiet little thrill of independence that came with signing a mortgage all on your own. There was something deeply satisfying about living close enough to work that you could leave ten minutes late and still arrive five minutes early. That was your kind of power move.

You parked in your usual spot, turned off the engine, and took a moment to admire the day. The sky was pinkish-blue, like the inside of a seashell. Your coffee was still warm. Your eyeliner hadn’t betrayed you.

“Good morning,” you said with a radiant, borderline absurd smile that you’d practiced in the mirror—twice. Maybe three times. You weren’t above that kind of thing. Especially not on Mondays.

The classroom replied with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for funerals. One girl let her head fall onto the desk with a dramatic thud. Another stared at you with such intensity you briefly considered checking your teeth for lipstick smears—even if you weren’t wearing any.

You loved them.

You loved them in the same way people loved stray cats that hissed and clawed and occasionally brought them dead birds as gifts. There was something poetic about the way teenagers hated everything, including themselves, you, the system, and particularly the sun for daring to rise again.

You set your bag down, smoothed your skirt, and picked up your sparkly pink pen. Yes, sparkly. Because professionalism and glitter were not mutually exclusive.

“Alright,” you began, tapping the whiteboard with a perfectly manicured nail. “Today, we’re going to do something a little different. Something that doesn’t require groaning—although I know you’ll do it anyway.”

Silence. One cough. A yawn that sounded vaguely like a threat.

“I want you to write a paragraph about your mother. Or a woman in your life who acted like a mother. Someone who hugged you too tight or forgot to pick you up or taught you how to make eggs without burning the house down. Sound good?”

A collective psychic scream echoed through their eyes.

You clapped your hands. “Great! Let’s begin.”

You passed out the assignment sheets, pastel pink of course, because rebellion is exhausting and aesthetics matter.

They started writing. Or pretending to. Or writing “I hate this” fifteen times in a row, which still technically counted as a paragraph if you squinted hard enough.

You moved quietly through the room, your kitten heels a soft rhythm on the floor, glancing over shoulders, offering the occasional whispered encouragement or sarcastic nudge.

Sarah was sitting toward the back, as usual. She wasn’t doodling on her paper like some of the others. She just sat there, pen resting against her lip.

You leaned down a little, keeping your voice gentle. “Stuck?”

She shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Well,” you said, “just think of something small. Something she used to say. Something she wore. Something annoying.”

Sarah blinked. Her expression didn’t change much, but she finally lowered her eyes to the page.

“She used to wear red lipstick,” she said, very quietly. “All the time. Even when she stayed home.”

You smiled. “That’s a perfect start. Just that one detail tells me a whole story. Go with that.”

Sarah didn’t say anything else. Just nodded a little and started writing.

It was strange—she was quiet, yes, but not in the usual teenage way. There was something about her stillness. You filed it away under “things to notice but not push,” and continued your rounds.

One of the boys had written an entire paragraph about how his mom yelled at football games louder than his dad. Another had written simply, “She left.” You decided to save that one for last when grading.

The class dragged its collective soul through the rest of the assignment, and by the time the bell rang, you were exhausted in the oddly satisfying way only teaching could provide.

As the kids filed out, a few gave you nods. One said thanks. Sarah passed you without a word, but her paper was folded neatly on your desk. You didn’t open it until the room was empty.

It wasn’t long. Just a few lines. But they were honest. And quiet. And sharper than you expected.

You exhaled slowly, folded it back up, and placed it carefully on top of the pile.

You didn’t know why, but something about that girl stayed with you long after the classroom had emptied.

You were gathering your things thinking class was over, when shouting outside shattered that illusion like a cheap wine glass.

A flash of panic sliced through you—sharp, maternal, irrational. You rushed out into the hallway, heels echoing, your heart already preparing for the worst.

And there it was. The worst.

Sarah—yes, your Sarah, the one who sat quietly in the back—was standing over a boy splayed dramatically on the floor like a fainting Victorian lady. You recognized him vaguely. Noah. Noah-something.

Probably a Gemini.

She raised her fist again, clearly ready to deliver a second round, and you darted forward, catching her wrist just before she could clock the poor child again.

“Easy!” you snapped, your voice a little too sharp. The other students were frozen, wide-eyed.

You crouched quickly, helping Noah off the floor, smoothing his crumpled shirt.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded. Dramatically. Theatrically. Boys were such performers.

You turned to Sarah, her jaw clenched, her eyes dark and unreadable. Your instinct screamed at you to handle it yourself—usher them both somewhere quiet, slap on some metaphorical Band-Aids, and bribe Noah into silence with a juice box or the promise of eternal gratitude. Deeply unprofessional. Wildly inappropriate. But her face—God, there was something behind her anger that didn’t look like violence.

And then, as if summoned by the universe purely to ruin your day, Mr. Math walked around the corner.

“Principal’s office. Now,” he barked, pointing at Sarah like she was a shoplifter caught with a candy bar.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. There were about thirty arguments in your brain, none of them appropriate for a hallway filled with teenagers. You looked at Sarah. Then at him.

“Let’s go,” you murmured, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the inevitable.

Sarah didn’t speak. Didn’t protest. But her eyes met yours for half a second, and in that glance was something tired. You felt it sit heavy in your stomach.

Mr. Math strutted behind you like he’d just won something, and you resisted the urge to stick your heel out and accidentally trip him.

You knew you couldn’t fix this. Not completely. But you also knew you weren’t letting that girl walk into the principal’s office alone. Not on your watch. Not today.

You hadn’t been there long—just a month, really, and most of that had been a blur of lesson plans, forgotten lunch breaks, and learning that Room 304 had a permanent leak no one intended to fix. But some things didn’t take time to see.

Sarah wasn’t the type to lash out. That much you’d learned early. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t dramatic. She had a certain calmness about her. Sharp, observant, painfully mature. She didn’t bully. She didn’t fight. So when you’d seen her standing over Noah, fists clenched and lips trembling—not with fear, but with fury—it hadn’t been confusion that swept over you. It had been certainty. Something had pushed her there. Hard.

And you knew Noah.

Of course you did. Half the staff did. Loud, entitled Noah with his smart mouth and wounded pride and those godawful leather jackets he insisted on wearing like he’d invented masculinity. His parents were ghosts with paychecks. The kind who called once a month and made up for it with a new phone and less parenting. And Noah, sweet boy that he wasn’t, had learned early that attention—any attention—came easier when he provoked it.

Which brought you here.

Standing in Principal DeWitt’s office with your back just barely straight enough to mask how hard your heart was pounding and your expression schooled into absolute professionalism. Sarah sat next to you, arms crossed, gaze blank, and so still you thought she might disappear entirely if she held her breath long enough.

“I don’t care what she usually does,” DeWitt said, lips pressed in a line. “She hit another student. There are rules. Non-negotiable.”

“With respect,” you said carefully, “there are always exceptions. Especially when context is ignored.”

DeWitt raised one brow—infamous across the faculty for its capacity to silence an entire room. “This is not a debate, Miss.”

“I’m not debating,” you replied. “I’m providing information. Which is what I assumed we did before passing judgment.”

Sarah blinked at you. You didn’t look at her.

“I’ve only been here a month,” you continued, “but even I know Sarah isn’t aggressive. She isn’t volatile. And she certainly doesn’t throw punches for sport. But Noah—”

“—is also a student here,” DeWitt cut in.

“Yes. A student who has, on multiple occasions, said things to other children that would get him removed from any workplace in the country. You’ve had complaints. I know, because two of them came from students in my class.”

“You’re implying he deserved it?” Her voice was cold.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying he’s been allowed to skate by for quite some time under the assumption that pain at home justifies pain he causes at school. And it doesn’t.”

There was a pause. DeWitt looked at Sarah, then back at you. “If she had a problem with what he said, she could’ve come to a teacher. Or to me.”

“And what would you have done?” you asked. “Really. Because between us, he’s been saying things like that for a year. About girls. About parents. About things he couldn’t possibly understand but says anyway, just to watch someone flinch. I doubt Sarah’s the first person he’s made cry. She’s just the first who hit back.”

You folded your hands in your lap. Neatly. Properly. Like you hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the conversation.

DeWitt sighed and leaned back. She was silent long enough.

“This cannot happen again,” she said finally. “If it does, there will be consequences.”

“Of course,” you said, nodding slowly. “And I’m sure you’ll be speaking to Noah as well.”

“I will,” she said, though she didn’t sound thrilled about it.

You stood, brushing your skirt down and placing a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Sarah followed you out without a word. In the hallway, she finally glanced at you.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you said. “But I wanted to.”

“Why?”

You smiled faintly, adjusting your bag. “Because contrary to popular belief, I like my students. Even the ones who hate poetry and roll their eyes at me.”

She looked away, but you caught it—the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. But something close.

The door opened, and in walked the man who—let’s be honest—looked like he’d just climbed out from under a pickup truck he personally rebuilt out of spite. Of course he was already here. The principal worked faster than gossip in a church parking lot.

He didn’t look at you. Not at first. His eyes locked straight on his daughter.

“What happened?” he asked her, unbothered by your entire presence—as if you were just a coat rack with opinions.

Sarah’s eyes darted to you, then back to him. “I’ll tell you at home,” she muttered. “She helped me. I didn’t get suspended ’cause of her.”

You’re welcome, you didn’t say.

Finally—finally—his eyes met yours, and for a moment, you felt like a rabbit trying to make small talk with a hunting dog. There was no warmth in it. Not even a flicker of gratitude. Just… suspicion.

“Can I talk to your teacher for a minute?” he asked his daughter.

Sarah nodded. You leaned down slightly, lowering your voice into something soft and steady. “Go ahead to class, sweetheart. Don’t miss the rest of your lesson.”

She hesitated—long enough to remind you that she didn’t quite trust this—but then sighed, shoved her hands into her sleeves, and walked out.

The moment she was gone, he turned to you fully. “What exactly do you think you’re doin’?”

His tone wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It hit like a hammer to the kneecap—firm and coated in what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you. That accent of his curled around vowels like he was too tired to pronounce them fully.

You blinked, slowly, turning your head toward him. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, what’re you doin’? Gettin’ involved in me and my daughter’s business like that?”

You stared at him for half a second too long. Long enough to feel your mouth twitch with the threat of a smile you buried so deep it almost gave you a headache.

“Mr. Miller,” you said, “I didn’t realize defending your daughter’s basic dignity counted as meddling.”

“Don’t play clever,” he shot back. “She said you kept her from gettin’ in trouble. That true?”

“Well,” you said, clasping your hands in front of you, “I intervened, yes. Because I watched what happened. And your daughter was provoked. You don’t hit someone unless they say something vile enough to deserve it. He did. She did. I made sure the consequences were proportionate.”

His jaw tightened. “I raise her myself. Don’t need strangers makin’ decisions for her.”

“And yet,” you said, lowering your voice a notch, “you weren’t here.”

That got him. His eyes narrowed.

“I don’t need your judgment.”

“Of course not,” you said sweetly. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to teach English. And apparently, to keep decent kids from being punished for losing their temper after being emotionally cornered by classmates whose only form of self-expression is cruelty.”

He stepped back, just slightly. Like your calmness irritated him more than any shouting ever could. Which, if you were being honest, was probably the best part of your day.

Still, you softened your voice again. You couldn’t help it. There was something about him—about all that stubborn protectiveness—that made you want to both throttle and comfort him. Not that you’d ever admit it.

“She needs someone at school who sees her,” you said. “And right now, that’s me. That’s not a threat. It’s just… kindness. I don’t want to replace you. I just want to help her breathe a little easier while she’s here.”

There was a long silence. You didn’t break it.

Finally, he muttered, “She don’t talk much about school.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “Well. If she ever starts, maybe she’ll say something nice about her overbearing, deeply unqualified, overly poetic English teacher.”

He didn’t smile. Not exactly.

“I don’t wanna owe you,” he said flatly. You inhaled. Your lashes lowered just a little, your tone softening like honey stirred into warm tea. “You don’t owe me,” you replied, nodding once. “That’s not what this is.”

His eyes didn’t move.

“But,” you added, and the word came out a little more carefully than you meant it to, “I would like to know what happened. I mean, I defended her. I think I have a right to know.”

Your voice faltered slightly at the end, just enough to betray how much you already regretted saying it out loud. Still, you stood your ground, chin up, hands folded in front of you.

He exhaled, and it sounded like a tired truck engine trying to start in winter. “She ain’t tell you?”

“She told me she didn’t want to talk about it,” you said, with a gentle authority. “I respected that. But you know what they say—secrets fester in silence, and I don’t think festering is good for anyone.”

He looked at you again. Like he was trying to figure out if you were naïve or just very good at pretending not to be jaded. You had to admit, it was a fair question.

“I get it,” you said, a little more quietly now. “You’re protective. I would be, too. If she were mine—”

You stopped. Too much. That was too much. You pulled back slightly, smoothing the edge of your cardigan.

“She’s a good kid,” you said instead, and that was safe. “She doesn’t lash out for no reason. And the boy—Noah—he’s… he struggles. There’s pain there, but pain’s no excuse to make others smaller.”

He squinted. “That boy say somethin’ to her?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s cornered.”

He shifted his weight, hands on his hips now, the fabric of his work shirt pulling taut over his shoulders. A man with too many burdens and absolutely zero patience for people meddling in things he’s convinced he can handle himself.

“You still shouldn’t’a stepped in like that.”

You blinked. “You’re right,” you said, smiling sweetly. “Next time I’ll let the system do what it does best. Which is fail the kids who need it most.”

That got a twitch out of the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—more like his face forgot not to react.

“I’m not the enemy,” you said gently. “I just care. That’s all.”

For a second, you thought he might say something else. But he didn’t. He looked at the door instead, where Sarah had disappeared minutes ago, and something softened in his jaw. Regret, maybe. Or weariness. Or just the realization that she was getting older, and he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

You didn’t say anything more. Just stood there, waiting for him to leave or stay or tell you off again—whatever he needed.

You could take it.

The air was unusually still that evening, the kind of Southern stillness that made you feel like the whole world was holding its breath. You were seated on the creaky wooden chair you’d painted pale blue last spring—an attempt at whimsy that hadn’t aged particularly well.

You weren’t expecting company. And certainly not her.

She came walking down the little side path, arms crossed, curls pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing one of those oversized t-shirts that looked like it had survived a dozen sleepovers and at least one hurricane.

“Hi,” she said simply, without looking at you.

You blinked, startled—but you didn’t move. You just gave her a smile.

She stood there for a moment, then sat. Didn’t ask. Just sat.

“I don’t have a mom,” she said, her voice so flat and unceremonious that it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t react—at least, not in a way she could see. Inside, your chest tightened, something old and maternal and wildly unprofessional clenching behind your ribs. You had suspected. Of course you had. You hadn’t seen another woman around that house in over a month. No car in the driveway except the same dusty pickup. No PTA meetings. No “drop-off” mom energy at all.

But hearing it said like that—so casual, so done—it knocked the wind right out of you.

“I figured,” you said gently, your voice soft. “But thank you for telling me.”

She shrugged, and her jaw tightened in that way girls’ jaws do when they’re trying not to cry and also not care.

There was a silence. Long enough for the sprinklers to shut off and the cicadas to pick up their nightly sermon.

“He said it to me,” she added finally. “Noah. That I don’t have a mom. That no one wanted me.”

You didn’t say what you thought. Because what you thought was: I’m going to murder a fifteen-year-old with my bare hands and make it look like an accident involving a rogue biology frog and a textbook rack. Which, understandably, wasn’t a very professional impulse.

Instead, you folded your hands in your lap.

“Kids who hurt other kids usually don’t know how to name their own pain,” you said softly. “So they try to give it away. Doesn’t make it okay. But it makes it… understandable.”

She didn’t respond. Just looked up at the sky.

“I’m not trying to be your mom,” you added. “I know you didn’t come here for that.”

She snorted. “Obviously.”

You smiled.

“But,” you continued, “you should know—if someone ever says something like that again, and you hit them, I will still try to stop you.”

She looked at you.

“And I will still defend you,” you added. “Even if you’re wrong. But especially if you’re not.”

She didn’t thank you. She didn’t nod. She just sat there for a while longer.

And then, without a word, she stood.

“I should go,” she muttered.

“Do you want to take a cookie?” you asked. “They’re store-bought, so morally I can’t recommend them, but they do contain enough sugar to erase most childhood trauma for at least six minutes.”

She blinked. Thought about it. Took two.

You didn’t watch her leave.

You just sat there in your blue chair.

You’d stayed out longer than you’d meant to. The porch light across the street flickered on just as you were considering calling it a night, and there he was—Tommy. That soft-smiled, golden-retriever-in-human-form man.

When he spotted you, he grinned, lifted one hand in a cheerful wave, and—God help you—blew you a kiss. An actual kiss. You tried not to laugh. You really did.

You gave him a dainty little wave back, crossed one leg over the other. It was absurd, really. He was absurd. That man probably said “ma’am” to houseplants and sang harmony with the radio. Too sweet for this world.

And yet, as he disappeared into the house—that house—you felt your stomach twist just a little. Not because of Tommy. No, Tommy was lovely. Charming. The kind of man who brought his own beer to barbecues and made sure your grandmother got the first burger off the grill. He probably remembered birthdays. Probably asked follow-up questions. Probably smelled like cedar and clean laundry.

But your eyes lingered on the door behind him. Closed now.

And somehow, ridiculously, infuriatingly, all you could think about was him. That stormcloud of a man. That grumpy, glowering, perpetually unimpressed embodiment of emotional constipation.

What was it about men who acted like affection was a government conspiracy?

You sighed.

It was a shame, really. You’d always had a weakness for bastards.

You should have been ashamed. Absolutely. Without question. There you were, in your kitchen at 10:47 PM on a Thursday, folding whipped cream into a strawberry filling like some sort of suburban Stepford idiot with romantic brain damage. A grown woman. In her pajamas. Making a goddamn cake. A strawberry cake.

Not just any strawberries either—his favorite. And, by unfortunate coincidence (or divine mockery), also yours. The betrayal ran deep.

Last time, you’d tried banana bread. Moist, warm, comforting banana bread. He’d looked at it like you’d handed him a small explosive and muttered something about “watchin’ his sugar.” You were pretty sure the only reason he didn’t chuck it at your forehead was because his daughter was watching.

And yet here you were again. Round two of Operation: Humiliation. Because apparently, when he wasn’t being the patron saint of passive-aggression, he was telling his teenage daughter—your student—that strawberries were his favorite. You weren’t even supposed to know that. And you—traitorous creature that you are—filed it away like a lovesick raccoon hoarding shiny things.

So. You baked the cake. With a pink satin ribbon tied gently around the container. And a note. A note, God help you.

You didn’t sign it.

Of course not.

You weren’t insane.

But you’d written it. On your nicest stationery.

Cream-colored with little gold roses in the corner.

“I hope your evening is sweeter than your week has been.

With appreciation—

from a neighbor who isn’t very good at minding her own business,

but is trying.”

You stood outside his door for at least ninety seconds. That’s ninety whole seconds of internal monologue, spiraling shame, and wondering if your mascara was still on even though it absolutely did not matter.

And then you left it. Right there, on the mat. Knocked twice and walked away quickly. Not because you were scared. No. You were simply… brisk. Brisk is very adult. Brisk is dignified.

You didn’t look back.

Except once.

Okay, maybe twice.

But only because you thought you heard the door open.

Which it didn’t. Probably.

And as you crawled into bed that night, the scent of strawberries still clinging to your wrists, you stared at the ceiling and muttered softly to yourself:

“I hate him.”

And then—traitorous, traitorous heart—

You smiled.

You exhaled through your nose like some weary old spinster resigned to her fate, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers.

Goddamn it. He was handsome.

And not just in that rugged, grimy, probably-sleeps-in-his-jeans kind of way. No. It was worse than that. He was beautiful in the most irritatingly human way—rough around the edges, sure, but then he’d speak to his daughter in that low, careful voice, like she was the last good thing in a world determined to be cruel, and it made something twist in your stomach.

That little soft “baby girl” he’d murmured the other day? You could have melted. Right there. On the linoleum.

He was sweet. Well. Occasionally.

Between the condescending grunts and the “I don’t need help raisin’ my kid” speeches.

But when he was sweet, it hit like a truck. An emotional semi barreling down the highway with no brakes and a cargo load full of… ugh.

And God. He was sexy.

Not in the traditional sense—not in a movie star, clean-shaven, makes-you-a-playlist kind of way.

No. He was construction-site sexy. Contractor sexy.

He was rough hands and calloused thumbs and a back that probably had stories.

He was “knows how to use power tools” sexy.

“Carries lumber one-handed” sexy.

“Could probably lift you and a kitchen table if he wanted to” sexy.

You sighed again and dragged your palms over your face, groaning softly into them.

What was wrong with you?

You were an adult. You had a degree. Two, technically. You taught Shakespeare and knew how to pronounce “chiaroscuro” correctly.

And yet.

There you were. In bed. Blushing like some sixteen-year-old.

And—

Jesus.

Why was your underwear damp?

You hadn’t even done anything. You were just lying here, catastrophizing and daydreaming and somehow getting turned on by the memory of a man with drywall dust in his hair.

It was pathetic.

He was older. Probably at least ten years. Maybe more.

He probably didn’t even like you.

You were too nosy. Too expressive. Too much.

And yet.

You rolled over, hugged your pillow, and muttered under your breath,

“This is stupid.”

And then, shamefully, you pictured his hands again.

Big. Strong. Rough. Capable.

And that was it. The moment you realized sleep would not come easy—not while your brain was busy conjuring up all the completely inappropriate and objectively ridiculous scenarios in which he might touch you. Ridiculous. Honestly. You were twenty-six, not sixteen, and yet there you were, lying in bed with the covers kicked halfway off, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t your fault he had those hands. Big, rough, working hands that looked like they belonged on a man who built houses with them—and probably did. And it wasn’t your fault he had that voice either. That slow, gravel-dragged Southern drawl that sounded like it could melt butter and scold you at the same time. Or the way he said baby girl to his daughter, soft and low like it was sacred. You weren’t made of stone.

You rolled over, pulling your pillow closer to your chest, as if that might silence the escalating spiral of thoughts currently hijacking your peace. It didn’t. The image of him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed—God, that brow—refused to leave.

And then there was the matter of his neck. Broad. Tan. That slight curve where it met his shoulder. You didn’t want to notice it. You weren’t trying to have a full-blown crisis over the way his shirt clung to his back when he was bent over loading drywall into his truck.

You closed your eyes and whispered, “Stupid,” into the silence of your bedroom. It was all stupid. Every bit of it. He barely looked at you, and when he did, it was usually followed by some variation of why are you talking to me.

And still. Still, your heart stuttered in your chest like it didn’t care how grumpy or closed-off or emotionally unavailable he was. It just wanted him.

You groaned into your pillow and buried your face in it. You were not going to think about the way his hand would feel on your core. Or how warm his breath would be against your neck. Or what kind of sounds he’d make if you’d just take him softly, oh so softly, inside your mouth. Taste him. Suck him. Lick him.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You were a grown ass woman. A professional. With a career. And dignity. And a sleep schedule.

…And possibly a small problem. But one that could probably be solved by cold water, a fan, and pretending that certain contractors with Texas accents did not, in fact, exist.

But then again… he did.

And God help you.

It wasn’t exactly something you did anymore. That kind of thing—touching yourself—was for teenagers, wasn’t it? For girls with pink headphones and crushes on movie stars. Not for grown women with bills and migraines and a complicated interest in a man who, half the time, couldn’t even be bothered to say good morning.

And yet.

There you were.

Your hand slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts with the kind of hesitance that only came from long-forgotten muscle memory and a faint sense of shame that clung to you.

It felt ridiculous. Juvenile. A little bit desperate, if you were being honest.

But it was late, and you were warm, and wet as fuck, and that stupid, slow drawl of his was still echoing in your head—words that weren’t even meant for you, but somehow curled around your ribs.

God, you hated this.

You hated that the mere idea of him—his voice, his shoulders, the way his jeans fit just a little too well—had lodged itself under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t quite reach.

But your hand didn’t move from rubbing your clit.

And so, against every sensible part of your brain, you imagined him.

Because why not?

If you were going to feel embarrassed, you might as well earn it.

It started simple. The way his arms crossed. That voice, low and dry as the Texas sun, saying something completely unnecessary but somehow devastating.

“Just like that, darlin’, just like that.”

You imagined the scrape of his calloused fingers down your sides—rough from lumber and long days, from real work, from knowing how to build something and break it in the same breath. You pictured him not asking permission. Not out of cruelty, but out of certainty. That stupid, maddening certainty he wore. You hated it. You wanted it.

He’d say your name once and it would sound like something old. Like he’d been saying it in his head for weeks. And then maybe he’d mutter something filthy, something plainspoken and brutal and utterly sincere, like:

“You’re drivin’ me damn crazy dripping like that for me.”

And maybe—God help you—maybe that would be the thing that unraveled you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, face hot with shame. This was ridiculous. You weren’t a teenager. You weren’t supposed to fuck yourself thinking about a man that hates you.

But you still did.

Still pressed your fingers against your entrance. In and out. In and out. Your pussy gushing around your fingers, coating them with your juices while you moaned into the pillow. Your teeth scratching your bottom lip, pleasure overcoming your body.

Ridiculous. Repeated like a prayer. Ridiculous to be here, in your bed, with your hand where it had no business being, thinking about a man who barely looked at you unless you were defending his daughter or annoying him.

But it was also real. Tangible. Warm. Wet.

And humiliating.

But God, he’d be good. You could feel it. Not gentle, not really, but careful. Focused. Like someone who finished what he started. Like someone who didn’t know how to take without giving. He’d fuck you against the mattress, make you come so hard you’ll see stars.

You groaned, embarrassed by your own imagination, by the heat curling low in your stomach, by the way his name tasted in your mind even though you hadn’t dared say it out loud.

“Joel,” you whimpered, breathless against the quiet of your room, the sound of his name barely catching on the air like something secret, something sinful. You weren’t proud of this. Of course you weren’t. What decent woman sits in the dark, thinking about a man who barely looks her in the eye unless it’s to scold her? What decent woman fucks herself while thinking of this man?

And yet—God, here you were. Still. Thinking about his hands. Those rough, working hands, capable of breaking apart drywall like it was cardboard, callused in ways that should’ve been unappealing… but weren’t. Not even a little. You imagined them slow at first, curious even, before growing purposeful. That was the word. Purposeful. Like he’d figure you out the same way he figures out what’s wrong with a leaking sink. Because you and the said sink had something in common: both leaking. You pressed your eyes shut tighter as your hips shifted into your own palm, fingers rolling your clit violently. The sheets felt too warm. You hated this—how badly you wanted to know what it would feel like to be fucked by a man who barely smiled. A man who probably thought you were too soft, too girly, too… something.

But still. You pictured him there, kneeling beside the bed like he had all the time in the world. Big hands gripping your thighs.

“You gonna let me take care of you, sweetheart?” And you—of course—melting under it. Because of course you would.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really. It was messy and wrong and probably hormonal. But in your head, he wasn’t yelling or frowning or correcting you. In your head, he was warm. Starving. Because he looked like he hadn’t had his dick sucked in years.

Maybe that was the problem— that he hadn't had sex. That he probably hadn't had a woman in a while. But you would have accepted him. With open arms and open legs and an open mouth.

And sure, maybe your fingers weren’t his. But your mind didn’t know the difference anymore. Not when you could practically hear him mutter a low, “There ya go,” against your leaking pussy, as if your need was a problem only he could solve.

You should’ve felt embarrassed. Maybe you did, somewhere under the heat. But it was faint. Fainter still when you imagined the press of his mouth, low and slow, and that rough palm splayed across your stomach, keeping you still while he fucked you with his fingers. While he sucked on your clit.

It was so stupid. You knew that. You were a grown woman. This wasn’t some high school fantasy. This was worse. Because this felt like want. Not just attraction, but something worse. Like a craving. A habit forming in real time.

And it was all because of that damn man next door with the gravel voice, the brooding eyes, and the gall to make strawberry cake his favorite flavor. Who the hell did that?

You let out a trembling breath, your body arching slightly, his name falling from your lips. Screaming. Begging. It wasn’t going to fix anything. Not your loneliness. Not the awkward glances. Not the way your heart did that ridiculous flutter when he picked Sarah up from school and didn’t even wave.

But maybe—just maybe—you’d be able to look him in the eye tomorrow without imagining his mouth eating you out.

Maybe.

And when it was over—when your breath had settled into something gentler, when your chest no longer heaved like it had been running—it was him you saw again behind your closed eyelids.

That crooked little smile, barely there, tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was in on some private joke. You could almost hear that low, Southern drawl rasping out something smug—something like “Atta girl.” As if he’d just witnessed exactly what you’d done, and thought it was cute. As if he knew you couldn’t help it.

Your mind didn’t even resist anymore. It offered him up willingly, every detail sharper now: the roughness of his palms, the warmth of his mouth, the weight of his gaze—how he might settle between your thighs with a kind of reverence that didn’t match his usual gruffness. He’d look up at you with that infuriating glint in his eye, like he could read your thoughts before you even had them.

And then, gently—God, so gently—he’d kiss your inner thigh. Then higher. And higher still.

You imagined his mouth moving in ways that made your hips shift beneath the sheets even now. You imagined his voice, soft and amused, whispering praise between every deliberate movement. “You taste like you knew I’d do this,” he might tease, lips brushing where your thoughts still lingered.

It was humiliating how easily you unraveled at the thought of him. At the thought of being seen by him like this—laid bare and breathless, with nothing clever left to say. Just want. Just need.

And then, because apparently your imagination had no boundaries, he crawled up your body in your mind’s eye, slow and sweet, his mouth tracing your skin like a map he already knew by heart. When he kissed your shoulder, it wasn’t hungry. It was… warm. Familiar. Like he’d always meant to end up here.

You pulled the covers tighter around you and sighed, your face flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

Ridiculous, you thought again, cheeks burning.

But you didn’t stop thinking about him.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡��:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

A week had gone by, and not a single word had been said.

No curious knock on your door, no politely scribbled thank-you note, not even a cryptic text—though, to be fair, you weren’t entirely sure he knew how to send one of those. And Sarah, bless her little teenage soul, hadn’t mentioned a thing at school. Which could mean one of three things:

One, they hadn’t figured out it was from you.

Two, they had figured it out, and simply… didn’t care.

Or three—God forbid—they never even touched it.

That third one made your stomach twist in indignation, because, come on. It was a strawberry cake. Homemade. From scratch. With real strawberries—none of that boxed nonsense. And okay, maybe you’d gone a little overboard with the vanilla bean in the frosting, but that was artistry, not excess.

You’d placed it gently—almost reverently—on their doorstep, wrapped in soft parchment and tied with a ribbon that was way too nice for something that was probably going straight into a Tupperware. And then you’d walked away like it meant nothing. Like you hadn’t spent three hours debating whether to include a note.

But you were almost certain you’d seen Sarah nibbling on a slice two days later, legs slung over the porch railing, textbook open beside her, blissfully unaware of the identity crisis you were having ten feet away behind your curtain.

So they had eaten it. Which meant it wasn’t a total failure. Just a silent one.

You could live with that. Probably.

You were grading first-year essays, which, frankly, felt less like reading and more like deciphering the diary entries of mildly literate ghosts. Some of them had clearly misunderstood the prompt entirely—one student had interpreted “describe your favorite memory” as an opportunity to list every fast food item they’d ever eaten in chronological order. Including misspelled condiments. Katchop.

Another had written, with what you assumed was genuine conviction:

“I feel like the sun is nice because it makes the sky hot and then the grass can grow and also sometimes I cry.”

There was no punctuation. None. It just… flowed. A river of chaotic sentiment. A fever dream on lined paper. You blinked at it for a full minute before slowly, and with great restraint, writing “Punctuation?” in the margin. Underlined. Twice.

The spelling was another crime altogether.

“Fascenating.”

“Expeeriunce.”

One even managed to misspell “my.”

You didn’t know it was possible to misspell “my.”

And the complete lack of imagination—that was the real heartbreak. It was as though they’d all agreed, in some unspoken student conference, that creativity was overrated and that their souls were best left unexplored. The only ones who dared to be a little poetic were the ones who copied lines from pop songs and passed them off as original thought. You knew. You had Spotify.

Still, you were gentle. Stern, but kind. Your notes were neat and encouraging, even when your eyes were twitching from the fifth paragraph that started with “In conclusion, I want to say…” and ended with “this is why my memory is.” Full stop. That was the whole sentence. You didn’t know what it meant. Maybe they didn’t either.

You shifted in your seat, scribbling a 13/20 on the top of one paper with a soft sigh. It was generous. Generous enough to make up for the fact that the student had used the word “awsome” nine times in a single paragraph. Once with three “e”s. You hadn’t even known you could elongate an adjective in written form like that. It was almost impressive. Almost.

You opened the door to find him standing there—his two chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in that familiar way, jaw set firm enough to crack walnuts, dark hair shot through with just enough silver to look distinguished instead of tired. He held out the plastic container you’d left on his doorstep, now spotless and—with a surprise—filled with an assortment of cookies.

“Hi,” you blurted, cheeks warming. Your brain was racing: Did he know it was from you? Did he care?

He didn’t smile. He just nodded once, tilting the container so you could see the neatly stacked cookies inside—chocolate chip, shortbread, maybe a couple of oatmeal raisin. “I figured you’d bring it,” he said, voice low and even. “Only one person on earth would tie a pink ribbon around strawberry cake and leave it on my porch.” His gaze flicked to your own pink-painted fence, then back to you, expression unreadable.

You laughed—half surprised, half embarrassed—brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “Guilty as charged.” You reached for the container, brushing his hand as you took it. The plastic felt cold between your fingers.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, tone clipped. “Consider this… return policy.” He paused, as if to add something, then just turned on his heel and started down the steps.

“Wait—” you began, but he didn’t look back. His shoulders remained squared, distance already growing between you.

You swallowed and called after him, “Thanks for the cookies.”

He didn’t reply.

You closed the door and stood there a moment, cookies in hand, heart pounding. He’d acknowledged the gesture—just—while keeping you firmly on the other side of whatever invisible line he’d drawn.

It was something, you decided. Something better than silence.

You closed the door and nearly danced a jig in your hallway—an embarrassing, gleeful hop, skip, and twirl that felt more like middle school cafeteria material than adult decorum. Why on earth were you so thrilled? He—her father, your aloof and perpetually surly neighbor—had simply offered you cookies. Cookies! It wasn’t an engagement ring, for God’s sake. And yet your pulse galloped, your cheeks tingled, and you found yourself grinning like a fool in front of your living room mirror.

You set the cookies down on your kitchen counter with exaggerated care, lining them up like edible trophies. The chocolate chips glinted under your pendant light as if winking conspiratorially. You eyed them, your heartbeat still racing, wondering if you should sample just one—or perhaps allocate two for scientific accuracy, in the name of research.

And why did this matter so much? Because, unlike the strictly intellectual flirtations of grading essays and discussing participles, this was tangible kindness. A gesture unfiltered by school policies or professional boundaries. A simple container of cookies—shortbread and chocolate chip—wrapped up in quiet consideration.

A reminder that beneath your crisp cardigans and meticulously styled hair, you were still human. That you still felt. And that sometimes, the most elementary acts—a baked good, a nod of acknowledgement—could unravel you completely.

You sighed, that soft, exasperated sigh of someone caught between self-reproach and reluctant delight. Yes, you were ridiculous, but perhaps, just for tonight, you’d allow yourself this small, sweet indulgence. After all, teaching teens how to wield language was your job. Reveling in a neighbor’s unexpected kindness… well, maybe that was your well-deserved after-school activity.

You found yourself continuing the ritual of delivering homemade meals without so much as a twinge of embarrassment. He may have grumbled that he didn’t want you to, but you conveniently pretended not to hear. After all, it was “for Sarah,” right? A convenient excuse when really you were just savoring any reason to see him.

Bit by bit, your exchanges blossomed into something resembling a relationship. He no longer pretended you were invisible—an achievement in itself—but neither did he break into a grin when he saw you. He simply accepted your Tupperware offerings with a curt nod and kept the containers impeccably clean, always returning something small tucked inside.

One afternoon, you discovered a cluster of lollipops neatly arranged in the empty casserole dish. You raised an eyebrow when you saw them—bright swirls of color peeking out from beneath the lid—and he shrugged, voice low: “Sarah’s idea.” You chose to believe him.

You found him perched on his porch just as dusk gave way to night, the horizon swallowed by inky black. He sat there alone in a creaky wooden chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he stared skyward. The world felt hushed around him, as though even the crickets were holding their breath.

You’d just returned from wine night with your school friends—laughter still echoing in your chest—and you looked every bit the whimsical contrast to his brooding silhouette. Your denim jacket was casually draped over your shoulders, framing the charcoal-fitted top that hinted at curves you’d never bother sculpting in a gym you loathed. A wispy white skirt skirted around your ankles, brushing the tops of your black leather boots with each graceful step. Your sleek black purse swung gently at your side.

He glanced up as you neared but didn’t offer a smile. Instead, he rose with deliberate slowness, producing the glass Tupperware you’d left on his doorstep at lunchtime. Tonight, though, it was oddly empty.

“I’ll pay you back,” he said, his voice low and laden with a drawl that curled around every vowel like molasses. “Just didn’t have time to cook today.”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot, glassy ash scattering like tiny gray blossoms.

You accepted the empty container with a soft “Thank you,” fingertips brushing his rough palm—an electric moment that you knew he wouldn’t register.

“Well,” you replied, tilting your head coyly, “I suppose you’ll just have to find another way to make me dinner.” You let the implication hang between you, batting your lashes ever so slightly.

He gave you one of those trademark Texan squints—eyes narrowing, as if puzzling over your meaning. “Might be up to Sarah to remind me,” he drawled, arching a brow.

You smiled, cheeks warming. “Or maybe I could remind you. Over coffee—or something a bit stronger.” You offered your best, most innocent grin, hoping he’d catch the hidden invitation.

He shrugged, as unmoved as a statue carved from granite. “We’ll see,” he said.

You whirled on him, exasperation flaring in your chest like a misbehaving firework. “Come on—don’t give me that look! Can’t you figure out what I’m saying?”

He cocked a brow, the Texan drawl dragging each syllable out as though he genuinely couldn’t fathom your anger. “Figure out… what, exactly?”

Your palms flew up in defeat, knuckles whitening. “That I like you! I’m not an idiot—clearly you’re not either—and I want to go out with you. If you’re not interested, just say so instead of pretending you don’t know what I mean.”

A tumble of words rushed out, your voice half-laughing, half-pleading: “We could grab dinner—real dinner, not my sad leftover pasta—and—well, I don’t know, catch a movie, or even just get coffee without my friends tagging along. It’d be nice to see you outside of parent-teacher exchanges, don’t you think?”

He blinked, head tilting to one side like you’d spoken ancient Greek. His dark eyes were wide, the lines around them softening just a fraction. You realized you’d leaned in—too close—your perfume suddenly potent in the night air: vanilla and something floral, something unabashedly feminine.

The moonlight caught the curve of your lip as you forced a small, courageous smile. “Seriously. No pressure. Just a date.”

He opened his mouth, as if to reply, but nothing came out. Instead, he cleared his throat.

“I—uh,” he finally rasped, voice thick with uncertainty. “I appreciate… that. Really.”

Your heart lurched. You dared to hope.

“But I’m not… sure what I’m supposed to do here,” he added, gaze dropping to the wooden deck at his feet. He ran a hand through his hair, bronze strands falling into his face.

You exhaled, cheeks warm, stepping back a fraction to reclaim a bit of your dignity. “You can ask me out, Joel,” you said softly, “or you can turn me down—plain and simple.”

He didn’t answer, just straightened, as if gathering his resolve. Then, with more distance in his tone, he said, “I’ll let you know.”

You took a shaky breath, shoulders squaring as you met his unreadable gaze. The night air was cool against your flushed cheeks, the faint scent of jasmine drifting from your garden. In that charged stillness, you found the resolve to speak your truth.

“Do you—do you ever feel like I’m speaking Greek?” you burst out, voice trembling with equal parts frustration and vulnerability. “Because I’m being as clear as I know how to be.”

He cocked his head, eyebrows arching in mild surprise, as though your question were an unexpected summons from another planet. The porch light behind him haloed his silhouette, turning his rugged features into something almost ethereal.

“’Scuse me?” he drawled.

“I like you,” you said, the confession tumbling out in one breath. “I’ve liked you since the first strawberry cake. And the cookies. And every single time I’ve watched you pretend I don’t exist.” You managed a wry smile, one shoulder lifting in a half-shrug that spoke of both exasperation and earnest hope. “I’m twenty-six, not a child. I can’t—won’t—keep hiding behind sweet gestures and expect you to figure me out.”

He studied you, jaw clenched, arms folding across his chest.

“I want to go out with you,” you continued, softer now. “Coffee, dinner, hell—ice cream at midnight. Just something where it’s only you and me and maybe some bad movie I’ll make you watch. Just say yes or no—but don’t do the whole ‘I’ll let you know’ thing. I’m not interested in riddles tonight.”

He exhaled slowly. For a heartbeat, you thought his stony expression might crack, but he only replied, “I ain’t good at this kind of talk.”

Your heart pinched at the admission. “That’s fine,” you said, stepping forward so the porch light caught the earnest gleam in your eyes. “Then let me do the talking. Let me handle the words if you’ll just—listen.” You let your gaze drop to the empty Tupperware in your hand.

He shifted, boots creaking on the wooden planks. The silence stretched, before he finally replied, “I appreciate it. More’n you know.”

Your pulse thundered at the partial concession. “That’s not a yes,” you murmured, lips curving into a hopeful smile that trembled with anticipation. “But it’s not a no.”

He glanced away toward the darkened yard. “I’ve got things… not figured out.”

You swallowed past the disappointment, raising your chin with as much grace as you could muster. “Neither do I. But I’m willing to try if you are.”

You squared your shoulders and let out a long, exasperated sigh that seemed to echo across the porch. Your fingers flexed as you crossed your arms defiantly beneath your chest.

“Am I really that invisible that you need time to think this over?” you demanded, voice trembling between anger and hurt.

He opened his mouth—twice—but all that came out was, “Look, darlin’, I don’t wanna—”

You cut him off. “Just tell me if you like me or not. I don’t think this is a decision you have to think about. Feelings don’t get debated – they just… are.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. “You’re a real gorgeous woman, but…” His voice trailed into the cicadas’ nighttime symphony, meaning to soften the blow, but you weren’t finished.

Without giving him the courtesy of a finished thought, you pressed on, biting the edge of your bottom lip. “Good night, Mr. Miller.” Each word was clipped, as you turned on your heel and strode toward your front door.

You heard him inhale sharply behind you. His boots scraped softly against the wooden steps, but you refused to look back.

In that moment, your heart thundered with a mix of relief and regret, your own internal monologue a chaotic tangle of “Why am I like this?” and “Good—he deserves to feel a bit of this sting.” You didn’t need validation. You just needed the truth—even if it hurt.

[sage-nebula]

Anyone who has followed me for any length of time knows that my favorite animated Sonic show is easily Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog. This is not only because of nostalgia (though that does play a part), or because of the heavy focus on Sonic & Tails and the delightful goon squad they face (though those two things also play a part), but because I think that there are very interesting concepts in the show if you choose to dig deeper than it asks (or even expects) you to, and I love crunching on them.

Now, there are multiple concepts like this that I could talk about. One which I've brought up before is how AoStH is one of the few adaptations to really point out the realities of Sonic and Tails being homeless children, such as an episode where Sonic mentions that they've missed meals over the past few days. Another is how the healthy brotherly relationship of Sonic & Tails is directly foiled against the toxic brotherly relationship of Scratch, Grounder, & occasionally Coconuts (along with Robotnik being the latter three's abusive father). Digging into the foils and parallels between them all says interesting things about their characters.

But the reason I decided to open up this window and make this post is because I was just thinking about my favorite episode of the show, "High Stakes Sonic." I'm sure there are many who would think that my favorite episode would be "Tails' New Home" or one similarly focused more strongly on Sonic & Tails as brothers, but nope, it's "High Stakes Sonic." And this is my favorite episode because of the fascinating thing it says about Sonic's character, at least in this adaptation.

So, for those who don't know, "High Stakes Sonic" is how AoStH adapted the Casino Night Zone level into the show. The basic summary is that Robotnik owns Casino Night Zone, and is using it to drive mobian citizens into gambling-debt induced slavery so they build a monument to him (that looks like a sphinx, albeit of his face). Sonic and Tails find out about this, and decide to save the mobians from their fate by beating the rigged casino. As a result, Robotnik has the operator of his casino (a literal shark, representing either a card or loan shark) kidnap Tails in order to force Sonic to participate in a rigged bet: he has to race Grounder, with the mobians voting on who they think will win. When they obviously vote for Sonic, he'll throw the race and lose on purpose, selling them into slavery. And if he doesn't do this, then Tails -- being held in a location unknown to Sonic -- will be killed. (They don't outright use the word "killed," but that's the implication.)

Now, obviously, the episode ends with Sonic figuring out partway through the race where Tails is being held, rescuing him, and then rushing back to win the race to save the mobians. (Who Robotnik captures into slavery anyway, because obviously, so Sonic then has to go and save them for real.) But the happy ending of the episode isn't what has held my fascination for over a decade now. No, Sonic's reaction to the bet is what has held my fascination.

Because here's the thing: he agrees to the terms.

He's not happy about it, obviously. He's downright furious when he learns that Robotnik's henchman has kidnapped Tails and is holding him in some secondary location, and he gives a thinly veiled death threat of his own to said henchman if even a hair is harmed on Tails' head. But he still agrees to it. He agrees to purposely throw a race, knowing that doing so will consign hundreds of people into slavery, all so that he can save Tails. And again, he's not happy about it -- he's furious when he first learns, and he has slumped shoulders and a despaired look when the mobians ask him why he's not even trying to win the race when it kicks off and he has to walk the track. But he still agrees with it. He still goes along with it.

And I think this is fascinating, because it's a level of selfishness that often isn't shown in heroes like Sonic. Sure, we know that Sonic has a "my own way no matter what" attitude, and this is a demonstration of that, in that he's doing what he wants even if it wouldn't be seen as the morally right thing to do (given that he's sacrificing hundreds for the sake of one, even if that one is a child even younger than he is). But in most cases (in the games or other adaptations), Sonic deciding to do his own thing is usually for the benefit of others, and doesn't really harm people who aren't villains, at least not directly and certainly not in large groups. For instance, in the recent Riders arc in the IDW Comics, Sonic agreed to align with Eggman and become the Phantom Rider to disrupt the races so that he could figure out what was going on with Clean Sweep Inc. and how he and his friends had their gear sabotaged. But he didn't attack anyone, he risked his cover to save those he could when they did fall into danger, and he was trying to stop the villains. He did what he wanted regardless of what others would think of him, but his actions were still, overall, altruistic.

But in "High Stakes Sonic," that really isn't the case. Yes, he is doing this to save Tails' life; but not only is he sacrificing a hundred people to do so, but he's doing it not for Tails' sake, really, but for his own. Yes, Tails would die, and in the moment of death that would suck for Tails. But Sonic is the one who would be left behind. Sonic is the one who would lose the only family he has, his little brother and best friend, all in one fell swoop. And Sonic would rather sacrifice a hundred people to slavery than experience that.

One could argue that Sonic planned to rescue them later, when Tails was safe. And you know, he probably would. But he was still wracked with guilt in the moment. Because even if he rescued them later, he's still selling them into slavery and misery now. This is still a choice that he is making, to put his own needs and wants (having his little brother back) over the needs of these innocent people. (And they are innocent, because gambling is an addiction and they are being exploited.) And it's not like he makes this choice impulsively; he makes it over and over again as he goes through with throwing the race, even as they ask him why he's doing it with fear and despair in their own voices. He makes his decision and sticks to it, and only changes course when Grounder lets slip where Tails is being held.

And what does that tell us? That tells us that he would make the same choice again. Because even when he is faced with the direct consequences of making this choice (the mobians asking him why he's doing this to them), unable to distance himself from them at all, he sticks to it. It tears him apart, wracks him with guilt, but he does it anyway. And if he does it anyway, even when he is unable to avoid or pretend those consequences don't exist, that makes he would do it again, and again, and again.

There is a game known as Tales of Xillia 2 that had the tagline (paraphrased), "Will you sacrifice the world for the sake of a girl?" And setting aside the fact that Tails is a boy (except in -- I think it was the Latin America dub of AoStH that made him a girl), that's the question that is asked of Sonic in "High Stakes Sonic." And the answer is yes. Yes, Sonic -- in Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog, at least -- would sacrifice the world to save Tails. It would leave him guilt-ridden, but he would still do it, because to him the alternative is still worse.

One could argue that Sonic wasn't presented with the choice of Tails vs. the whole entire world. But I think that a hundred or so innocent lives is enough to get the point across. AoStH!Sonic, if faced with the trolley problem where Tails is on one track and five innocent mobians are on the other -- if he was faced with that, and there was no possible way for him to save all six, would choose to put the trolley on the track with the five mobians. He wouldn't be happy about it, it would eat him alive for the rest of his life, but he would do it. He would still do it.

And I think that this is just a fascinating trait for a heroic main character to have, especially in media for children. What does it tell us about Sonic's past, that he's this desperate to keep his one family and best friend alive and safe at all costs? (Literally, all costs.) What does it tell us about him, as a person, that yes he devotes his life to fighting Robotnik and yes he wants to save as many people as possible (and usually that's everyone), but he's willing to let them all burn if the cost is Tails? And what does it say that we're never shown if Tails ever learns of this, if Tails was ever made aware of the fact that Sonic was purposefully throwing the race to sacrifice the other mobians, all so that Tails himself would be safe? If we're never given any indication that Sonic told Tails about any of it? (Possibly because that would mean admitting it out loud, and Sonic can't deal with that part of himself, and would rather just leave it in the past where he feels it belongs?)

It's so crunchy, especially for a show that leans so heavily on the slapstick comedy, that doesn't ask nor expect you to take it seriously and dig deeper into it. Generally, it isn't that deep, but sometimes it is, or it can be. And this episode, and what it said about Sonic's character, is one that I've always come back to for that reason.

[bibibbon]

So, any theories as to why E-Soul killed Moon?

Hi @pedanticat 👋

I am so happy that this is my first tbhx ask!

I have two theories as to why E-soul killed moon, and honestly, as of the release of episode 7, I am leaning more towards the 2nd theory.

E-soul killed moon to get rid of competition that treeman company poses towards the hero rankings.

E-soul killed moon as a way to drag Lin Ling back into the hero industry and work under mighty glory.

Theory 1

MG and Treeman have had an interesting and most likely rivarlous history. With the Treeman profile describing Mr. shang as "the son of Might glory upper management," indicating that he and Uncle Rock are related in a way and with shang chao also playing a role in the creation of Yang cheng's E-soul there seems to be an interesting family feud brewing between the two companies.

Mr. shang steps down from MG to train firm man, which then makes him the number 10 hero, and it's implied that this is Treemans breakthrough. All the while this is happening, you have the E-soul fan war going along, and the two major parties are shang chao and Uncle Rock. Both are actively working behind the scenes and contributing to the E-soul war. Shang chao sees potential in Yang cheng and, in episode 6, makes a point of telling yang cheng that their next step is to go for the Hero rankings, ultimately threatening OG E-souls place and uncle Rock makes various comments of adapting to the game that the young ones have set to play to the point that he orders one of the brothers to kill Yang cheng.

This long history between the two companies makes it very plausible that the reason why E-soul ends up killing moon is linked to treemans success and prioritising Mighty glory.

By killing Moon, Lin Lings arc can go one of two ways either continue being a hero out of a sense of duty and follow a vaguely similar path to Yang cheng or quit and get further sabotaged by Uncle Rocks schemes. Lin Ling's trust value points by the end of episode 4 were dependent on moon and his devotion towards her. Enlightener revealing that the moon he has with him is just a fake would have caused public commotion that Treeman mentions trying to fight back and cover up against it. The public finding out that moon has been killed and that Lin Ling couldn't save her would definitely cause a commotion or having mighty glory put the blame of Moon's death on Lin Ling would be such a scandal and would cause such a commotion that its guaranteed that lin ling may be kicked out of the top 10 or having his reputation heavily damaged to the point that it makes it even more difficult for him to overtake E-souls 9th position.

Theory 2

Uncle Rock might be trying to pull a yang cheng 2.0 and claim lin ling as a Mighty Glory hero. It's very much intentional that lin ling and yang chengs arcs are intentionally paralleled with one another, and I think with the truth spilling out to everyone worldwide, Uncle Rock may have been heavily reminded of Yang cheng and thought that he could capitalise on this especially since the end of Lin Ling's story opens up with multiple hero agencies wanting to recruit him and the line "someone is going to steal him" so conveniently shows Uncle Rock looking at the God Eye and Lin Ling fight.

There's a high chance that Moon's death will push Lin Ling back into the hero industry and him wanting justice, which will allow for his and E-souls stories to further interlink with one another as they both explore ideas of justice, protecting those that you love and wanting to be seen and heard.

E-soul most likely killed moon because he was just following Uncle Rock's orders and acting as a societal "weight"/puppet following the ideology that he developed in episode 7 as he most likely is convinced that this is the best course of action as well as being manipulated by Uncle Rock and his ideology he most likely views moon as a threat to the Mighty Glory's mission.

These are my personal watsonian theories, and my doylist interpretation of Moon's death and why she died is something I talk about on the 'tragedy of moon' post.

That being said, even in her death and the act of killing her, the hero companies still view her as an accessory attached to someone else instead of human.

[miketheme]

My views on Darkiplier (with references, and similar)

Because the fandom is alive and thriving!

The character of Darkiplier appears to be entirely different for every single fan, and I‘d like to share my views and my understanding of who I think Darkiplier is, better late than never.

I’m going to say what I wanna say and then I will name my reasons :]

So! To visualise my small essay, I have prepared this little graphic:

To me personally, Dark is no new person. There definitely is a new component that wasn’t there before (the “scary juncture”), but the way I understand the occurrences, is the following:

As I see it, Dark is a conjoined entity, who can be taken under prominent control by one of the containing parties.

Especially the post-credit ending of DAMIEN shows this for me; Damien steps up after Celine “went to sleep”, Damien is the one to turn grey, then the Darkiplier ringing sets in, it’s still Damien, Damien becoming Dark. It’s clear that Celine is still part of Dark though, because, she wasn’t ejected, she just went to sleep.

I view this portrayal to be a sign that, to some extent, Damien and Celine are part of separate existences still, while being part of the same entity at the same time.

If they were to melt into one and the same entity, I think the portrayal of Dark and his mannerisms, as well as the whole DAMIEN episode, would’ve been shown differently. Less prominently about Damien, less prominently about Celine resting and backing of the control she’s had. The entire concept of Damien and Celine switching places of the awake / the asleep, is what I personally interpret in the way I’ve described above.

Them both being molten into an entire, and absolute new being and their separate identities to be destroyed fully… That would not be the fitting outcome of the described build up in the series, to me.

Plus thing: Actor repeatedly asked Damien specifically to be the villain (“Well, he did say he wanted me to be the villain…”) and I think this build-up was very purposeful as to have Damien take “control” over Darkiplier while Celine can rest.

I write “control” in quotes, because I doubt that Damien has his whole free will left to him completely, as the new juncture in the middle is a part of him now and connects him to the other two parties as well.

This adds up with Celine saying “It will change you, forever”. If they were to add up to be the same new entity, I don’t think she’d have addressed only Damien with this. Plus, being molten into a singular, new person, is not really what you would call “change”, this would be a nullification, a merge.

Plus thing: There’s also Dorene. I will not get in depth about her, since that could take a whole new essay. But her portrayal (the stars, the black, red and blue, the scarf, her strong will, not being married anymore, and ultimately, that warm, melancholic quotation of Damien, almost mentioning him as her brother!!!) make me absolutely certain that she has to be representing Celine. As a Celine-led Dark, or even a separate Celine, it doesn’t matter: In any way, it makes me believe that Celine exists, to some extent at least, as a separate entity or concept still. The same must be the case for the Entity and Damien.

The arguments above are more meaningful for me, but the detail about Dorene deserves mentioning as well.

Another important thing: Dark shows a lot of Damien’s character, only tuned down, his gentleness more rigid, darker. Added by the occasional parallels of quotes and mannerisms (“Let me in!”, his general politeness, and his constant fidgeting, his desperate, sad aggression, following Mark’s initiative of being his villain) whereas showing less of Celines obvious mannerisms.

All added up, I think Damien’s “control” is very clearly alluded, while also shown that he is not Dark. He is PART of Dark, and currently on the front (or second row, the House is still powerful, after all.)

Sooo, to round up my rambling of how I view Dark:

Celine and Damien are still kinda existent as Celine and Damien, but they aren’t independent and free as they were as regular people. And they certainly aren’t the same anymore, as in quotidian sense of speaking.

They might not BE the same entity, but they FORM the same entity, together with the House, they are all bound together by influence. Their state is an unstable one however, and Celine (or the House) could push the broken Damien off the front at any time, which is what might’ve happened already.

And, I don’t view it as impossible, that the “scary junction” can take control as a separate fourth party as well.

[tategaminu]

Some predictions for S7

It seems some people are concerned about Rayla and Callum being separated for half the season when I honestly don't think that will be the case. They have never been separated more than two episodes, you could say "well it could happen now!" but I doubt they would do that in the same season we will fully see them together for the first time.

Now some proof or my own guesses to favour this:

In this screenshot Rayla isn't with Callum, she could be out of frame but I don't think so.

I'm guessing he went ahead since maybe Rayla's wings weren't working anymore (they said they didnt't last forever if I remember correctly)

Look how sad he looks, he has no gf to cheer him up over Katolis' destruction.

Now, we see Rayla and Ronaldo standing up in front of the Banterlodge, why are they here? I think Callum told them to meet there since it's a place both him and Rayla know.

Why is she in attack mode?

Looking at the trees it seems Ezran, Aanya and the animals seem to be around the banterlodge. Maybe Rayla sees the katolians coming or Ezran asking Corvus and Soren to arrest Raul and she gets defensive ofc, tho it doesn't seem to be an overly agressive stance.

We have confirmation that Callum and Ezran will have a conflict and Ezran is gonna be mad about Runaan, so maybe Callum defends Runaan here and confesses that he is the one who fred him, making the brothers fight. An upset Callum then leaves with Rancher and Rayla.

My guesses are, Callum and Rayla separate in episode 1 and reunite in late episode 2 or early episode 3 (they tend to "meet" in the second episode lol) maybe ep 2 ends with them meeting and the cliffhanger of Ezran finding out about Ronald.

Callum, Rayla and Richard arrive at the Silvergroove (perhaps is on episode 3 to parallel season 3) we get the Ruthari reunion and Rayla's trial in the same episode, a confirmed to be a very emotional episode.

The place Rayla is having her trial on seems to be the lottus pond thing, we only see her, The Keeper (I didn't know moonshadows could have beards okay dude) and the ghosts of the deceased assassins. I'm guessing she will have to be forgiven by them to be accepted back on The Silvergroove and she will need a lot of emotional support, I don't see why Callum wouldn't be there since he was there when she found out about her ghosting so he being there when she gets unghosted makes all the sense.

Callum, Stella and the other ones are out of frame probably watching this, unless this is another place where they aren't allowed.

I wouldn't be suprised if Rayla doesn't want to go with the trial at all but we get a little callback to this with Callum saying something similar, maybe even more agressive this time.

Now onto the next clue, this oopsie leaked scene by the animation company:

Stella jugglinga adoraburrs! look how cute!

I'm fully convinced this is a rayllum scene, it screams romance with the flowers and singing baitlings "oh it could be ruthari!" yeah? maybe? but let's look at the clues shall we:

Stella is there, Stella is always with Rayla

Callum and Rayla love adoraburrs

Sneezles is there, Sneezles is always with Callum

There are two lovebirds and Rayllum tends to attract animals (very disney princess/prince if you ask me)

The baitlings are singing, screams Rayllum corniness (kiss the girl!)

Rayla and Callum have something going on with boats

Maybe Callum and Rayla decided to take the rest of the baitlings with them to the Silvergroove (for some reason)

Maybe this scene isn't before the mid season at all and it's at the end! but for now I choose to believe it's kind of the calm before the storm scene. Maybe Rayla and Callum are celebrating her unghosting, before Aaravos starts fcking shit up and they have to leave and go back to Ezran. I don't think this will happen in the way to The Silvergroove because 1) third wheeling Runaan would be uncomfortable and I don't think Callum would prepare this at all in the way unless he wanted to annoy him hard idk 2) Rayla and Callum didn't need to cross water to arrive at TS the first time.

I'm choosing also not to believe this is at the end because them leaving The Silvergroove mid season for them to come back at the end wouldn't make much sense to me unless they are getting married right in this scene mostly because I don't think Rayla and Callum will choose to live in there, at least for now, and this will be the end of the arc not the series so yeah, they could be visiting tho and this could be a chilling ending scene.

In a summary, I don't think rayllum will be separated for a lot of episodes and Callum is totally going to The Shitlvergroove maybe they will get separated again when she gets kidnapped

listen you can't separate them for much unless it's against their will

[absolutebl]

Do you have any recent recommendations for JBL TaiwanBL and KBL? Been rewatching only bls from 2021 2022 and I feel like I'm out of the loop for the more recent ones.

Maybe something from this year or late last year?

Great JBL, TaBL, and KBL from 2023 & first half 2024

asker added:

Genre = mostly anything. But pls avoid homophobic trauma (like Jazz for Two).

Fair. Okay here we go!

2023 Recs!

I picked mostly 9s and 10s for you with a few 8s I felt specifically might suit your taste.

I Cannot Reach You AKA Kimi ni wa Todokanai

Japan Netflix

This classic friends-to-lovers BL is everything Japan does best. Angsty. Emo. Aching. Driven by real thirst. Yamato is deeply in love with his childhood bestie, Kakeru, and has been for ages, unable to hide his ungainly damaging high school need. He wants Kakeru in every way possible and it oozes off of the screen. Kakeru is silly and a little simple, but not frenetic or overly camp about it. He is earnest, and genuinely wants to keep Yamato in his life which means giving a romance (and gayness) a fair chance. We watch him realize his affection and what form it can take in a truly authentic way. This show was impossibly kind to both of its lead characters and I felt almost honored that I got to watch something so lovely and rare play out on my screen.

Our Dating Sim

Korea Viki

This is a perfect short form KBL, an office set reunion romance featuring geeks that really suits 8 eps with no fluff and no chaff. Just comforting and yummy. I adored every aspect from the casting to the pristinely simple premise to the quietly smooth execution. Sure it’s low stakes, but that makes it high domesticity and extremely warm and gentle. This is a fuzzy blanket of a story - a cozy BL. It lives in my rewatch pile and you know what’s best about it? Every single episode is in that pile. There’s no skipping with this one, it might be good natured and calmly sweet but it’s tight and the pacing is excellent.

I don't hand out 10/10 often (over 700 BLs watched, stil don't hvae 10 10/10s yet), these both got that from me in 2023. I consider both of them perfect BLs.

My Personal Weatherman AKA Taikan Yoho

Japan Gaga

This style of live action yaoi really only works from Japan. Basically: boys who fell in love in college end up living together but both are so repressed they actually don't realize they're in love. It's higher heat than we usually get from Japan's HEA stuff, and that part is also very well done, but it leaned into the "why don't they just talk for fuck's sake?" trope which is only exacerbated into undiluted frustration by the fact that they're already fucking. It's great, but watching requires more patience than usual, even for Japan.

Our Dining Table AKA Bokura no Shokutaku

Japan Gaga

A lonely salaryman (+ talented cook) gets accidentally adopted by a college kid and his little brother. I was always gonna love this show if they stuck to the original yaoi (which is very dear to my heart). And they did! Paralleling it almost exactly. It’s a quiet & cozy little parable of found family alleviating loneliness. Possibly too slow for some but definitely high up there for me as the best of what Japan can do with softness (like Restart After Come Back Home). It’s only flaw (if I dare say such a thing) is that it is not really “romantic.” Lovely & sweet but the romance beats are being used to build a family relationship, not just couple intimacy, but that's OK with me. This is a very safe show for anyone to watch.

Jun and Jun

Korea Viki

A delightful office romance about an ex-idol who joins cubical life only to find his new boss is his first love. Others boys are sniffing around too. Operative word being "sniffing" as much of this romance involves smell. With a snappy (sometimes even raunchy) script, enjoyable sides, a pretty as peaches cast, and descent chemistry this show made up for in style what it lacked in substance. I like fluff. I loved this. I smiled every moment I was watching. With tons of rewatch potential (especially the last few eps), my only caution is this is for fans of the BL genre only, I don’t think it’ll work for anyone else.

Love Tractor

Korea iQIYI

Most of this country-set BL had me feral for the beautiful broken city boy and his hot young farmer. Hyung romance, puppy/cat pairing, open frankness meets jaded reserve, language play, water hose frolicking, only one bed, just all my favorite tropes. This show was basically a light-weight Restart After Come Back Home and I’m not even slightly mad about that. But (and you knew there was a “but” comg) something about the cringe of the final 2 eps and the impermanence of the ending (both of which highlight the fact that ultimately these 2 are I’ll-suited: too different and too far apart) left me with the feeling that they probably won’t last as a couple. However, in this case, rare for me, I forgive it this finale for my love of the rest.

The New Employee

Korea Viki

So good, SO QUEER, so soft, a near pitch perfect office BL with conflict derived from that setting. Also found family and a lesbian bestie. Sweet & innocent (and out) Seung Hyun scores the office internship of his dreams. On his first day at work he gets into it with his cool reserved (and also v gay) boss. As you do. Frankly? This is what I wanted from this new crop of office set KBLs ALL ALONG. Rainbow rice cakes forever! Directed by queer activist Kim Jho Gwang Soo (Just Friends?) partly set in the same neighbourhood as the To My Star house. Gotta love WATCHA (Semantic Error, Light on Me).

Unintentional Love Story

Korea iQIYI

OMG the plot, forced into a totally understandable betrayal, falling in love despite himself, put into a corner he can't get out of, the AGONY, the eyes EMOTING at us in PAIN A boy who just lost his job due to faked corruption charges accidentally discovers his ex-boss's favorite artist, now a recluse. Evil manager offers him his job back if he can convince the artist to rejoin society. Instead, they fall in love. I found the artist a bit stiff and reserved but Gongchan (maknae of B1A4) is a fucking GIFT - he carried this show (which I do not expect from the idol element). He was lumous with extraordinarily expressive eyes, just drown in the emoting abyss. The external conflict, social tension and pressure is complex and beautifully executed, plus Korea gave us legit side dishes (NOT a love triangle, hally-fucking-luya). I’m not sure on rewatchability, and it didn’t whip me into a verbal frenzy the way some KBLs do, but it still gets a solid 9/10 for those damn eyes alone.

A Breeze of Love

Korea iQIYI

Tsundere insomniac grump reunited with his sunshine jock ex (human sleeping pill) who now hates him. Basketball is also involved. While the simplicity of a reunion plot makes this more cohesive than most KBLs, it is a tad stiff and slow, never managing to lift itself out of "pretty and pretty enjoyable" - I liked it but I don’t think I’m going to remember much about it. 

Bon Appetit

Korea iQIYI

Romance between an office worker the man from his past next door who cooks well. It was very sweet and cute tale of food as love in the All the Liquors family of KBL. I’m not wild about it, I did enjoy it, I was happy to have it show up on my dash, but ultimately it will simply become one of the KBL crowd.

Why R U?

(Korean adaptation of Thai original) iQIYI

Korea decided to remake, of all possible Thai BLs, Why RU? And that is exactly what we got: a short form, clean & pretty, slightly confusing, uneven chemistry, all the same tropes KBL that kind of cliff-noted the original but with none of the heat or complex relationship dynamics. I just … what world is this? Because it is BOTH bizarro land, and EXACTLY what I expected. How do I rate it? In the end I have to go back to simple questions: did I like it, would I rewatch it, and would I recommend it? Yes. Probably. And probably not. What the actual hell?

It did, however win my best kiss of 2023 which is why it's on this list.

Stay By My Side

Taiwan Viki

I wanted to pick SOMETHING from Taiwan but my other two options both had lots of trauma in them. So I'm going with this one.

This show was an interesting take on the "ghost boyfriend" trope. About a boy who is tormented by hearing the dead, except when he is around one other boy - desperation+proximity = love. Unfortunately, the story was erratic and waffled about. While the leads turned in solid performances and the sappy domesticity was off the charts, it never really had the strength of the narrative convictions such a strong concept should have supplied. Highly rewatchable and enjoyable for that sappy domesticity but not a whole lot more. Still I always give extra credit for the diabetes-inducing sugar content and rewatch capacity.

And some suggestions from 2024

I'm only suggesting stuff that has finished it's run and isn't currently airing.

Although I Love You and You AKA Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yaro ka

Japan Gaga

The promise of this show, younger cook courts older divorced office worker, should have been my catnip. I mean if someone pitched this to me in an elevator I would have downloaded it by the second storey. Unfortunately, it did not exactly fulfill that promise, not in the way I'd hoped. Did I still enjoy the ride, yes, but I feel just a little let down.

Living With Him AKA Kare no Iru Seikatsu

Japan Gaga

Kindly Ryota goes to uni and ends up rooming with his former childhood bestie, Kazuhito. Kazuhito doesn’t have a girlfriend for, as it turns out, cute roommate reasons. Same director as Old Fashion Cupcake, the framing is gorgeous and it is a stylish piece. As a friends to lovers cohabitation narrative this was a classic 2000s sweet yaoi. I enjoy that kind of tradition out of Japan even if it (and the characters) come off as a little slow as a result. Still, it's nice to get a traditional BL out of Japan that is satisfying, not slapstick, AND did not hurt us.

[artnassertia]

I am so tired of all this discourse about s8 and Sam's actions at the beginning. Because there are only two types of people. The first ones hate Sam, blame him for everything and, to be honest, I can completely understand them (I am a Samgirl myself). The second ones justify him and all his actions and for them he is white and fluffy, he did everything right.

For me, all this is nonsense and an example of how people don't know how to think wider. And it's not about some deep analysis of the character (although, of course, this is welcome), not about trying to understand whether he did right or wrong. But the fact that in general the entire beginning of the s8 is complete nonsense. And it's not about the characters, but about the script.

Yes, I think that the blame here should be shifted to the writers.

You need to understand that in a show like Supernatural there is a HUGE number of writers. Each episode is written by a separate person. And each of these writers feels, sees and understands (or doesn't understand) the character differently. And if during the series it's not so noticeable, because small things can be different. And the fact that after the fifth season we are shown very little about the characters themselves, and not about the global plot, only helps to blur this difference. Then the end of the s7 and the beginning of the s8 stand out from the general picture too much.

The writers were in a hurry. The writers needed to somehow develop the line they went along and create a conflict. And the situation was such that... there was nothing to create a conflict from. Because, looking at the development of Sam as a character all this time, the viewer understands that he, just like Dean, would do everything possible to find his brother. Those who refer to their agreement "not to look for each other" probably forgot the beginning of the fourth season, where we were clearly shown that Sam absolutely goes crazy when Dean is in danger or dead. And it would be one thing if we were shown that Sam really changed his point of view. But no, there was no development in that direction. The only thing we were shown was that Sam wants to be more independent. And this is a normal, correct desire (especially in their relationships). But NOTHING told us that he can just… forget about it. Just do nothing. Just not look for Dean. Like can you imagine that this lore freak wouldn't look for any information about what happened to Dean? They tried to make a parallel with the beginning of season six, but they didn't understand that the situation is FUNDAMENTALLY different.

Because later, in season nine, Sam changes AGAIN. He is ready to do anything for Dean again, he goes crazy again when he dies, he is ready to destroy everything in his path and sacrifice everything in order to get his brother back to him.

Then what was the beginning of season eight for? Why were we shown this? Why did Sam suddenly become a bastard then? Because of a woman? No, because the writers needed a conflict between the brothers. And they decided to do it at Sam's expense, because guess what? In this show, everything is always at his expense.

For me, their meeting in the first episode is just another proof. They haven't seen each other for a year, Sam doesn't know what happened to Dean, Dean doesn't know what's going on in the world after the Leviathans were left without a leader. But how do they greet each other? Dryly, unsentimentally, as if they haven't seen each other for only a week. Their meetings were brighter even after they haven't seen each other for a couple of hours on another case. Honestly, I think even Jensen and Jared didn't like playing this, so tasteless it was.

I don't deny that Sam could have lived a normal life this year. But only after he broke down from ignorance, after he made every effort to find out something, after he realized that he couldn't help in any way. And only then, after he can accept it, he would have hit that damn dog.

And all this is not the character's fault. It is the fault of the writers, who have given up on all the logic of Sam's development and have not found another way to implement their ideas. In addition, the further we go, the clearer it becomes that they are doing this not only with him. Only Dean remains more or less stable, the other characters change almost beyond recognition with each new season (just look at Cas' entire storyline).

I think it's just dumb to put the blame on the character here. Because if you love Sam and follow his development, you'll understand that this whole situation is completely out of his character. Not to mention Kevin, who Sam would NEVER leave alone after all they went through.

So, yeah. The writers of beginning of s8 sucks. That's all.

[onlymurdersintheafterparty]

OMITB S4:E5 "Adaptation"

We're at the halfway mark and I feel like fans with a Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes type of IQ could solve the mystery by now but I am not one of those fans so I'm just here to recap and debunk or strengthen theories I already had. I say this every week but I am truly loving the pacing of this season and that they don't shy away from answering questions early on instead of trying to shoehorn everything in for the season finale. As always spoilers ahead!

Ok so now we officially have confirmation that there are two killers. After circling back to the footprint on the windowsill of the Dudenoff apartment, the tacky paper used on the photoshoot and production room set reveals that the footprint belongs to one of the Brothers sisters. We see that one twin is physically strong enough to lift a body when she lifts Oliver and moves him onto his correct mark. I don't think that necessarily means both twins are involved in the murder though. We also end the episode with that same twin being missing and hearing a gunshot implying that she has been killed. I have been waiting YEARS for a season in which the bodies start piling up and it's finally happening!

This episode was narrated by Marshall the writer and I don't know how to feel about his character. I get that he and Mabel are supposed to be similar in that they both have imposter syndrome but he in general just gives off red flags. He's inserting himself into investigating which is something killers do and him having the fake facial hair introduces the idea of the killers having disguises so clearly he was important to this episode. Not to mention he's giving stalker vibes or parasocial Arconiac vibes. I find it very interesting that Mabel and Charles did not view the video of his stand up to verify his alibi. This could very well mean that he was at the Arconia the night that Sazz was killed. He also never stepped on the tacky paper so we don't have his footprint. That's two strikes against him.

You know who else we didn't see step on the tacky paper? Glen Stubbins. Who is back by the way. I still don't care for his character but I am starting to suspect him. He's physically capable of jumping on the windowsill because he's a stunt performer and for that same reason I'm sure he's also capable of aiming and firing a gun. Also how did he know exactly where Charles lived? They only met the one time at the Stunt Man bar. And yes it's sweet that he brought bread but he could have left it downstairs with Lester. As Ben's stunt double I can't help but wonder if he was present at the Arconia the night of Sazz's murder but in disguise. There's actually a really compelling theory on the hulu subreddit that Glen is the killer if you want to check it out.

Bev actually does have an alibi for that night and seems to only be guilty of wanting her movie made. Can we rule her out just yet? Idk but we'll see. She didn't seem that confident while aiming the gun or firing it off to prove it wasn't loaded. Her revealing Sazz's voicemail and the time it was left definitely proved helpful in establishing a timeline and confirming that there are two killers. Or three if you think it's three people working together.

Howard working for the production team is only strengthening my theory that he's the Moriarty. This man is everywhere! He was working at the theater last season and immersed in the plot there and now here he is in the center of it all once again. Again I don't think he's an evil mastermind, I just think he started off envying the closeness of the trio and now he's high off the power of manipulating things behind the scenes.

Have any of you heard of the opera La Forza Del Destino? In A Series of Unfortunate Events, there is a reference and parallel to it in which a character is mortally wounded after a weapon is accidentally fired off and strikes them. What if the killer was aiming for Charles, saw Sazz dressed similar to him and was aiming to shoot, and the accomplice called to warn them that it was the wrong person but something startled the killer and they accidentally shot Sazz? Like for example they were ready to go and then someone knocked loudly or something which not only muffled the noise of the phone but startled them enough to shoot.

This season has so many parallels and coincidences that we have to assume is on purpose. We've got multiple dopplegangers and cases of mistaken identity, guns being misfired (Eva with Rudy's prop gun and Bev with Sazz's loaded gun), and even the blackout in the S4 premiere vs the fire alarm going off in the S1 premiere.

My small takeaways from the episode:

Mabel being 30 and having an identity crisis is so relatable and I hope she finds her way by the end of the series.

Lester talking about wearing a gimp mask is WILD

Charles mentioning having an account in Belize and Detective Williams pretending to unhear it is hilarious

I'm beyond tired of this Oliver and Loretta plotline and him being insecure about her new status as a celebrity. WRAP IT UP!

Fans keep bringing up the cold case and I wonder if that will become the plot point in season five

Zach Galifianakis telling Oliver about how Jonk (sp?) ran through the seven dwarfs and that they could be heard Hi-Ho'ing from the trailer took me out 🤣

Charles having a new murder board each week is my favorite thing because that's literally all of us fans each week after watching a new episode

Bev and Cinda would be besties or frenemies and I really need to see them in a scene together before the season is over

[sunsetlovelydreams]

The Ritual - LoVM Season 3 Episode 12

It takes a few days to bring a Percy de Rolo back to life by way of demon exorcism. Similarly, it takes a few days to purge the tears from my body after a LoVM season. And especially after that ending.

Can we talk about it? Let's.

First, that ritual. God am I so happy that they dedicated so much time to it. The vibes were immaculate too. The shot of Percy and Vax lying down parallel to each other? Creepy and beautiful all at once. The sliding shot from Percy inside Pike's spell to Vax clutching the gun in his hands? So much tension and urgency in just that one shot. And the sanctity of it all makes it all the more dreadful. The golden circles of light. The incandescent ropes holding Vax down. The silence. All of it in the darkness, all of it next to a tomb. And how Vax holds the gun so delicately, as if it wasn't a weapon forged by the fires of vengeance and hell. As if he were cradling his friend to his chest, and not cold, heartless metal. What a gripping image. He has become one with death, used to wear it, to bear it, to harness it. It is as the Matron intended, the one time that she warns him against it.

And the scene is so emotionally charged. Vex's feather in Vax's hair, her heart in Percy's cold, dead hands. Her brother and her lover, the two people she loves most, one risking his life to save the other, both lost to her at any moment. The dilemma of allowing Vax to even perform this insane plot was taken out of her hands when he freely admitted that his life was worthless compared to hers - in his blind fucking eyes, mind you. But think how desperate Vex must have been to go along with it, how hopeful, how very, very in love.

Love. What a cruel, pretty thing. "She loves you. And so do I, brother." Love brings Percy back to life: Vex's love for him, Vax's love for Vex. Vex's feather on his gun, Vex's feather in Vax's hair. The first time they met Percy in that prison, he was as disheveled and lost as when Vax finds him in Orthax's domain. Each time, a hand was offered and taken. This is the victory of people giving each other second chances, of people forgiving themselves, of people fighting for each other.

Not Vax, though. Oh no, Vax just keeps on losing. Love kills Vax piece by piece, one raven feather around his neck at a time. Love is literally rotting Vax away, but that's a whole other post that I'll get into later. And oh the post that will be. There is not one dull moment in Vax nation, bless him.

[fionaswhvre]

I'm convinced that the 9-1-1 writers never intended to make Buck & Eddie a thing, but they changed their minds very soon.

They probably wrote Eddie Diaz to be this macho guy who was gonna end up dating Buck's sister but instead he turned out to be the gayest character who only had heart eyes for Buck.

In the first episode, Eddie was supposed to be a threat to Buck but instead of two guys fighting to be the Alpha™, their gym confrontation turned out more like "you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid." And with the whole "you can have my back any day", we had Ryan & Oliver making heart eyes at each other and giggling and twirling their hair while saying this.

The writers tried not making them gay by making them call each other "brother", but that happened only two times : 1) Eddie's "you're a badass under pressure, brother" in 2×01 & Buck's "You know it, brother" in 2×10. After that, we never hear them say brother again. Because even that word couldn't tone down their flirtiness with each other.

When Chris was first introduced, he had interactions with the whole firefam, especially with Bobby and Chimney, even more than Buck. But in s3, the writers gave them the tsunami arc, thus sealing their bond of being a family. Since then, we see Chris only interacting with Buck in the 118.

Also when Eddie was shot, he was dating Ana, but we didn't even get to see her reaction or how she is comforting his son. Even the conversation of "what would've happened to Chris if Eddie actually died" took place with Buck, not Ana, who Eddie was literally dating.

When Buck was hit by the lightning there was no reason for the scene where Eddie tells Chim that he'll take over pumping Buck's heart. It is just a one second scene and Buck's heart was gonna start either way since he wasn't gonna be killed off, but still they made Eddie make the switch so that he can be the one to pump his heart back to life.

Bathena, Madney, Henren & DavidMichael all have scenes where one's life is threatened and the other is concerned/breaking down (Athena getting beat up, Bobby caught in a fire, Maddie in a hostage situation, Karen's lab getting blown up & David stuck in a hospital during a fire).

Buck and Eddie never get these scenes with their love interests. They only get it with each other (The shooting, tsunami, Eddie getting stuck underground).

At this point, the writers aren't even being subtle. They constantly put them in romantic tropes and parallel them with other main ships.

Bonus: They gave us Tarlos where one guy is Latino & the other is the son of the captain.

[leejenowrld]

hi, it’s me again lol just wanted to ask on how do you pump out creativity like this back to back? esp with back to you’s storyline, just how did you form it??

- 💐

hi angel! this is gonna be a very long response. so ‘back to you’ has always felt so natural for me. i think it’s because i’ve had the core of it in my head for so long—ever since writing ‘love me back,’ i knew i wanted it to be a two-part character study, with mark’s story coming first and jeno’s second. jeno was always going to be the nathan-coded character. i just knew i wanted to push it further—to make it sexier, messier, more mature, something that really explored boundaries and spirals and self-destruction in a way that still felt deeply personal.

i always say this but ideas really just come to me when i’m watching one tree hill. it sounds silly but the show is such a huge inspiration—it gave me the blueprint, and from there, everything just built itself out in layers. when i’m watching scenes from the show, i get these flashes of my characters in those settings or having those conversations, and it kind of snowballs into scenes and arcs and full episodes of their own. sometimes i’ll pause an episode halfway through just to go open my notes and write a scene that’s completely unrelated but emotionally triggered by something brooke, lucas, nathan, haley or peyton said. there’s certain lines + plots that are directly drawn from/heavily influenced from oth too

and ‘back to you’ in particular has grown so much thanks to all the behind-the-scenes stuff i’ve done for it. the moodboards, the lore, answering asks about the characters, creating timelines, writing drabbles, ask the characters, #facts — backtoyou, building family, friendship, sexual dynamics—when i say every single thing is connected, i mean it. there are entire mini arcs and parallel structures in place that haven’t even surfaced yet, but they help keep the story coherent in my head. it’s like i’m constantly talking to the characters—what would jeno do if he saw that? how would y/n react to this? what secret is karina keeping from the group that nobody knows yet? those little questions lead me to huge plot beats.

so yeah. it’s a combination of always visualizing things vividly, pulling inspiration from my favourite stories, and letting the characters tell me where they want to go. and once they start speaking, it doesn’t stop. ‘back to you’ has always felt incredibly natural to me. from the very beginning, i had a clear vision of the world and characters—especially jeno. writing him doesn’t feel challenging or forced; it flows, like i instinctively know how he’d react, how he’d touch, how he’d love, how he’d hurt. i’m comfortable inside his voice, inside his contradictions, and that ease is what’s made the story so long and layered. the ideas never stop. they come to me at night, when i’m walking, in the middle of conversations—because this world lives in me so fully now, it moves on its own.

guys i'm about to drop exclusive never shared before information: the main character in love me back was originally meant to be jaemin, not mark. i wanted it to be him because at the time i didn’t think i could write mark naturally (lol look at me now). but to make the brother dynamic work, i ended up choosing mark because of the “lee” thing. i could’ve done donghyuck, but i just didn’t want to go in that direction for this story. i really wanted jaemin, lmao, but i’m satisfied with making it mark. i never thought i’d be able to write him the way i did—but now, i wouldn’t change a thing. i crafted his characterisation precisely. he’s hot, understated, dominant in an effortless and attractive way. there’s one think about mark that resonates with me. i wanted to show that he’s grown up very loved and wanted despite growing up without his biological father. i wanted to show that he knows what love is, what it looks like, what it’s like to love and to be loved.

and the truth is, the first two chapters of love me back are really short because i didn’t know what the fic was going to become yet. i was still getting a feel for it. but once i saw how people were reacting—how emotionally invested everyone was—it gave me this rush of inspiration. i started brainstorming with friends who love my writing, sending them ideas at 2am, sending them entire character arcs, sketching out outlines with songs and quotes and hypothetical heartbreaks. and from that, ‘back to you’ came alive. it was already alive but it really came alive. that’s why you should always interact with me and send me asks and messages as those who interact are ones i get close to and i talk to them a lot about my fics !!!! for example i became very close with orbi (@hyperbolicheart) after i reached out to her when she commented on ‘love me back’ and since then we haven’t gone a day without speaking about ‘back to you’ i love to give credit and recognition when it’s due. 1 — orbi chose the name of the fic, she suggested ‘back to you’ to me and i loved it. 2 - she’s helped me come up with a lot of essential key plot ideas you guys love through our brainstorming and she’s even come up with some of the plots which i’ve adapted snd included. send me an another ask if you wanna know which ones, if i explained them here if be here forever. 3 - orbi knows how ‘back to you’ will end, she knows how the tl will be, she sees exclusive content and full scenes, she basically knows the plot!!! apart from me, she’s the only one who knows the ending and how each chapter will end and the ins and outs of the plot :))) my point is i love meeting new people so if you’re one of those readers who are too scared to interact with me don’t be!!!

so yeah. a huge part of that flow is because of my love, orbi. we truly do brainstorm and talk about the fic every single day, and her support is everything to me. she doesn’t just listen—she gets it. she reflects things back in such a poetic, achingly beautiful way that it sparks something deeper in me every time. the way she words things? it’s like pulling emotion straight from the center of something intimate and raw. it brings clarity. motivation. the feeling of the story. she understands bty not just intellectually but emotionally, and it makes all the difference. she’s been with me through every messy thought, every twisted plot, every “what if.” and her love has been constant.

also, my discord community and everyone who's ever reblogged, sent an ask, messaged me—you make this universe feel alive. it’s so heartwarming to see the love bty has found. the way people pick up on symbolism, moments, dynamics—it’s surreal. it makes me feel like this world isn’t just something i made—it’s something we’re all in. i write back to you the way i do because i know every corner of it. every in and out. every secret. every heartbreak. this kind of universe-building lets me breathe inside the story, and that’s what makes it special to me. thank you for seeing it, for feeling it, and for loving it back.

[stars-n-spice]

Really fucked up things that could happen in these last two episodes:

We never get wet haired Hunter.

We GET wet haired Hunter but it's either as he's fucking dying or he fucking dies immediately after

Tech stays dead

Tech is ALIVE and he's C2-X (or whatever the hell) but then gets fucking nerfed AGAIN while brainwashed

Crosshair sacrifices himself for his brothers and Omega when they didn't really bother with him for like all of Season 2 (I mean, aside from like maybe Wrecker and Omega who probably would've tried SOMETHING to bring him back)

Wrecker has to watch another one of his brothers die right in front of him AND is in a position where he could've maybe saved them but was unable to

Omega loses all of her brothers

They do another fucking timeskip at the very end of it and we get a parallel to "Victory and Death" with Omega being at their graves

Hemlock DOESN'T get eaten by the zillo beast :(

Show ends and that's it,, fucking we get nothing after that

[purpleajisai]

The history in fiction: Parallels between historical Japan and the Narutoverse

Part 1: The era of the Six Paths

Naruto may not be a historical fiction and most people will think that the utmost historical reference in the series is the fact that ninja were a thing in feudal Japan. But what if I told you that there is an insane amount of historical parallels in the series? That we could actually place the events of the main timeline within real periods of Japanese history? In this two-part series, I’ll be explaining the many parallels, references and design inspirations of the main events and generations that shaped the course of the series that we all know and love. I’ll start with the era of the Six Paths (starting from Kaguya and ending with Indra and Ashura), and part 2 will be about the Warring States (dynamic between the Senju and Uchiha). At the end of each part, I’ll add useful links so that you can deepen your investigation and see my sources. Without further ado, let’s start overanalyzing.

Historical references and parallels in character design and dynamics

I’d place this particular era of the Narutoverse in the Heian period of Japan (or at least the most important people, the brothers Indra and Ashura). Considering that we’re spanning 3 generations here, I’ll separate the individuals involved in the following way:

Kaguya: End of Nara period (710 AD - 784 AD)

Hagoromo and Hamura: Early Heian period (794 AD - 1185 AD)

Indra and Ashura: Heian period (794 AD - 1185 AD)

Kaguya

On a side note, I’d like to add that I’m not really considering Tenji in the list above because he’s an anime only character. However, his case caught my eye so I’ll discuss him as well. Let’s start by evaluating Kaguya and Tenji then. Kaguya’s character design is a very classical archetype of Heian beauty standards and clothing. Long, straight hair with flowy kimono and a delicate face. Her unusual eyebrows are no coincidence as well, as in the Heian period the practice of hikimayu was commonplace in noblewomen. 

"Hiki means "pull" and mayu means "eyebrows". Aristocratic women used to pluck or shave their eyebrows and paint new ones using a powdered ink called haizumi, which was made of soot from sesame or rapeseed oils." (source)

Left: Filler anime episode // Right: Manga panel

Above: Hikimayu through the ages of Japan

Another interesting fact that I’d like to point out is that Kaguya is a character with striking similarity to a Japanese folk tale, in this case the Tale of Princess Kaguya (Kaguyahime no monogatari), whose origin we can trace back to Heian Japan. The Tale of Princess Kaguya tells the story of a little baby girl who “fell from the skies” and was found by a couple of old farmers inside of a bamboo. She grew up to be extremely beautiful and was courted by lots of noblemen, but she rejected them all insisting that somebody would come for her, as she looked at the moon. Of course, Naruto provides us with a different ending to the story but this similarity can’t be overlooked.

Above: "The Receding Princess" from The Japanese Fairy Book, 1908

Moving on to Tenji, it gets a bit more complicated to place him in an exact historical moment as he has elements of many different periods. His hairstyle resembles the styling of the Jomon period, whereas the entire setting in the filler episodes are more similar to the Nara period with the many small kingdoms fighting for dominance within a vast land, just like pre-unification Japan. Therefore, I place Kaguya and Tenji at the end of the Nara period, because we see how Kaguya takes over Tenji’s rulership and is regarded as a noblewoman after she casts the first Infinite Tsukuyomi. I have to rely on some filler in this case because otherwise I can’t find a logical explanation as to why Hagoromo was so well settled and had a large group of people following his teachings if it wasn’t for Kaguya ruling some land that originally belonged to Tenji. 

Hagoromo and Hamura

Let’s start with the second generation. Following the events of the end of the Nara period I quoted in the previous section, Hagoromo and Hamura would go in the beginning of the Heian period. Their character designs feature long, flowy tunics without a visible belt. Here you have an image of men’s clothes through Japanese history, the third one being a feudal lord of the Heian period. Compare and contrast with these anime and manga images.

Above: “Men’s Japanese clothes” by Glimja

Left: Filler anime episode with both // Right: Hagoromo manga panel

Again, since we get very few manga panels related to Hagoromo and his sons, I’ll refer once again to the filler episodes where he is shown as the ruler of a village. The spot within the Heian period in which I’m placing Hagoromo would be around 100 years after the Taika reforms which established one of the first codes of law in Japan and (Taihō code) and divided the country in provinces ruled by feudal lords. Curiously, around the time where the Taika reforms happened, there was an emperor called Tenji. 

Indra and Ashura

The third generation of the alien-human hybrids is here, and I place them in the Heian period as well. My main reason to consider Indra and Ashura in the Heian period is the fact that this is the exact time period where the samurai originate. A common misconception is that a samurai is a Japanese warrior highly trained in the martial arts and weapons. While this statement holds some truth, the samurai were the military social class of feudal Japan, which means that there were people who were of the samurai class but had never touched a weapon in their lives. Therefore, samurai clans were not entirely composed by warriors but also had a number of people who lived a more “civilian” lifestyle. And you may be wondering, “what do the historical samurai have to do with the ninja that we see in Naruto?”. The answer is: more than you think. Historically speaking, the ninja is a samurai specialised in stealth and sneaking, the only difference with the Naruto universe is that the ninja we know and love from the show possess chakra and perform techniques with that. 

The story of Indra and Ashura is strongly tied to the origin of ninja clans in Naruto, just as the Heian period is the origin of the samurai clans. From this time period I’d like to highlight the myth of Minamoto no Yorimitsu, more commonly known as Minamoto no Raiko. His story says that he slayed demons (yes, really) and saved many maidens from being abused by drunk oni with his great sword, Dojigiri Yasutsuna. The difference between myth and legend is that myths hold some kind of historical fact whereas legends are purely fictional. Minamoto no Raiko has been heavily mythified and his story sounds unbelievable or too much like a fantasy story until you realise that he did exist and that his sword is kept in a museum. Doesn’t this resemble how the origins of ninja in Naruto are almost like fantasy stories up until Hagoromo shows up in the 4th war and explains that everything was real all along? 

Above: Ukiyo-e of Minamoto no Raiko and others fighting the demon Shuten Doji.

Just as Minamoto no Raiko is considered the first samurai, Indra could be considered the first shinobi. He was the first to channel and shape chakra to create jutsu, and he was considered as part of the legends surrounding Hagoromo. Please compare these two panel sequences, one is from earlier in the story and the second one is Hagoromo’s version. 

The brothers’ character design can also be correlated with the Heian period. Indra’s eyebrows seem to be real but resemble the hikimayu design of Kaguya’s eyebrows, however he does add eye makeup. The people who wore makeup in the Heian period were nobles (mostly noblewomen), once again reinforcing my point that this family started out as feudal lords and eventually fused with the warrior class, becoming ninja clans. Although the character design for Indra and Ashura isn’t 100% equal to Heian Japan’s male clothing, the inspiration is subtle yet visible. I’d say that the inspiration is mostly for the plot rather than the appearance of the character. If you’d like to see more real Heian period clothing, this link has recreations of the outfits of the characters in the Tale of Genji, by Murasaki Shikibu.

Sources

These are some useful links that I’ve referred to while writing this post. I’d like to invite you to read them if you’d like to do further research on the beautiful history of Japan.

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Tenji

https://www.britannica.com/event/Taika-era-reforms

https://www.japanhousela.com/articles/princess-kaguya-a-tale-for-the-ages

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hikimayu#:~:text=Hiki means "pull" and mayu,from sesame or rapeseed oils.

https://www.thoughtco.com/beauty-in-heian-japan-195557

https://history.hanover.edu/hhr/22/HHR2022miller.pdf

https://www.tumblr.com/heian-collection/30869762024/beauty-ideal-in-heian-japan?source=share

https://thegate12.com/article/264

Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for part 2, the Warring States era. Special thanks to @al-hekima-madara-blog for actually motivating me to write all of this down 💜

[moonsau]

Shu & Fubuki parallels

Some yapping about my favorite duo.

I've seen some posts talking about the parallels of Shu in his Red Eye days, and other bladers who went down the dark path (Aiger, Delta, Lain and Pax), buy never about Shu and his very first student. Which is honestly understandable since once the season takes a bit darker turn, they tend to care less about the side characters. But I just really like Fubuki's character and his relationship with Shu, and once I obsess over something, I notice really weird and small things :). I'll be talking about both similarities and differences in no particular order, so let's dive into it!

Shu as a kid, as we can see in the flashbacks in season one when they talk about knowing Xander/Xhaka, is already a pretty calm person. When we first meet Fubuki, at the end of Evolution/God, he's a pretty cheerful kid. That can also be seen during the flashback Fubuki has in episode 11(?) when he first meets Suoh. Then his personality takes a full 180 and when he's reintroduced in Turbo/Cho-Z, he has more of a calm demeanor, much like Shu in season one. (Both of them are also sassy af, especially Shu in the manga, dude was not holding back)

Both see practicing as the only way to get stronger, or used to in this case. Shu stated in episode 20 of Turbo/Cho-Z that he used to obsess over practicing like Fubuki because he thought that was the only way to get stronger. Fubuki got the idea that you have to work hard to get stronger pretty much the same day he met Shu (flashback of episode 5???). It's hard to say how much Fubuki took what Shu told him to heart as we don't really get to see if he still obsesses over training or not.

Both got hurt and went to America to get stronger. Shu got hurt by Lui twice, got scouted to New York Bulls by Theodor Glass and decided to go by his own decision. Fubuki got hurt by Suoh, his closest friend (and also someone who we could say in a way also resembles Lui. These two resemble Shu and Lui a lot, but I'm gonna yap about that in a different post). The difference here is that Shu asked Fubuki to leave Japan and go to the US (ask is a strong word but yeah).

Another difference is how it went like to both of them in America. Fubuki got Shu's guidance, he had someone to help him through his troubles. But Shu didn't have anyone. The one person he could have trusted was a manipulative asshole adult who took advantage of Shu's anger at that time. Shu didn't have anyone who could guide him and help him get better, instead, what he got was a mask and a person telling him losing wasn't something acceptable. There's a chance that if Shu got the guidance he needed, he wouldn't have turned into Red Eye (I give it 50/50 honestly). Same kind of goes for Fubuki, if he didn't get Shu's guidance, he could have gone down the dark path (or he could have stayed in Japan, hard to say).

Also their roles in the Beigoma BeyClub is very different. Shu would have made a pretty good captain, but he and others chose Valt to be the captain as he was the one who stared the BeyClub. Fubuki got the role of a captain that he later on gave to Toko. It makes me wonder how he got to the point of being the captain in the first place as I can assume they probably started with Toko as a candidate for the captain role but he probably refused and gave it to Fubuki instead because he didn't want to deal with all the expectations others would put on him as Valt's brother (also gonna talk about this in a different post).

I love how their similarities are portrayed in the anime. Can't say much about the manga cuz I don't really remember much of it (hard to translate the whole thing when the translator fails you).

[alexandraisyes]

(I want to preface this saying that this is NOT Nexus hate and that he is my son and I love him and this is just a parallel I drew)

Okay so I desperately want your opinion on this-

Like a month ago I realized that Nexus kind of parallels Solar's Moon????

Like- he went insane after his brother (Nexus called Solar his brother a few times, thats why I'm calling him that) died (both being killed as a side affect of something else. As well as both being "killed" by a type of Eclipse, though two very different types). And he became obsessed with trying to bring him back. Even trying to kill an eclipse to do so, who then ran to a member of the celestial family for help afterwards.

For Nexus, after Solar was killed by ruin (a side affect of killing the creators), he tried his best to bring him back. He started to go insane and hallucinate, desprate to bring him back. I'm pretty sure he tried to use Eclipse to bring him back?? I stopped watching at that point so idk. But I do know something went down between the two and then he ran to Earth.

For Solar's Moon, after Sun died (a side affect of the two seperating), he started to despratley try to bring him back, not letting him die. Im pretty sure he tried to kill Solar to bring him back?? I dont exactly remember but I remember he tried to use him to bring him back using his old body and stuff. And it got so bad he had to leave and ran to Nexus-

Maybe its just a coincidence?? But I've been thinking about how similar those two are- though whats going on with Nexus and Dark Sun is pretty different. Its not the same situation at all! Just- kind of similar?? Maybe I'm just going crazy, but idk-

(I also apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes im so tired)

God this is so old

And yeah actually uhm I've definitely used this comparison before.

My only argument is that Solar wasn't Nexus's "Sun" or brother-figure that was keeping him together, and that Nexus would've gone insane anyways (as we saw in the what if episode there was only one possibility of Nexus not going insane). And that's because Nexus's Sun was Sun, but Sun shoved him away thumbs up emote because he was trying to cope with losing his Moon.

Moons need Suns to keep them stable, and without it everything goes to shit.

I never finished watching the Nexus arc, but I do know the basics of how it ended, and yeagh. Uhm. Blame Sun teehee.

Nexus would have gone insane regardless because his Sun didn't really want him. Yippee!