#something interesting in focusing on a mirror without the reflection

[weeville]

life of the inanimate pt. I

[captainmalewriter]

Just Like Him

Lewis stood in front of his bathroom mirror with an ancient tome full of magic spells in hand. He had stolen it from an antique bookstore just the other day. All it took was slipping the book into his jacket as he walked out the door. Now, a world full of powerful magic opened up to him- and without ANY restrictions.

Lewis grinned as he mentally rehearsed the incantation he was about to cast. He couldn't decide what spell to cast first, but after hitting the gym that morning, Lewis knew exactly which one he wanted to use. He wanted to steal the appearance of the handsome gym bro he saw at the gym. In Lewis' mind, Darwin was the embodiment of a perfect man. Good looks, bulky body, cute face with a full beard... No doubt a man like him could get any woman or man he wanted. Lewis knew he liked Darwin from the moment he saw him. But his attraction went beyond just the physical. His lust was infused with intense envy. Lewis wanted nothing more to become Darwin and was ready to use magic to accomplish that. Surely, his luck in the dating world would increase tenfold with a body and face like Darwin's.

Feeling determined, Lewis took a quick breath then set the book down. He focused on his reflection in the mirror, then recited the spell from the ancient tome.

serised ym fo tcejbo eht emoceb i llit ydob ym mrofsnart wen eht htiw ni dlo eht htiw tou

Once he recited the last syllable, a wave of nausea hit him like a semi truck. His face tingled as stubble along his jawline came in. Lewis was never able to grow much facial hair, but that changed thanks to the magic spell. Stubble soon became a full beard and thick mustache as seconds on the clock ticked away. Lewis smirked at himself as his face morphed to match his gym crush. Within minutes, his original face was gone and in its place was the hot Filipino Darwin.

Then, he felt a sudden tenderness in his chest area. Lewis had always been a rather thin, flat-chested man. His pectoral muscles were growing at an explosive speed. Lewis bounced in place his pecs grew heavier and heavier, causing them to jiggle from their newfound heft. Loud, whiny moans left Lewis' lips as he pinched his sensitive nips. His torso thickened up with mass too until his body filled in the baggy wife beater he was wearing. Yet despite growing bigger, his body fat percentage remained low, giving Lewis the physique of a big, cuddly man with visible ab lines but still had plenty for a lover to grab and play with.

"OHHHH FUCKK MANNN!!!"

Lewis cried out with delight as he felt a surge of blood rush to his groin. No doubt it was just a physical reaction to the magic hitting the lower half of his body. He became fully erect within seconds, but something felt inexplicably off. Lewis was blessed with a well-endowed cock. He knew how his big tool sat in his pants when he was hard. It didn't feel the same this time. With bated breath, Lewis pulled out his underwear and took a peek at his- or rather, Darwin's tool. His jaw dropped when he saw his once 7.5 inch monster shrink until it was just slightly below average at around 5 inches.

"What the fuck? Nooo..."

Lewis was powerless to stop the shrinking. He wanted to become an exact copy of Darwin after all, and like a computer program, the spell he cast was just doing its job.

But while Lewis was focused on his new package, his butt began growing bigger and rounder until he had the perfect bubble butt of a man who never skipped leg day at the gym. The elastic waistbands of his briefs and sweats stretched out a bit as they had to accommodate his new dump truck. Darwin had an ass that turned heads when he walked into the room. Lewis himself knew how true this was. He couldn't help but take a good, long look or two (or three) as Darwin hit his squats. But as mouthwatering Darwin's butt was, Lewis was a total top. He was more interested in putting Darwin's tool to work than having someone lay it down on him.

Or so he thought. As his ass became the perfect size and firmness, Lewis' thought patterns began changing too. Suddenly, all he could think about was finding a long, girthy cock to tame his hungry hole. Dreams and ideals of a monogamous relationship were erased from his mind and in their place was Darwin's burning desire as a power bottom to be used and bred by any attractive man he came across. Just imagining taking backstrokes from a gang of big, strong men making his cheeks clap with every thrust was enough to make Lewis drip with pre. Soon enough, Lewis had become a perfect copy of Darwin just like he wanted. Both in body, and in horny mind.

[riemanifests]

Manifestation is a synonym for reflection.

Warning: this is a going to be a long post!

i feel like so many manifestors have truly lost the plot for what manifestation is. a lot of people don't understand that it's just another word for reflection, so hopefully this will help some of you. also, i mean reflection in terms of the 3d being a mirror of the 4d.

┈┈ 　⊹　The relationship between the 4d and the 3d

The 4d: the inner reality which is the source for the 3d. The 3d: the outer reality which is a reflection of the 4d. Exist in Mind = Exist in reality Exist in Mind -> Exist in reality Let's say a scene of you seeing a red car, a scene of your Sp texting you, and a scene of you having a donut all exist in your mind right now. If you kept those scenes alive in your imagination, that will result in a red car driving past you, your sp texting you, and you having that donut all in reality. That is what you call manifestation. also you are not in charge of making the 3d reflect the 4d and you don't even need to make that happen because it just does. the 3d is always reflecting the 4d and it does that on its own. so remove the added stress on yourself of worrying about "omg how can i get reality to reflect this", no, place the focus back on you.

┈┈ 　⊹　Causality

Cause = Mind Effect = Reality Cause -> Effect Mind -> Reality

Cause: you persisted in having a job Effect: you got a job Cause: you persisted in being unloved Effect: you're unloved by those around you Cause: you persisted in your Sp texting you Effect: your sp texted you can you change an effect with an effect? no. can you change an effect without changing the cause? no. can you get an effect without having the cause? no. so for those of you who are so stubborn about removing your focus from the 3d and just focusing on changing your mind, realize you are in your own fucking way. just do the work change the cause and you will experience a different effect. and again, please stop worrying and giving into the fear that you will not get the desired effect even with the desired cause. that just doesn't make sense. it is guaranteed that whatever exists in your mind will exist in your reality. that is the law.

┈┈ 　⊹　You don't need physical action.

think about those who try to change reality with physical action but never succeed because their mindset contradicts the action. they're trying to cause something to happen by changing the effect while keeping the cause the same. Cause leads to effect, always. Mind leads to reality, always. that is why we don't need to take physical action, because it's not about reality, it's about you. "You cant solve a mental problem with a physical solution" - Nero Knowledge. If your mindset is always like "Sp has no interest in me and Sp will never love me", then even if you follow your Sp's page or messaged them, you're still going to end up with a reality that reflects your mindset. so instead of wasting all of your time, focus, and effort on changing things with physical action, change them with mental action. and this is also why some people try to use methods like the 369 method but never end up with their desires, because their mindset towards it still hasn't changed. you can play all of the subliminals in the world and script all you want, but if your mind is against those things and hasn't changed, then don't expect reality to change.

┈┈ 　⊹　Manifestation

From the dictionary: an event, action, or object that clearly shows or embodies something, especially a theory or an abstract idea. Manifestation: When something from the mind is physically expressed into reality. other ways you can think about it is something intangible turning into the tangible or exists mentally = exists physically. think about a printer as well. reality is the printed copy of your mind. your mind is the original and reality is the copy. when reality copies the original, that is manifestation. manifestation is actually really easy and something that you don't even need to figure out how to do. your mind is a manifestation machine that works already. all you need to do is focus on what you want manifested.

┈┈ 　⊹　Extra Notes about Manifestation

you are always manifesting: manifestation isn't something you turn on or off. even if you don't feel like it or you're not intentionally doing it, you're always manifesting. your mind already knows how to manifest for you: so let it. stop trying to take it's job of figuring out how you're going to manifest something, and do your job of focusing on what you want manifested. you can manifest anything: if it can exist in your mind, then it can exist in reality. the only limits you have to what you can manifest are the ones you place upon yourself. it doesn't have to exist in reality first: it's actually the opposite, for something to exist in reality it must first exist in the mind. so if right now you don't see it or have it in reality, that's okay. all you need is to see it and have it in your mind for reality to reflect that.

┈┈ 　⊹　How to manifest

for this i'll use the example of manifesting an Sp and a phone. step one: figure out what it is you want - for my sp to text me - to get a new phone

step two: figure out how you can make this exist in your mind - for the text ill just visualize it happening every time i think about it - for the phone ill just talk to myself about it every time i think about it step three: focus on it existing and being done in your mind - every time i think about the text ill continuously remind myself that i got it by visualizing it. - this is me focusing on it already being done. - every time i think about the phone ill continuously remind myself that i have it by talking to myself about how much i love it. that's literally all you have to do. the rest is for your mind to handle, but either way all you need to do is focus on what you do want manifested. since it exists in your mind it will exist in reality. just let it exist in your mind be aware of the fact that it's yours now and stick to that. reality will reflect your mind as it always has and always will.

[croisants]

New Coach (2)

Read part 1 here:

Tyler couldn’t sleep.

Not since that night in the gym.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Coach Vance standing in that spotlight at center court—those cold, knowing eyes, the way he just appeared like a phantom. And Ethan… the way he vanished without a trace.

It didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t supposed to make sense.

But nothing had felt right since.

---

Practice the next day was brutal. Coach Vance didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. His silence had weight. His presence pressed down on the team like gravity, and no one felt it more than Tyler.

Every missed shot earned him a glare. Every foul, a cold word.

“Focus, Stanton.”

“Again.”

“You’re not special.”

The team started noticing.

Dylan and Reed, once loyal shadows, now avoided eye contact. Marcus whispered behind Tyler’s back.

“He’s slipping.”

“He used to carry the team.”

“What happened to him?”

Tyler heard it all. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, faster, rougher. But the more he tried to prove himself, the more Coach Vance seemed unimpressed.

And the worst part?

Ethan was still around.

Just quietly moving through the halls. Attending class like nothing ever happened. Too quiet. Too calm. And sometimes—smiling.

Like he knew something Tyler didn’t.

---

Tyler confronted Dylan in the locker room.

“You notice anything weird about Coach?”

Dylan shrugged, tugging on his hoodie. “Weird how?”

Tyler leaned in. “Like... the way he looks at me. Like he knows stuff. Like he’s... following me.”

Dylan blinked. “Dude. Are you serious?”

“I’m not paranoid. Something’s off.” Tyler’s voice dropped. “Ethan was there that night. I chased him into the gym. He vanished. And then Coach Vance showed up. Out of nowhere.”

“You’re freaking out over nothing,” Dylan muttered, heading for the exit.

Tyler didn’t follow. He stared at his own reflection in the locker mirror—bags under his eyes, tension in his jaw, doubt in every line of his face.

For the first time, Tyler looked small.

---

Coach Vance stood in the hallway just outside Principal Avery’s office, arms crossed.

“I just want to do what’s best for the team,” he said. “Tyler Stanton isn’t focused. His attitude is affecting the others.”

Avery nodded slowly. “He’s been the star for years... but if you think he’s slipping—”

“I’m not interested in stars,” Vance said. “I’m interested in discipline.”

Avery sighed. “Do what you think is best, Coach.”

As the door shut behind him, Coach Vance smiled faintly.

---

That night, after everyone had cleared out, Tyler stayed late in the gym. Shooting alone. Working out anger with every bounce of the ball.

Coach Vance didn’t leave either.

He stood off to the side, watching silently, arms folded.

Tyler tried to ignore him.

“You’ve got talent,” Vance finally said.

Tyler didn’t answer.

“But you let your ego get in the way.”

He dribbled once. “Is this another lecture?”

Vance stepped onto the court, calm and collected.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice smooth, “You’re worried about the wrong people.”

He bounced the ball once, staring at the rim.

“That kid Ethan? Always hiding at the back of class. Stays quiet. Doesn’t make waves. Not the type to make moves on his own.”

Tyler frowned. “You know him?”

Vance smirked. “I know everyone worth watching.”

He shot the ball. Clean swish.

“Some people are made to follow,” he added quietly. “Not to lead.”

Then he walked off, leaving Tyler alone with the echoes.

---

It started with a nickname.

At the end of a long drill set, Marcus, panting and grinning, slapped Coach Vance on the back.

“Man, you’re a beast, Coach.”

Vance raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

Laughter echoed across the gym. Reed joined in. “Definitely a compliment.”

“Coach Beast,” Dylan added, chuckling.

From the far end of the bench, Tyler watched them laugh with a clenched jaw. That used to be him. They used to laugh like that with him.

Now?

They barely looked at him.

Practice was different now. Not easier—smarter. Vance had the team moving as a unit. Fast rotations. Precise shots. Discipline. The drills were brutal, but the players loved the results. Even the faculty noticed the change.

The team was winning scrimmages.

Players were improving.

And Tyler?

Tyler was floundering.

His shots were off. His rhythm was gone. His confidence shattered.

Worse, Vance wasn’t even cruel to him anymore. No taunts. No punishments. Just... silence. Indifference.

It was like he didn’t exist.

And that, somehow, hurt more.

---

That night, Tyler stayed behind after everyone else left. The gym was empty, the echo of bouncing balls long faded.

He stood in front of the coach’s office door, heart pounding.

He had to know.

He opened the door slowly.

The office was organized. Almost... sterile. No photos. No clutter. A whistle hanging on a hook. A clipboard on the desk. And one item that caught his eye—

A metal locker with a combination dial.

Tyler glanced over his shoulder, then approached it. He spun the dial, trying the basics—birthdays, jersey numbers, anything.

Nothing.

Then he noticed something odd: a thin trail of dirt under the locker. Like it had been moved.

He crouched down and peeked behind it.

A duffel bag.

Shoved into the wall gap, just out of sight.

He pulled it out.

Inside: extra gym clothes... a second pair of shoes... protein bars... and then, buried beneath a hoodie—

A pair of glasses.

Tyler’s breath caught.

Not just any glasses.

Ethan’s glasses.

The exact kind. Same frame. Same style.

He pulled them out with shaking hands.

“What the hell...”

---

Meanwhile...

Coach Vance stood in front of the mirror in the locker room, slowly rolling his neck. His transformation was nearly complete—broad chest, veined arms, military-perfect jawline. But his eyes remained sharp. Focused.

He smiled faintly.

Tomorrow, he'd be joining the team in their first public game. The parents. The press. All eyes would be on Coach Vance.

And Tyler?

Tyler would either break completely...

Or try to fight back.

Either way, Ethan was ready.

This wasn’t just revenge anymore.

It was evolution.

---

Tyler didn’t sleep.

The glasses sat on his desk like a loaded gun. He stared at them through most of the night, running every memory of Ethan through his mind—his face, his size, his voice, his fear. Then Coach Vance’s. The same hair. The same cold stare. The exact opposite of fear.

But no one would believe him.

Not unless he made them.

---

The next day, in the locker room before the game, Tyler confronted Marcus and Dylan.

“I need to talk to you.”

Dylan zipped up his duffel bag. “Yeah?”

Tyler looked around, lowered his voice. “There’s something wrong with Coach Vance.”

Marcus frowned. “You’re still on this?”

“I found something in his office,” Tyler whispered, pulling the glasses from his jacket pocket. “Recognize these?”

Marcus blinked. “Uh... glasses?”

“They’re Ethan’s. Vance showed up after he left, right? You don’t think that’s weird?”

“Bro,” Dylan said, backing away a little, “You’re acting insane. Just let it go.”

“I’m not—” Tyler stopped himself, realizing his voice had risen. He looked around. A few other players were watching now. Not with concern—just judgment.

Coach Vance entered the locker room a moment later, all calm authority and quiet command.

“Five minutes, boys. Get your heads in the game.”

He glanced at Tyler briefly. No emotion. No fear.

Just that slight... knowing curve of the lips.

Like he knew Tyler was spiraling.

And was enjoying every second.

---

On the court, the bleachers were packed. Students, parents, faculty. The air buzzed with energy. It was their first big home game—and for the first time in weeks, the team was functioning like a machine.

Coach Vance stood on the sidelines, arms folded, barking out plays with perfect precision.

The team executed flawlessly.

Tyler, meanwhile, fumbled three passes in the first quarter alone. He wasn’t focused. His hands were sweating. Every time he looked at Coach Vance, the world felt like it tilted slightly sideways.

Midway through the second quarter, Coach subbed him out.

“Bench,” Vance said flatly.

“But I—”

“Bench.”

Tyler sat, seething.

And right beside him, Ethan’s favorite empty seat on the bench caught his eye.

The team had already moved on.

---

After the game—another win—Tyler tried one last thing.

He waited for Coach to head into the showers.

Then he followed.

The steam was thick, fogging the mirrors. Tyler stood outside the stall and called out.

“I know who you are.”

A pause.

Then, calmly:

“Do you?”

Tyler’s fists clenched. “You’re not real. You’re not Vance. You’re—”

He stopped.

Because standing in the mist... wasn’t Coach Vance anymore.

It was Ethan.

Just for a second.

Bare-chested, slim, glasses on.

Then—like a blink—it was Vance again.

Massive. Towering. Unshakable.

Tyler staggered back.

But when he looked again—

There was no one there.

Just the hiss of the shower.

The whisper of steam.

And Tyler’s reflection in the mirror, pale and shaking.

"Ethan-fucking-Nerd is Coach Vance?!"

---

The gym was packed wall to wall.

It was Spirit Day at Bellridge High, and that meant banners, loud music, and a crowd of students and faculty buzzing with energy. The basketball team was being honored at halftime for their winning streak, and Coach Vance was the star of the hour—students chanting his name, parents lining up to shake his hand.

Tyler sat on the edge of the bleachers, bouncing his knee, palms sweaty.

This was it.

He’d spent the last two nights collecting what little he had—photos of Ethan, the glasses, the schedule changes that lined up too perfectly. He even dug up the school’s employment records. No official hire file. No background check. No Vance.

No one had listened yet.

But today, they would.

---

“Give it up for your Bellridge Panthers!” the announcer called out.

The crowd roared. Music blasted. One by one, the players jogged onto the court. Tyler dragged himself behind the others, barely clapping.

Then came Coach Vance, stepping into the spotlight like he owned it.

And he did.

The man looked every bit the war god—towering, chiseled, calm. He smiled to the crowd, nodding with effortless authority.

Then the microphone was handed to him.

“I just want to say,” Vance began, voice smooth and deep, “I’m proud of these boys. Not just because they win—but because they’ve learned what it means to be a team. That takes more than talent. It takes trust.”

The crowd clapped again.

And Tyler snapped.

He stood. “That’s enough.”

Vance slowly turned toward him.

All eyes did.

Tyler stepped forward, jaw tight, voice shaking with rage and fear.

“He’s lying. He’s not who you think he is. He’s not even real.”

The room quieted.

Whispers rose like smoke.

Vance blinked once. Calm. Perfectly still. “Tyler?”

“He’s not Coach Vance!” Tyler shouted. “He’s a student named Ethan! He shapeshifts or—or does something, I don’t know how, but I saw him change. He’s been playing us all!”

Silence.

Then—soft laughter.

A teacher murmured, “Is he serious?”

Dylan buried his face in his hands. Marcus took a step back. A girl in the crowd whispered, “Did he say shapeshift?”

Vance handed the microphone to the assistant principal and took a step toward Tyler, raising his hands gently like a calm parent approaching a child.

“Tyler. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. If something’s wrong—”

“Don’t gaslight me!” Tyler snapped. “You’re doing it again—making me look crazy!”

“Tyler,” the assistant principal said carefully, stepping up beside Vance, “maybe you should come with us. We can talk this out privately.”

“I’m not crazy! Ask him where he came from! Check the records! Ask Ethan’s teachers! He just vanished!”

The principal leaned toward the mic. “That’s enough, Tyler.”

Security moved in from the side.

Tyler backed up, voice cracking. “Why won’t anyone listen?! He’s right there! It’s him!”

And Coach Vance just stood there.

Arms folded.

Expression... sympathetic.

No anger. No denial.

Because he didn’t need to fight.

Tyler was doing all the damage himself.

---

Minutes later, Tyler sat alone in the nurse’s office, hands trembling, heart pounding against his ribs.

He could still hear the laughter. The looks. The pity.

He’d never felt smaller.

He looked up—and through the small window in the door, someone stood watching.

Coach Vance.

Just for a second.

He smiled.

And walked away.

---

The silence was worse than the laughter.

For two days, Tyler didn’t go to practice. Didn’t check his phone. He skipped classes and ignored every knock at his bedroom door.

His parents spoke in hushed voices downstairs, like he’d broken something inside himself. They didn’t get it. No one did.

He wasn’t crazy.

He saw it. Felt it.

Coach Vance wasn’t real.

But Ethan was still at school.

And that made it worse.

---

Every morning, Ethan sat two rows ahead in English class. Same hoodie, same glasses. Quiet. Shy. He still dropped his books sometimes. Still got picked last in gym. He was the same forgettable nobody he’d always been.

Except Tyler knew better now.

He’d seen behind the curtain.

Because every afternoon, when Ethan “went home,” Coach Vance took over.

The towering presence. The commanding voice. The man who ran the court like a general.

They weren’t similar.

They were the same person.

Tyler knew it. He just didn’t know how.

And yet... no one else noticed.

Not the teachers. Not the students. Not even Dylan or Marcus. If anything, they seemed to like Ethan more now—like sympathy had grown around him after the meltdown.

“Poor kid,” he overheard a girl say. “Tyler basically accused him of being a shapeshifting basketball coach. That’s trauma.”

Ethan played his part perfectly. Timid smile. Books clutched tight. He never made eye contact with Tyler.

But sometimes, when Tyler passed by... he could feel Ethan looking.

And smirking.

---

Three days after the assembly, Tyler returned to the gym alone.

He stared up at the rafters, remembering what it felt like to own this place. To be the center. The king.

Now, he wasn’t even allowed to practice.

He sat on the court, knees pulled to his chest, thinking about quitting it all. Leaving the team. Transferring schools. Running.

Then he saw it.

A poster taped to the wall.

A flyer for the final game.

Coach Vance’s face in full color—smiling, perfect, celebrated.

But someone had scrawled across it in red marker:

“LIAR.”

The ink was fresh. Smudged. New.

Tyler stared at it for a long moment.

Someone else saw it too.

Someone else didn’t believe the story.

He wasn’t alone.

And maybe...it wasn’t over yet.

Tyler was about to turn away from the vandalized poster when he felt it—

That weight.

Not a noise. Not a shadow.

Just the subtle, unmistakable feeling of being watched by someone who wasn't supposed to exist.

He turned.

And saw him.

A figure sitting halfway up the bleachers, still as stone beneath the dim orange floodlight. Hood up. Elbows resting on his knees. One leg stretched out, the other bent lazily like a throne had been carved just for him.

At first, he thought he was imagining things.

He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t on his phone.

He was just... watching.

Waiting.

Tyler’s stomach tightened.

The guy stood.

He moved like he’d been choreographed—graceful, grounded. Six-foot-two, maybe six-three, built like someone who trained, but didn’t have to show it off. Broad shoulders, long limbs, a kind of tension in the way he walked that made it look like he was always holding back power.

His hoodie clung to him like it knew it was lucky to be there.

Then he stepped into the light.

The hood fell just enough to reveal a sharp jaw, a faint scar on his lower lip, and eyes the color of lightning storms—gray-blue, cut with precision, and far too calm for a teenager.

Tyler blinked.

He looked maybe eighteen.

But felt… older.

Too still. Too composed.

Too familiar.

He gave Tyler a slow once-over, like he was measuring the damage already done.

“Rough week?” he asked, voice a smooth rasp—low, confident, intimate, like it was only meant to be heard by one person.

Tyler didn’t answer.

The guy took one step closer.

“Name’s Shane,” he said, extending a hand. “Late senior. Just transferred in.”

Tyler looked at the hand, then at the stranger.

This didn’t feel like meeting a student.

It felt like being recruited.

Still, he took it.

Shane’s grip was firm, steady. The kind of handshake that didn’t just say I see you—

It said: I already knew you'd come.

They let go.

And then, just before Shane turned away, he said it.

Calm. Direct. Like it was obvious.

“You’re not crazy, Tyler.”

“I believe you.”

Tyler froze.

No one had said that to him.

Not once.

Not since Vance arrived. Since everything twisted sideways.

And Shane just... did.

With total confidence.

Like he didn’t even need to be convinced.

Like he’d known all along.

Shane stepped back into the shadows.

Then he leaned close—just enough for the words to graze Tyler’s ear, warm and electric.

“If you ever want the truth,...

...you’ll have to dig for it.”

Then he disappeared behind the bleacher’s edge.

Like he’d never been there at all.

Part 3 - End

[aventurineswife]

Hello!!! Can I request cooking a culturally significant dish for Ratio, Aven, and Sunday? You can make it specific or leave it ambiguous, whichever is easier for you. Hope you have a delightful rest of your day <3

A Taste of Hope

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Fluff, Cooking, Cultural Significance, Domesticity, Comfort, Introspection, Humor.

Warnings: Mild Emotional Introspection.

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The kitchen was warm, the air filled with the scent of spices and herbs as you carefully arranged the ingredients for the dish you’d chosen to make for Ratio. It was a complex recipe, a dish known for its deep cultural significance. The dish required patience, precision, and a certain reverence that mirrored the dedication Ratio had toward knowledge.

You felt his presence before you saw him, his sharp footsteps echoing in the corridor, accompanied by his usual air of focused intellectual energy. He entered the kitchen, giving you a curious glance, his eyes assessing the spread of ingredients on the counter with subtle disdain.

“Is this… an experiment?” he asked, voice smooth, but there was an underlying amusement in his tone.

You smiled, shaking your head, and began to explain the history and significance of the dish. "It's a dish that's been passed down in my family for generations. It's a delicate balance of flavors, often served during times of reflection and contemplation. It’s considered a symbol of unity and peace."

Ratio stood still, eyes locked onto your every movement. His expression softened slightly as you continued your explanation, though it was still hard to read the thoughts racing behind his brilliant eyes.

“I see. And you expect me to—” He paused, his gaze flickering from the ingredients to you, perhaps realizing the dedication involved in cooking it. "Very well. I trust you know what you're doing."

The next hour was a dance between precision and a subtle patience, which Ratio rarely exhibited in anything other than his intellectual pursuits. He stood by, observing you, offering the occasional critique about the cooking techniques, his voice laced with his usual arrogance, though not without a hint of admiration for your careful execution.

By the time the dish was finished, the room was heavy with the aroma of slow-cooked herbs and the rich, inviting color of the ingredients. You plated it carefully, ensuring it looked just as beautiful as it tasted.

Ratio raised an eyebrow as he took the first bite, his eyes narrowing as he processed the complex flavors. For a moment, he was quiet, too absorbed in the taste to speak.

“It’s… satisfactory," he admitted, though the subtle softness in his voice revealed a degree of approval that few could ever hope to get from him. "The balance of flavors is commendable. Perhaps there is more to these ‘cultural dishes’ than I initially believed."

You smiled, knowing that for all his intellect, Ratio could always be surprised by the richness of the world beyond his academic pursuits.

The atmosphere in the kitchen felt alive with the hum of excitement, a reflection of the high-stakes world Aventurine lived in. Yet, today, there was a different kind of thrill in the air—one that didn't involve strategy, manipulation, or chance. You were preparing a dish, one with deep cultural roots, one that spoke of history, tradition, and a kind of comfort that seemed distant from the high-octane life Aventurine led.

Aventurine entered the kitchen with his usual charismatic flair, his eyes taking in the space as if measuring the odds. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a playful grin on his face. "Well, well, what have we here? I never pegged you for a cook."

You glanced over at him, grinning back. "It’s a special dish, from my culture. It holds a lot of significance, and I thought it would be something worth sharing with you."

His eyes gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "Interesting. And what's so special about it, hmm? Does it come with a gamble?"

You chuckled, shaking your head as you began to explain the cultural importance of the dish—a hearty, rich meal that had been prepared for generations during celebrations of triumph and remembrance. It was a symbol of resilience, unity, and connection.

He watched, intrigued, though his usual cocky demeanor lingered. "A meal of victory and unity? Sounds almost too… idealistic. I’m not sure if it’ll fit my taste."

But you saw the brief flicker of interest in his eyes as you worked. Despite his usual bravado, you knew that the idea of tradition and resilience would resonate with him, even if he didn’t admit it. After all, he had lived a life shaped by loss, survival, and the need to always stay one step ahead.

As the dish simmered, filling the air with an aroma that seemed to evoke something nostalgic in him, Aventurine couldn't resist drawing closer. "The trick to this, I suppose, is in the details. But let’s see if it lives up to the hype, shall we?"

The moment you presented the dish, he didn’t hesitate. His smile, that ever-present mask of confidence, faltered for just a second as the flavors hit him. You couldn’t help but notice the way he paused, his eyes closing briefly in contemplation before opening to lock onto yours.

“Well, well,” he said, his grin returning but softer now, more genuine. “I have to admit, this is… unexpectedly good.” He leaned back, clearly savoring the moment. “And I suppose there’s more to culture than just games.”

You watched him with a sense of quiet satisfaction, knowing you had brought him closer to something real, something that wasn’t just calculated or risked.

The room was dim, with only the soft glow of the kitchen lights casting long shadows on the walls. Sunday had been quietly watching you as you prepared the meal, the delicate aroma of herbs and spices filling the air. It was a dish that held deep meaning—a tradition passed down in your family for generations, one that had long been a symbol of peace, healing, and the collective bond between people.

His eyes followed every movement with a quiet intensity. He wasn’t one to speak much, his presence often more like a comforting, serene weight in the room. Yet, there was something in his expression tonight—something tender as you prepared the dish.

When you noticed his gaze, you turned to him, smiling softly. “This is a dish from my culture. It’s meant to bring people together, to restore balance and healing.”

His wings fluttered lightly, a subtle sign of curiosity, and perhaps something deeper—an unspoken connection. "It is always... fascinating," he said, his voice gentle but tinged with a faraway sadness, "how food can carry such weight, such purpose, beyond sustenance."

You explained further, describing how the dish had been used during important community rituals, a symbol of shared history and harmony.

Sunday seemed to absorb your words as though they were precious. He took a slow step closer, intrigued by the care and effort you were putting into this meal. He had long been haunted by the idea of creating harmony, but his past experiences—especially with the Sweetdream Paradise—had tainted his belief in such ideals.

The final dish was plated, its vibrant colors and comforting scent filling the space between you. You could see that Sunday was deeply moved, though his usually composed demeanor remained. His wings were held slightly lower than usual, a sign that he was letting down his guard.

"Thank you," he whispered softly, his eyes reflecting a quiet sincerity. "This… it is a reminder, perhaps, that even in this world of suffering, there are moments of peace."

You nodded, offering him the first bite, and watched as he closed his eyes for a moment. The taste seemed to carry him away to a place of quiet contemplation. "There is a certain grace to this," he murmured, his voice filled with both appreciation and a tinge of melancholy. "A grace that I... once thought was unattainable."

You stood beside him, knowing that, in this simple act, you had helped him reconnect with something he had long buried—hope.

[nights-at-crystarium]

Fragments - episodes 47-52 author notes

You can find similar breakdown posts on older episodes in my pinned!

Time to recap the first proper wolgraha miniarc. See what you might’ve missed, or simply enjoy the extra content in form of my rambling.

47 stands out as a bit disconnected, floaty, introspective episode fully focusing on Exarch’s pov. I’ve scattered some breadcrumbs for him throughout the entire comic, time to pick those up. He may be an oblivious fool in certain moments, but I believe he wouldn’t keep insisting on staying deaf and blind when evidence’s shoved in his face. So, this moment of recollection and rethinking marks the start of the canon divergence, all of his future actions are colored by this.

Vivi has a dire effect on some people even without trying to manipulate them.

The composition forms a star here :3c

This panel should make their likeness even more obvious, they’re mirror reflections, albeit deliciously twisted ones. Also, the V sign is literally something that Vivi. Just. Does.

Exarch's heard from Vivi himself that they might be the same, Urianger literally tells him to go to a mirror and ponder, but when he does, and tries to look a bit more like he imagines Vivi, he can't stand what he sees in the mirror. They still aren't the same in his heart of hearts, even if reality itself tries to prove otherwise.

Hidden Angst Time! I can only hope that most readers are familiar with the flashback bubbles by now, and that this panel reads as it should: Feo Ul embraces Exarch while pointing out that they’re also being ostracized by their kind. Though the ultimate fae wisdom lies in accepting something the way it is, and just not caring too much.

More under the cut~ 

*rewinds all the way back to episode 1* hehe

“Does a hero have to be happy about his job” is one of my personal fav lines so far, I think it hits hard, pointing not only at Vivi, but at Exarch as well, and the visual supports it. I think this encapsulates Exarch’s ideology.

Exarch’s GASP could be interpreted as saying GASP out loud, which only makes it funnier.

Vivi carefully plans his entrance in order to make the atmosphere less formal. Approaching normally just wouldn’t do it. Also he just feels relaxed and safe to be silly. Remember how lowkey he was since his arrival to the First? His behavior all but contradicted what I said and showed about him in the ARR arc and outside of the comic.

Well, that’s in the past now. He’s finished assessing the situation and concluded that it’s okay to be more himself.

Feo Ul's upset that Exarch used his “radar” to detect Vivi’s ambush while they’d just used a similar ability to make sure that no emet-selchs are around.

If you catch a flirty vibe from Vivi in this episode, you're correct.

Vivi when he's remotely interested in a man:

My flavor of lampshading the obvious exposition dump. Oh Exarch, you asked for this, no take-backsies.

Another few hard-hitting questions from Exarch. It's easy to gloss over these, but if you slow down and think, it's decent angst material. Has anyone ever been concerned about Vivi's feelings, or was it more convenient to look away, even if intently, even if both sides knew they're better off not talking about that, for there's indeed no wol replacement. What good does acknowledging the situation if you can’t change it.

This's Vivi's memory, thus he appears small against the looming forms of the world leaders. Rigid, formal, impersonal. Raha's memories of the Ironworks seem to have a different vibe, despite all the parallels of the duty imposed by the world on one special guy. Also yeah I do wanna make my own version of the 8UC timeline and characters someday, for now these are just random characters that I consider as placeholders. And the dunmeshi cameo x’D

Yes, he mocks the people that he's saved. He's VERY frustrated with his job.

I offer you a fun game: spot all the mannerisms that make Vivi and Emet so alike. I genuinely never thought about this until this year, while this scene's pretty damn old, i.e. Vivi's always been like this, it precedes my Emet brainrot.

I swear that this line also was there before my Emet brainrot, but now it makes for a hilarious kind of foreshadowing.

You could already tell how "fit" he is for solving trolley problems.

This’s his “oops I talked too much shit” face.

The way Exarch just quietly TURNS and LOOKS at Vivi cracks me up. Don't undermine the tone with random jokes, dammit. But is this random? I’ve already analyzed this moment somewhere but for the sake of keeping important things in one place: they wrestle for control here. Exarch winds up for something serious, while Vivi wants to steer the convo towards more casual. It does somewhat lower the tension, though Exarch doesn’t relinquish his lead in the convo.

This doesn’t save him from becoming Frank forever from here on.

This miniarc’s rich with raw, hard-hitting words, so I’ll bring this up again.

We’re finally getting the explanation and context for a lot of previous episodes:

And the following episodes only help driving this point home. Vivi already sees the First as a viable escape from the Source with all of its shitty people and endless problems.

"This's why I... enjoy my time away from the Source": even at this seemingly high level of trust between them Vivi won't openly tell Exarch about his plans to stay here, a variable he doesn't want to become a risk.

Yes, he does an entirely calculated and strategic flop. A literal thirst trap.

Meme provided by my discord server:

Vivi casts provoke, it's..... not effective

^ This’s one of my personal fav exarchs I’ve ever drawn DADDY PLS

A panel that everyone loved to bits :>

I pair angst with other flavors to make it fun and non-repetitive. It's not "boohoo I can never kiss my hero, the world will end if I do, I'm so aggravated with myself", it's the hooded Exarch (duty) being mad at the unhooded Exarch (human), and delivering the same notion in a fun exchange. You can't help but laugh at the comical chibi violence, at the same time you acknowledge that it's a pretty fucked up act of suppressing one's innate human desires.

It's not a date, they just sit and talk <- the water in which Exarch is being slowly boiled.

I rarely talk about the visuals, but here I intended to make it look like a magical moment frozen in time. It's immersive, whimsical, full of color and movement. Despite the perceived warmth, the composition splits them apart, they're alone together. It’s still Raha’s pov, Vivi doesn’t seem to have any fond memories of the Source at all, we only hear about the past from his current jaded self.

An in-universe acknowledgment of the ARR arc lasting only 11 episodes x’D Though it’s all by design, it was meaningful only to Raha, while being a forgettable blip in time for Vivi.

Episode 52 opens with.... *drumroll*

NIP SLIP

I lovingly rendered that nip and I’ll make you look at it.

Ibuprofen meme would be the first thing that comes to mind, but consider the better/worse caption: "come to daddy". In all seriousness though, it’s a cool panel that I wanted to appreciate again. This IS Vivi’s pov.

The grimy beaten up Vivi creates questions that are answered in episode 53, which is yet to be released publicly at the moment of writing this. Some episodes, like 52-53 and 42-43, come in pairs that only make sense together due to the non-linear storytelling.

Yes this’s Aymeric, no I won’t say anything else :’> One thing that’s worth noting is the face Vivi makes here. And the distant, emotionless tone with which he recalls the moment of his own near-death.

Lemme spell it out even more plainly: Vivi romanticizes the moment he almost died. Exarch just happened to be present in that moment, and Vivi latched on to him as someone who would grant him escape, freedom, peace.

“A kindly wizard from fairytales”. I regret to inform you that we have two delusional fucks on our hands. Both see each other as some kinda dreamt up, idealized, mythical figures.

This miniarc isn’t over yet, but I’m wrapping up the recap here. Thanks for reading till the end~

[justnatoka]

Creatures of the night

Poly! Lost Boys x GN! Reader

A/n: It's finally done! I had so much fun writing this! I would love to expand more on this idea. Let me know if you would be interested in that, or if you have any ideas for it. Maybe I'll write something that focuses more on the reader's relationship with the boys next. Also, I tweaked the timeline a bit for the sake of the story. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: Sam wants to save his brother, so he asks for help from the Frog brothers. What he doesn’t anticipate is that they introduce him to you, the person who taught them everything about vampires.

Sam didn’t have many choices. Michael had been turned into a bloodsucking creature of the night, and as much as he wanted to help him – not least for his and their mother’s safety – he knew he couldn’t do it alone. So he went to the two people he could (hopefully) count on. If someone told him a few days ago that he would turn up on the doorstep of the Frog brothers’ comic book shop for advice on how to terminate vampires, he would have laughed in their face. But alas, here he was.

After listening to every detail about the recent changes in Michael’s behaviour, not to mention last night’s events – Nanook attacking his brother, seeing his half faded reflection in the mirror and the levitating act he performed outside Sam’s window – they took a moment to take everything in.

“This is serious, man” Edgar finally said then he turned to his brother. They exchanged a silent look and nodded before turning back to Sam.

“We’re gonna take you to someone” Alan announced.

“They taught us everything we know about vampires” Edgar explained solemnly.

Sam gulped. If this person is some kind of vampire expert, they could definitely use their help. He didn’t want Michael to be killed, but he couldn’t stay a bloodsucker either.

“Alright, take me to them.”

He got suspicious when they turned up at a totally normal looking house, and his apprehension only grew as the Frogs rang the doorbell. He waited with baited breath as a minute passed by without anything happening. Then finally, the door opened. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe someone with military style clothing that screamed “tough guy” – similar to what the Frog brothers tried, and ultimately failed to pull off in his personal opinion – but with big bulging muscles, who could knock out any vampire they saw. Or even a shady character with nervously twitching hands and a conspiratory look in their constantly moving eyes who’s always looking around for danger. But the person standing at the door was none of that. In fact, they were just… a normal person, around his brother’s age. He shot the Frogs a confused look, but they didn’t pay him any attention as they were too busy snapping their heels together and saluting with a unanimous,

“Good morning, boss.”

Their “boss” leaned against the doorway.

“’Sup?”

The reply was so casual, none of the Rambo wannabe bullshit the boys always used. That’s it, Sam was even more confused. They came to see this person?

“We need your help, boss. Seriously confidential business” Edgar explained. They nodded and disappeared inside.

“Come on in then.”

You led them up the stairs and into your bedroom for some privacy, then shut the door just in case your Dad left his workroom at the end of the hall. You sat down on your bed, the boys settling down on the carpet. Sam looked around. The bedroom was pretty normal as well, with a bookcase full of horror novels as far as he could see, a bunch of CDs next to a CD player and band posters of the walls. Although he spotted a few comics on the nightstand that looked similar to the ones the Frogs gave him.

“So,” you rested your arms on your knees and laced your fingers together, glancing between the boys. “What is it?”

The brothers turned their heads towards Sam. You’ve been wondering how Edgar and Alan knew him since you first saw them standing in front of your house. His clothes were fashionable, his hair styled. He wasn’t exactly the type of person the boys usually hang around.

“How do you know each other?” he asked instead. Looks like he was thinking along the same lines.

“I used to look after them when they were younger” you answered casually.

He blinked before directing his growing exasperation towards the brothers.

“Your babysitter? You brought me to your babysitter?”

“Former” Alan added as if that was the biggest problem with this whole situation. Sam let out a frustrated huff.

“And how exactly are they supposed to help my brother? Don’t tell me that all your knowledge comes from these” he waved his hand in the direction of your bookshelves.

“Actually, most vampire related media is full of bullshit” you interjected.

He froze. “How did you…?”

“…know that your brother was turned into a vampire?” You finished with a smirk. “I know a lot about what goes on in this town. I know who turned your brother and most likely how they did it. I know he’s been googly-eyed about a girl who hangs around a rather questionable crowd. He’s been acting strange ever since he met her, right?”

Sam just gaped, not knowing what to say before shutting him mouth and nodding. You gave an understanding nod in return.

“Is he fully turned?”

When a confused frown appeared on his face you added, “Has he taken any blood? Killed someone?”

“No, I don’t think so. He’s a jerk, but he couldn’t kill anyone.”

You smiled at the sibling banter. “Then he’s only half. The way things stand now, there are two options for your brother. One, he eventually loses the fight against the bloodlust and ends someone’s life, becoming a full-fledged vampire. Or two, you find the head vampire and kill him. That way, every half-vampire that was turned using his blood will become human again.”

Silence fell on the room as they mulled over what they just heard. It was Edgar who spoke up at last.

“Then we have to find the head vampire. Do you have any ideas who it is?” he turned to Sam.

“Maybe” he hesitated. “But I’m not sure.”

You reached across to your nightstand, grabbing one of the comics lying there and handing it to them.

“This might give you some ideas.”

Sam took the comic into his hands, eyeing it skeptically.

“Didn’t you say that most vampire related media is full of bullshit?”

“Not this one” you reassured him.

“How do you know?”

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “My dad writes them.”

You thoroughly enjoyed the surprised look on his face before he opened it and turned a few pages.

“Hounds of Hell” he read aloud before glancing back at you. You could already see the gears turning in his head, a thought forming behind his eyes, something akin to recognition, but not fully there yet.

“Thank you. Let’s go guys, we have to make a plan” he gestured to the other two then rushed out the door. Edgar and Alan hurriedly got to their feet, and with a quick goodbye they ran after their friend.

They failed massively. Sam was so sure about Max being the head vampire, however he passed all their tests. And above that, his mom got mad at him for ruining her date night. Again. But now they were getting ready to head to the hideout of the group that turned Michael. The Frogs reassured him that they’re coming armed with stakes and other weapons to kill the head vampire. Meanwhile, Michael can go and rescue his girlfriend. One thing was for sure: this time they were finishing the job.

You let out a shaky breath as you put down the phone. You just received a call from Alan, telling you that they are going to the vampire hideout. They planned to kill off who they thought was the head vampire. They wanted to let you know in case anything happened to them. You were cursing out loud while you shrugged on your coat in a hurry and ran out the door. This isn’t how things were supposed to play out. They were blindly walking into a den of wolves, having no idea what they were up against. This situation could only result in someone getting hurt. All you could hope was that you got there in time, before they did something stupid and irreversible.

Edgar and Alan led the way down the stairs and into the cave. It had a bunch of warning signs, and looked like it has been abandoned for decades. However, as they entered the gaping mouth into the darkness, they arrived into a space that resembled a hotel lobby, albeit all messed up and crumbled, but still in a pretty good shape. It would have been a very cool hideout, Sam thought, if it didn’t belong to a bunch of nightcrawlers. It was sure as hell that this place was lived in.

He helped Michael get down the sloping entrance, just as the Frogs discovered Star sleeping in one of the corners.

“Don’t you touch her! You stay away from her!” His brother could barely stand on his own two feet, yet he scrambled over to the girl.

“The rest of them are gotta be around here someplace. Let’s find them.” Edgar motioned for Alan.

“I can’t let you do that” came a voice from behind then. Startled, they turned around. There you stood near the mouth of the cave, your form half in the shadows. “I can’t let you kill them.”

“Why not? They are bloodsucking monsters!”

You stepped forward, shaking your head.

“My answer is still no. Take the girl and the little boy, then leave. They will go after you to try and bring them back, and you’ll probably have to fight them. But you can’t kill them here and now.”

Sam looked over to the Frogs and couldn’t believe his eyes when they seemed to hesitate.

“No! This is crazy! We have to end them now. This is our best chance while it’s still daylight. Come on, guys.”

“You can’t kill them all at once. Not like this. You’ll need a more solid plan for that than a few wooden stakes. If you end one of them now, they’re gonna come for you with even more vengeance. They know this place like the back of their hand, and you don’t. There’s a high chance you won’t even make it out of this cave alive.”

It certainly made sense. The more Sam thought about it, the more ill-prepared this all seemed. If they are really such bloodthirsty killers like Michael told him, maybe it was better to rethink their strategy instead of just rushing headfirst into a dark cave full of dangerous vampires.

He was still a little disappointed they couldn’t just end it here and now, but as he turned to the Frog brothers, he saw it in their eyes that they cracked. They will follow what their “boss” told them to do.

“Alright. What do we do?” he sighed.

“Let’s regroup somewhere safe. Then we can come up with a plan for tonight. As soon as they discover you took those two, they’ll come after you. That only leaves a couple of hours to prepare for an attack.”

“We can go back to ours, fortify the house.” You and Sam exchanged a serious look as you nodded.

“Sounds good. Let’s get going.”

The boys helped Michael carry Star and Laddie, as he was rapidly losing strength. When they passed you on the way out, Sam was sure he heard you let out a relieved sigh. He guessed you were worried about Edgar and Alan running into danger. You certainly looked like you cared about them. Shortly after they got up to the car, you also joined them. They didn’t question what took you so long, they didn’t have to know about the note left behind.

As you got into the driver’s seat – seeing as Michael was in no shape to drive – Sam wondered about how lucky they were to have you on their side. Someone with knowledge about vampires, who could also be the voice of reason if need be. It could have ended a lot worse if they got into a fight with those bloodsuckers in the tight corridors of the cave.

It was over. The last few hours have been a flurry of rushed preparations that morphed into total chaos as the vampires came. Sam was still reeling from all the running and fighting and screaming, the feeling of victory as they took down all of them, followed by the chilling panic as Max made his appearance, finally showing his true face. But it was over now.

His mom and Michael were hugging him, Star was hugging Laddie, and he could have sworn he heard the Frog brothers saying something about charging them for this, but he honestly couldn’t care less. Grandpa made his way into the kitchen, opening a beer and grumbling about all the damn vampires in Santa Carla.

They were all too busy with relief to notice you standing back, anxiously gnawing at your lips, waiting, listening for any sound from other parts of the house. Then a groan came from the workshop, and a smile spread on your face.

Everyone else jumped, the Emersons huddled together with Grandpa peeking out from the kitchen. Michael drew Star closer to him, Laddie clinging to her other hand. The Frog brothers were on their feet in an instant, taking up some improvised fighting stances. All staring cautiously towards the workshop, they collectively almost had a heart attack as they watched David sit up on the table with another grunt. After some struggling he slipped off the horns piercing through him with a sickening wet sound. He cracked his neck and let out a satisfied sound from deep in his chest. The puncture wounds on his torso already started to heal. They frantically turned around as more footsteps were heard approaching from different parts of the house. Sam looked at his brother in a panic. How is this possible? They were sure they killed them. He saw Michael tense up. He was pulling what little energy he had left together and getting ready for another fight. The problem was, he turned back into a human as Max died. They probably wouldn’t be able to fight them off in the state they were in, tired and bruised.

The rest of David’s gang emerged, a little worse for wear but healing rapidly.

“Look out!” came Alan’s frantic voice when he saw the three vampires approach you from behind.

“You okay, babe? Hope we weren’t too rough on ya.” As Paul sneaked an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side, you leaned into him.

Everyone just stared at you in dumbfounded silence. David’s footsteps thudded loudly as he circled around their group and stood beside you and his brothers. Without even looking, you laced you fingers together with his. It seemed so natural. That’s what went through Michael’s mind as he watched the little show of affection between you and the vampires. This didn’t happen yesterday, this has been an ongoing thing for a while.

Alan was the first to voice what everyone was wondering.

“How is this possible? We killed you” he pointed an accusatory finger at the bloodsuckers.

“That’s gonna stay our secret” you stated. “I might have taught you everything you know about vampires, but I didn’t teach you everything I know.”

“So you were with them all along?” Sam asked in disbelief.

“Of course I was. How do you think I know so much about the creatures of the night?”

“Boss… you really betrayed us for the enemy?” Edgar’s voice sounded so hurt it almost broke your heart.

“Max was the enemy.” Your matter-of-fact tone did nothing to ease the situation. In fact, it only made the boys angrier.

“But they hurt people!” Alan shouted. Dwayne took a step forward and Marko let out a low growl at his raised voice. You quickly let go of David’s hand and gently put it on Dwayne’s arm. You made sure to give Marko a reassuring glance as well before continuing.

“You don’t have to agree with my actions. I love them, and that’s enough for me.” You turned toward Michael. “At least that’s something I think you can understand.”

He gave you a silent nod as he held Star closer to his side.

“For what?” Sam mumbled. “You put your friends in danger” he motioned to the Frog brothers, his voice rising in volume, “but for what? What was the point of this whole thing?”

“First of all, they were never in any real danger. Except when you planned to ambush David and the others in the cave. That could have ended really badly.”

“They planned to do what?!” Marko almost lunged at them again, but Paul held him back.

“Come on, bud. It won’t do any good, if we kill them now” he tried to reason with him.

“To hell with that! We were holding back all the while they tried to kill us multiple times. Tried to ambush us! I say we finish them now.”

David’s cool voice broke through the argument.

“As much as I’d like to do that, you’re forgetting the fact that they are Y/N’s friends. They asked us not to hurt them.”

Marko seemingly realized his mistake, glanced at you and hung his head. He let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry, sugar” he mumbled.

“Is that true?” It was Edgar who spoke up this time. He was looking at you intensely. “You told them not to hurt us?”

You nodded.

“They were never going to kill you, they just had to make it believable. Like I said, Max was the enemy. We knew he planned to turn Michael’s family, and we saw an opportunity. You wanted to turn your brother back” you turned to Sam, “and the boys wanted Max gone. Our problem was one and the same. And now everyone got what they wanted.”

“You pointed us towards Max. With the comic” Sam realized.

You nodded again.

“Things didn’t exactly go according to plan, but it turned out fine in the end. I knew Max would come out of hiding if the boys were in danger. So I left them a note in the cave about the change of plans. Max was smart. We had to make it look like they died for him to appear.”

You could tell your explanation didn’t exactly placate them, tensions were still high, but that was okay. You anticipated their anger. You didn’t mind it so long as everyone was alive.

“If you would excuse us, this has been a long night. Me and my boys will leave you to be.”

You sent a sad smile towards Edgar and Alan as you walked past them. You could tell they still had some things they wanted to say, but decided not to, at least not now. It really has been a long night, and everyone just wanted it to end already. Your departure was followed by a long silence as they were trying to make sense of everything. Eventually, Grandpa spoke up.

“Those damn vampires, I’m telling ya.” He just shook his head and headed for his workshop.

You were also silent on your way back to the cave. Paul nudged your arm.

“You okay, babe?” he asked with a hint of worry on his handsome face.

“Yeah, I’m fine” you sighed. “I just hope I didn’t ruin my friendships.”

“They will come around” he reassured you. “And if they don’t, you still have us” he sent you a cheeky smile.

The corner of your lips finally turned upright.

“Thank you” you whispered as you leaned into him more.

“Don’t mention it, dollface.”

You looked over at your lovers, resting your gaze on all their faces for a long moment. You were just happy they were all okay.

Leave a comment on this post if you want to be added to my taglist!

[fellominaarcher]

GOT MARRIED - YOO JIMIN; KARINA X FEM!READER

13. Finale; Redamancy 1.

chapters || prev. || next

notes: this is a little longer than usual and kinda terrible.

One month later...

"Weekend" by Taeyeon blasted from the Bluetooth speaker, connected to Jimin’s latest iPhone. She bounced around the room with the brightest grin on her face, dancing along to the choreography as if she were performing for a live audience.

Meanwhile, the Aespa members were in the middle of outfit selection for an upcoming event. Some of them were having their color analysis done, but none of that seemed to matter to Jimin — who was practically radiating with joy.

Recently, Yoo Jimin had been extra cheerful. Suspiciously cheerful. Perhaps it was the excitement of the event itself — after all, it was a prestigious gala, one of the biggest in South Korea, attracting A-list actors, musicians, and socialites.

Featuring top singers and K-pop groups.

Or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with a certain lead vocalist of DayDream.

Coincidentally, it was also the middle of fall — Jang Y/N’s favorite season. And, as if by some contagious magic, Jimin seemed to have fallen in love with it too.

The atmosphere in the styling room was light, except for the growing confusion among the Aespa members, their manager, and even the stylists. It wasn’t every day they saw this version of Karina — grinning ear to ear, twirling around like a Disney princess, and looking like she had been personally blessed by the gods of serotonin.

Yizhuo, never one to hold back, chuckled as she shook her head. “Whaaaat? Why is Jimin unnie soooo... different?” she asked, though she was smiling too, amused by the sight.

Aeri shrugged, arms crossed. “Not sureee, but I think we all know what or who induced this level of happiness,” she said, watching Jimin prance around the room like she had just won the lottery.

Minjeong, who had been sitting back and watching with mild interest, simply nodded. "Good for her. I believe she deserves it."

Jimin, still in her own little world, spun around dramatically before bumping her hip against Minjeong, who merely sighed at the affectionate attack. Finally, Jimin flopped onto a chair, ready for her color analysis and styling recommendations.

As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she saw it, her own ridiculously bright smile. It was because of Y/N. Jimin bit her lip, suppressing a giggle. How did she get this whipped?

Just thinking about Y/N made her smile like an idiot. And when she thought about all the... other things they had done, well — she nearly combusted right then and there. It made her look even prettier, almost annoyingly so.

And the realization hit her again.

I want this.

I want this over and over, with the same person, Jang Y/N.

Because she was whipped. Absolutely, stupidly, dangerously in love. Jimin sighed dreamily, but her thoughts quickly took a sharp turn.

Wait… did Y/N fall for me first?

Or did she fall for me much later? Or was it somewhere in the middle of the "We Got Married" filming?

Her expression turned from dreamy to deeply contemplative.

Without a second thought, she shot up from her seat, holding up a hand to stop the stylist behind her. “Wait —”

The room stilled for a moment as she grabbed her phone from the makeup table. She stared at it intensely, biting her lower lip.

“Do I call her and ask?” Jimin muttered to herself, tilting her head as if debating her life choices.

Her curious expression was adorably dumb.

The way she looked so intensely focused made her own reflection appear ridiculously serious. She pursed her lips. No, but really... do I call her?

The stylist, who had been mid-motion in showing Jimin a set of outfit options on a tablet, blinked at her in confusion. "Who is it...?" she asked, slightly baffled by the sudden shift in conversation.

Aeri, sensing that Jimin was about to expose her stupid cheese cat tendencies to an innocent bystander, immediately stepped in. Placing both hands on Jimin’s shoulders, she gave her a firm but amused shake.

Jimin, still determined, pouted. "But what if —"

"Don’t," Aeri repeated firmly, giving her a little shake before sighing. "But if you really wanna call her, just do it. Don’t make it weird."

Jimin huffed, crossing her arms. "I wouldn’t make it weird." Blinked. Blinked. Looking at Aeri with her big eyes.

"You’re already making it weird." Minjeong deadpanned from the couch without even looking up from her phone.

Yizhuo, who had been sipping on her smoothie, smirked. "Yeah, unnie, I think you should just text her. Or better yet, show up at her dorm unannounced like a real crazy girlfriend." The maknae suggested playfully.

Jimin gasped dramatically. "I am not a crazy girlfriend!" She retorted and placed a hand on her chest with her mouth agape.

Aeri sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I mean, don’t be you about it.” Aeri emphasized Yoo Jimin's weirdness.

Jimin, pouting, dramatically pressed a hand to her chest again. “Excuse me? I am a perfectly normal person in love —”

Aeri, deadpan, simply replied, “Last week you called Y/N at 2 AM to tell her you saw two cats sitting side by side and it reminded you of your relationship." Ended with a gesture that simply proved her point.

Jimin huffed. “That was a very deep and meaningful moment —”

“JUST CALL HER!” Aeri groaned, lightly shaking Jimin’s shoulders before letting her go.

Jimin grinned, unlocking her phone as she muttered under her breath, “She totally fell for me first," confidently with a smirk on her face.

And with that, the room returned to its usual chaos — except now, everyone was waiting to see if Jimin would actually go through with the call or chicken out at the last second.

Either way, this gala was about to be very interesting.

Aespa Post-Photoshoot Interview

The photoshoot had just wrapped up, and the Aespa members were now seated on plush stools in front of a sleek white backdrop. They were still dressed in their elegant photoshoot outfits — each of them styled differently to reflect their personalities.

A staff member handed each of them a mic, and the interviewer, a friendly-looking woman in a crisp dark blue blazer, smiled as she glanced at her cue cards.

“Alright, let’s start with Winter.”

Winter, sitting with her legs crossed and hands neatly folded on her lap, raised an eyebrow with a tiny cute smile.

“Winter, what was your most recent favorite meal?”

Winter’s smirk widened. “Oh, I had tteokbokki with cheese last night, and it was amazing.” She placed a hand over her chest dramatically.

The interviewer chuckled. “That sounds painful but worth it.”

“It was,” Winter confirmed, sighing but then she cutely smiled at the interviewer as well.

“Fashion-wise, since you all just finished a photoshoot, how did you feel about the outfits today?”

Winter leaned back slightly, glancing down at her ensemble — a sleek black and white suit tailored perfectly to her frame. “Honestly? I loved mine. It made me feel like a CEO.” She adjusted her collar. “Like I should be sitting in a high-rise office making important calls.”

Giselle nodded her head, agreeing. “You do look like you’re about to fire someone.” She told Winter as she looked at Winter's outfit.

Winter smirked, lifting an imaginary phone to her ear. “Hello? Yeah, you’re done.” She acted it out while chuckling softly.

The members laughed, and the interviewer smiled. “I can see it! Alright, last question — who was the last person you called?”

Winter blinked and looked down, deep in thought. “Oh… right. My food delivery guy.” There was no hesitation in her answer.

There was a brief pause before Ningning giggled. “You didn’t even have to think that hard about it?” She turned her head to the right to look at Winter.

Winter shrugged. “He’s very important to me.”

The interviewer turned to Giselle, who was sitting comfortably with one arm resting on the back of her chair.

“Giselle, which artist have you been listening to recently?”

Giselle tilted her head thoughtfully before responding. “Lately, I’ve been in an R&B and hip-hop mood. Brent Faiyaz, SZA, and some classic Drake have been on repeat.” She gestured to the camera.

Ningning leaned in with interest. “What era of Drake, though? That says a lot about a person.”

Giselle smirked. “Take Care era, obviously.” There was a proud smile on Giselle's face.

The members all nodded in approval and they all looked back at the interviewer, getting ready for the next questions.

“One TV series you’d recommend watching?”

Giselle lit up, suddenly leaning forward. “Oh! Brooklyn Nine-Nine! It’s my comfort show.” She grinned before straightening her posture. “Actually, hold on —”

Without warning, Giselle started singing, perfectly mimicking the famous Brooklyn Nine-Nine cold open scene.

"Tell me whyyyyy —"

Winter immediately picked up on it, covering her mouth in shock before jumping in.

"Ain’t nothin’ but a heartache!"

The interviewer was wiping away tears from laughter. “That was the best answer to this question I’ve ever gotten.” Still grinning, she moved on. “How do you like your bread?”

Giselle blinked before laughing. “Okay, that’s the most random question so far.” She sucked in her breath deeply and she thought about the question for a second.

The interviewer smiled. “But very important.”

Giselle nodded, playing along. “Alright, well, I like my bread like my music—soft on the inside, a little toasted, and preferably served with something good on top.”

Winter gave her a slow clap. “Poetic.” While nodding her head.

“Thank you, thank you,” Giselle said, bowing dramatically.

The interviewer turned to Ningning, who was still giggling from Giselle’s antics.

“Ningning, what are your three favorite colors?”

Ningning straightened up, flipping her hair back. “Red, black, and…” she paused for effect, “...sparkly.”

The interviewer blinked. “Uh… sparkly?”

“Yes,” Ningning said with conviction. “Sparkly is a color in my heart.” And she looked so proud of it too.

“A variety show you’d like to guest in?”

Ningning smirked mischievously. “Single’s Inferno.” Oh Ningning, you're a menace.

The interviewer’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?” She tilted her head at the answer.

“Only for me to choose no one in the end,” Ningning added, then laughed.

The members lost it as the interviewer clapped in amusement.

“What do you like to do in your free time?”

Ningning stretched her arms. “Oh, that’s easy. Sleep. Nap. Dream. Hibernate.” Ningning had her priority straight.

Winter clapped. “A woman of consistency.”

“Thank you,” Ningning said proudly.

Finally, the interviewer turned to Karina, who had been listening with a soft smile, her posture straight but relaxed.

“Karina, your recent favorite thing?”

Karina’s eyes lit up. “Flowers! Recently, someone gave me a bouquet of baby’s breath, daisies, and carnations.” She answered the question enthusiastically with a smile on her face.

The interviewer raised a brow. “That sounds special,” she added on a teasing tone in her voice, “Romantic too."

Karina chuckled, a little bashful. “Yeah… and that person is going to teach me how to frame the flowers once they dry out.” She looked particularly excited mentioning the flowers.

The members exchanged knowing glances but didn’t say anything.

“Your favorite song at the moment?”

Karina hesitated slightly before smiling. “Love, Maybe.” She exhaled softly. “It’s from my favorite K-drama, and someone special shared it with me.” Karina smiled at the thought of it.

The interviewer tilted her head. “That makes it even more meaningful.”

Karina nodded. “It really does.” She replied while tapping her nails on her knee.

“What was the last video you watched on YouTube?”

Karina blinked. “Fancams.” She immediately made a nonchalant expression to feign innocence and to not attract that much attention.

The interviewer smiled. “Whose?” Curious at Karina's simple answer to the question.

Karina cleared her throat. “Just… you know, K-pop girl group members.” It was hard playing pretend but it can be fun.

Giselle leaned forward. “Which members?” She playfully asked Karina with a teasing tone.

Karina avoided eye contact. “Does it matter?” She sat up straight and looked straight at the camera.

Ningning gasped. “You’re down bad.” Ningning joined in with the teasing while laughing.

Karina groaned as the members laughed.

────────────────────

KpopNewz Twitter Post

@kpopnewz: "Karina of Aespa is going viral after revealing that someone gifted her a bouquet of baby’s breath, daisies, and carnations—flowers with deep symbolic meanings. She also hinted that her current favorite song, Love, Maybe, was shared with her by someone special. Fans are buzzing with speculation! #Karina #Aespa"

─────────────────────

@kwangyatheories: These flower choices are not random. Someone put thought into this.

@kdramaluvrr: What if it’s Lee Jaewook?? 👀

@daydreamcvmsock: The fact that Y/N mentioned these exact flowers in an interview once… coincidence?? I think NOT.

@ningning_slayerism: Meanwhile, Ningning just wants to go on Single’s Inferno to reject men LMFAO.

[eiralunaire]

The murmur of the city barely filtered into the room. The dim light of a lamp illuminated the place, casting soft shadows on the walls. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed and back straight, Damian Wayne tried to keep his expression serious, although a slight tug on his hair made him frown from time to time.

“I didn’t know you could be so close to an explosion without ending up burned,” Reader commented, as her agile fingers moved through her dark hair, dividing it into small sections to make a braid.

Damian snorted, but didn’t answer immediately. He had learned that when Reader started to tell him something, it was better to let her finish before interrupting her. Besides, if he said something reckless, he ran the risk of her leaving her hairstyle half done, and although she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she liked braids more than she should.

“Sure, my powers help, but it was… intense.” “It was like time froze for a second,” she continued, as she adjusted one of the braids and moved on to the next. Her voice had that relaxed tone she used when talking about something that could have killed her, as if it were a walk in the park.

Damian tilted his head slightly, letting her work while his green eyes rested on their reflection in the mirror in front of them. Reader was sitting on the mattress behind him, focused, her face lit by the same calm she used to face life-or-death situations.

“And then what did you do?” he finally asked, with a tone that tried not to seem too interested. Despite everything, he always wanted to know every detail of her missions, even if it meant hearing how she had almost gotten into more trouble than he could handle.

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” she said with an amused smile. “I just deflected the shockwave with a shield and ran like there was no tomorrow. Although, I admit, I ended up falling off a roof.” That was... kind of awkward.

Damian closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing a sigh. He had learned not to lecture her about the importance of being more careful. Reader was like the wind: unpredictable, free, and always moving forward. The best he could do was stay close to protect her when necessary.

“Should I be worried about how calm you sound about it?” he murmured, unable to help a slight smile. He knew she would notice his mocking tone.

“Maybe. But I survived, didn’t I?” she replied, laughing softly as she finished the last braid and lightly patted his head. “There. You look like a Viking warrior.”

Damian opened his eyes and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The small braids blended into his hair, giving him a curious look that, to his surprise, he didn’t hate. He turned his head to Reader, who was looking at him with a wide smile, her dimples peeking out charmingly.

“A Viking warrior?” she repeated in disbelief, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, a very handsome warrior "she replied, laughing as she slid over and settled beside him, letting her head fall on his shoulder. "But a little grumpy, as usual."

Damian couldn't help but smile slightly, letting his head rest against hers. It wasn't the kind of moment he imagined for himself, but he couldn't deny that it was... perfect.

Part Two

[hexedwinchester]

Early seasons of SPN are superior

so I'm re-watching Supernatural (I'm always re-watching SPN, don't mind me) and I realised why the early seasons are so freakin good whereas the laters ones are a complete mess...

Horror was the core theme of Supernatural (yes, I'm not discarding the brothers' drama, I'll get to it in a minute). These beautiful scare tactics that they employed were amazing: the crib mobile toy rotating, shadows moving out of the corner of the eyes, toys going off, subtle bloody Mary reflections in the mirror, creepy skulls dug from the ground, the ghosts flickering. Hell yea they nailed 'Scary just got sexy' with these.

Don't get me started on the background music. Whimsical music crescendo, building up the anticipation. The rock music blaring through the Impala. What happened to the cool ass music in the later seasons? They just played this weird, sad tune like someone's blowing raspberries to show grief and that's it!

Monster of the week theme and the lores/legends in early seasons were much, much better than S12's Foundry or the later season episode with bizarre tentacle porn thingy (you know which one I'm talking about). It just didn't feel the same. The stories were poorly written and even more poorly executed.

Early seasons used to be purely about Sam and Dean (as it should have been throughout) Them against the world, heaven and hell. No dumbass angel lurking in the background like a pathetic third wheel. No king of hell bitching about his sad childhood for two whole seasons. No Soccer mom half assing their way into hunting.

Foreshadowing was done so beautifully! Everytime I re-watch the early seasons I find a few bits that connects to something that happened initially in say S1-2. The parallels are done beautifully and writing is good, and I mean 'I wanna use this quote as a wallpaper' good.

The struggle for the boys was real. They had to do their own research, save their own asses, stitch their wounds, pop their dislocated shoulders back in the place. Later seasons? Bunker has answer to everything, angel healing wounds with a flash of light, Lucifer bringing Sam back from the dead without asking for anything (and no, taking him to Jack is not a good enough bargain), Jack healing wounds or whatever. Where is the damn struggle?! Where is the hero's journey?!

I miss the beautiful, colourful motel rooms that had its own personality. I HATE the bunker (yes I know a lot of people love it because Dean has a good shower, they have a home etc, etc) but no! Bunker is lame and boring and monotonous. There isn't a single thing I like about it. Gimme back my motel rooms with the sunburst mirror!

Story arc or lack thereof from S12 onwards. The main plot just got duller and duller from S12 onward and it felt like the writers got lazy and stopped putting efforts. There was no build up and the plot felt forced. The main arcs didn't feel exciting enough. BMoL and Kelly's pregnancy: the who and why? Jack: predictable. Other Micheal and Micheal Dean: meh, next! God as the big bad: interesting but I don't think they have it in them to execute this correctly.

Irrelevant/Unnecessary characters and their mini plots. S1-5 focuses purely on the brothers and that's what I'm here. I don't care how and why an idiot angel opened purgatory. It sounded more like a dull spin off plot than main story arc. I don't care about prophets and their lives (yeah Kevin is in Advance Placement, what am I to do with that?). I don't care about the different angel garrisons at war (again a plot for a lame spin off). I don't care about Crowley, his son or his relationship with Rowena. Tell me how this affects the boys. If it doesn't, please let's move on. Whatever was going on with Cole Trenton was pointless. I don't care about Mary and her hunting escapades with BMoL. I don't care about Kelly's pregnancy. The multi-universe and all characters they vomited back in the show with this. Not needed! Let Charlie, Gabriel and Bobby's memory rest in peace. Nick's killer storyline and wayward sisters. Enough said. Empty and the deal with Cas and Meg 2.0? Boring! Billy playing the bad cop, the whole death's library? Poorly executed and it turned into a bowl of cold spaghetti. In the end, the focus moved from the boys to useless characters and mini plots. Fuck that! Supernatural is about Sam and Dean and that's about it.

The direction. Later seasons lack the beauty of scenic shots of the landscape, close on up the boys' faces, the lights hitting their faces to show their beauty. Camera angles and slow panning shots. I miss the beauty that were the early seasons.

[respectthepetty]

I hate (love) Director Tee!

Director Tee, who also directed I Feel You Linger in the Air, Step by Step, Something in My Room, Lovely Writer, and Hidden Agenda is all about the visual rhetoric, so I knew he'd be up to his same old shenanigans in I Saw You in My Dream, but why was this already happening in the first episode?!

Tee pulled this in I Feel You Linger in the Air with one character hidden behind a transparent barrier but looking fuzzy as if they were in a dream or stuck in a different world.

And while Ai is always lit by the light source, Yu is hidden in the darkness as his back is to the light source.

And this happens often.

So the lights flickering on the Christmas tree were a nice touch to show this 'light' dynamic between Yu and Ai.

Yu's face is also obscured in his reflections.

Since mirrors act as reflections of the truth, it's as if Tee is telling us that Yu can't face his reality or he is hiding from his truth.

Even when Ai tries to capture Yu's face for a picture, Yu blocks him.

And even when Ai does get a picture of Yu, the light source blinds out Yu's face.

Because Yu's job allows him to capture moments without being a part of them. He can create distance by shielding his face and hiding behind the camera (how very My Beautiful Man's Hiro of him).

But Tee is constantly reinforcing the removal of reality through the props as well as Ai wears a "Dream Theater" shirt when he dreams of being with Yu.

The poster in his room is a parody of a La La Land called Dream Land.

And in the psychology section of the library, Ai focused on the dream section.

And finally picked Lucid Horizons: Unveiling the Dreamscape.

But the props also connect the boys because when Ai went over to Yu's house to sleep, Yu was wearing a "Shut-Up! I'm watching the game shirt"

While Ai wore a "She said 'You switch channels again and I'm outta here'" shirt

Because the boys are already connected, and Tee visually stated that as both boys walked down the aisle in a Catholic church with Yu in black and Ai in white.

And stood in front of Ai's father (not a priest) and the altar to give offerings and receive blessings.

Basically, they look real married-shaped in front of God and all his santos.

And the poem above Ai's bed states that he would give all his body to his lover if his lover needed it, but he could never give his heart because that's where his lover lives.

So it's interesting that Yu's brother verbalizes this earlier in the show.

But it's more interesting that the woman Ai met said that his gift was special because he can see the accidents happening which she could not because if she had, she would've gotten more time with her first love, so is Ai's shirt foreshadowing that he'll only "be happy with [Yu] this summer"

Or will his dreams allow him more time to fall in love?

God, I hate Director Tee!

[trophy-girl]

Why You Keep Falling for People Who Don’t Want You Back

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ ♡ ❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ ♡ ❁ུ۪۪♡ ͎. ｡˚ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Let’s be real the worst kind of heartbreak isn’t always from someone you had.

It’s from someone you wanted. Someone you gave your energy to. Someone who gave you just enough attention to keep you holding on, but never enough to feel safe. You replay the moments, overthink the silence, and keep asking yourself: “Why do I keep falling for people who don’t choose me?”

You’re not alone. A lot of us have been there. You meet someone who seems perfect or maybe they’re not perfect, but you start building a fantasy around who they could be. They give you a spark, a high, a moment. And then… nothing.

So why do we fall so hard for people who barely meet us halfway?

⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡

You Mistake Attention for Affection

Imagine you meet someone who seems perfect. At first, they’re all about you texting, calling, showing interest. But then, after a few weeks, they pull back. You start overthinking: Did I say something wrong? Did I do something to push them away? You begin to feel like you need their validation to feel good about yourself. You start checking your phone obsessively, hoping for a text, but it never comes.

This was me back in my early 20s. I dated someone who was emotionally distant, but I kept chasing him because I thought that if I could just get him to commit, it would make me feel valuable. I was always waiting for that text that would validate me maybe if he likes me more, I’ll feel enough. But the truth is, my sense of worth shouldn’t have depended on him, and yet, I kept trying to earn his approval.

The fix: Instead of relying on someone else to make you feel validated, start finding value in yourself. Work on boosting your self-esteem and focusing on things that make you feel good without needing external approval. When you validate yourself first, you’ll stop chasing after people who don’t give you the same level of respect or love.

You’re Attracted to the Drama (Even If You Hate It)

Let’s be honest: the drama can be addictive. If you’ve ever been drawn to someone who is emotionally unavailable or plays hot and cold, you’ve probably experienced the rush of the chase. I remember getting caught up in a situation where a guy would seem super into me one minute, then pull away the next. I’d feel this overwhelming need to figure out why what went wrong? Was it something I said? It was like I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to fix whatever was broken.

The fix: Recognize that this “game” isn’t real love it’s emotional chaos. If someone is constantly pulling away or playing games with you, that’s not a relationship. Let go of the thrill of chasing someone who isn’t equally invested. True love isn’t about playing hard to get; it’s about mutual respect and care.

You’re Repeating Patterns from the Past

When I look back at my past relationships, I realize I kept falling for guys who were emotionally unavailable or didn’t truly want me. It wasn’t until I took a step back and looked at the patterns that I realized I was subconsciously drawn to people who treated me the same way my family did when I was younger. I grew up feeling ignored at times, and without realizing it, I kept looking for people who mirrored that pattern of “not being enough.”

There’s a reason we’re drawn to certain types of people. For me, the emotional distance felt familiar, even if it wasn’t healthy. It’s almost like your brain is trying to resolve an old issue from the past, even though it ends up just re-opening old wounds.

The fix: Pay attention to the patterns in your relationships. Are you repeatedly falling for emotionally unavailable people? Understanding why you’re drawn to this type of person can help you break the cycle. Therapy, journaling, or reflecting on past relationships can help you heal old wounds so that you’re not repeating the same mistakes.

You’re Afraid of Being Alone

If you’ve ever been single for a while, you know how easy it is to settle for someone just because you’re scared of being alone. I’ve done this too. I once stayed in a relationship with someone who clearly didn’t feel the same about me because I didn’t want to face the discomfort of being single. It’s easier to settle for someone who’s “good enough” than to be alone and face the feeling of emptiness. But guess what? Staying in a relationship where you’re not valued only makes you feel lonelier in the long run.

The fix: Learn to embrace being single. It’s an opportunity to focus on your growth, your goals, and building your own happiness. When you stop being afraid of being alone, you’ll be less likely to settle for someone who doesn’t fully appreciate you.

You Don’t Set Boundaries (And It’s Costing You)

Boundaries are crucial in any relationship. But for a long time, I didn’t have clear boundaries. I would tolerate bad behavior whether it was someone flaking on plans or not giving me the time and attention I deserved because I didn’t want to rock the boat or risk losing them. The result? I ended up feeling drained and unappreciated. I didn’t realize that by not setting boundaries, I was teaching people how to treat me.

The fix: Start setting and enforcing clear boundaries. Know what you’re willing to accept and what you won’t tolerate. If someone isn’t respecting you or your time, it’s okay to walk away. You don’t need to settle for someone who doesn’t prioritize you.

Conclusion: Breaking the Cycle

Falling for people who don’t want you back is heartbreaking, but it doesn’t have to be a pattern that defines your relationships. The key is to understand why it keeps happening and take steps to change your behavior. Start by validating yourself, embracing your independence, and setting boundaries. It’s time to stop chasing after people who can’t meet your emotional needs and start attracting the type of love you deserve.

Remember, you don’t need someone else to complete you you’re already whole. When you learn to love and respect yourself, you’ll stop settling for less, and the right person will come along when you least expect it.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Spoil Me Gently: Chapter 5 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 5.9k words.

Chapter Summary: Trust doesn't happen all at once—it builds, slowly, stitch by careful stitch. Over coffee and quiet laughter, they offer you something you didn't realize you were still brave enough to want: safety without strings, care without cost. A scarf, a promise, a thousand small gestures—all of it adding up to something bigger than you can name. And as time passes, you realize: maybe this isn't just survival. Maybe it's the beginning of being chosen, completely.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, sugar daddy!marauders, soft!marauders, famous!marauders, chronic pain, emotional slow burn, reader is poor, reader was in an abusive relationship, gift as language, reader receives money, reader uses mobility aid, trauma-informed affection, vulnerability met with tenderness, consent-centered care, wealth without strings

Taglist: @miwi-moore

The conversation ebbs and flows like a gentle tide, touching upon work, favorite drinks, shared laughs, before receding into the deeper waters of memories. They don't pry or prod, simply allowing you to share at your own pace.

There's no overt flirtation, not yet. But what's happening is more than surface banter—it's the slow construction of intimacy through shared experiences and emotions. The connection between minds forming before bodies have a chance to collide.

"Do you like gifts?" Sirius asks out of the blue, swirling his spoon in his cappuccino, eyes never leaving yours. His tone is light, almost playful, but there's a sincerity behind his question that suggests he already knows the answer, waiting for you to confirm it.

You pause, considering. "Like, as a concept?"

James chuckles from your other side, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. His glasses reflect the soft glow of the overhead lights, but his gaze is sharp and focused on you. "Not exactly. More like...do you see them as an expression of affection rather than something transactional?"

You hesitate, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug. "Maybe? I'm not very good with them, never know how to react."

A ghost of a smile plays on Sirius's lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. They remain focused on you, searching, probing. "Interesting," he murmurs, leaning back in his chair. "You're not comfortable with the idea of someone giving you something without expecting anything in return."

You meet his gaze, your own eyes narrowing slightly as you consider his words. There's a tension in your shoulders that belies the casual shrug you give. "Let's just say I learned early on that gifts often come with strings attached."

"Ours don't," Remus says, the words falling from his lips with a conviction that stirs something within you.

James leans in, his elbows pressing into the tablecloth as he mirrors your posture. His gaze is steady, a lighthouse amidst stormy seas. "You're allowed to have things without owing anyone anything, without needing to earn them."

You almost laugh, ready to deflect with humour as you always do, but James's hand moves beneath the table, and he pulls out a slim, black box tied with a soft ribbon. He slides it across the table, the box coming to rest against your plate with a finality that silences your retort before it can form.

"James..."

His smile broadens. "Just a small thing."

Sirius snorts. "Says the boy who grew up with three kitchens in one house."

James shrugs, unbothered by the jab. "I'll admit, my sense of 'small' might be skewed, but in my defence this gift is both practical and comfortable, and you two agreed to it. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

Remus arches a brow. "Compared to the time you wanted to gift us each a zero-gravity recliner with a built-in espresso machine, voice-activated speakers synced to Spotify, and a mini fridge? Yes, this is much more reasonable."

"That was multifunctional and completely within my aesthetic," James grumbles, but there's no heat in his words.

A soft laugh escapes you as you lift the lid, and a glimmer of something catches your eye. Under the dim light of the café, a scarf unfurls, its threads shimmering with an almost ethereal glow. It's as if it's woven with more than just silk and wool—it holds a promise, a hope that things can be different.

The fabric is a blend of warm pinks and cool silvers, colours that seem to dance and change as they catch the light. You reach out tentatively, fingers brushing against the material. It's softer than anything you've ever felt, like a whisper against your skin.

You draw the scarf closer, drinking in the sight of it. The colours shift and meld together, a perfect balance of warmth and coolness. Underneath the scent of the café—coffee and pastries and the faintest hint of magic—you detect something else. Salt and bergamot, a fragrance that reminds you of open water and wide skies.

Your fingers grip the edge of the scarf tighter than you intend. You hadn't noticed until now how hard you've been holding onto it.

But Remus does. He's always been good at noticing the little things. His eyes flicker to your hand, then back up to your face. There's no judgement there, only understanding. He doesn't say anything, doesn't need to. His nod is enough—a silent acknowledgement that he gets it, that he knows what this means.

"This isn't a bribe," Sirius says, his voice cutting through the moment. He drums his fingers on the surface of his cup, a rhythm only he seems to understand. "It's a declaration."

"Of what?" you murmur, your voice barely louder than the rustle of fabric against your skin.

"That you're wanted," James responds, his gaze never leaving your face.

You can feel their eyes on you, taking in every detail—the curve of your smile, the way your hands rest in your lap, the subtle rise and fall of your chest with each breath. They study you not with hunger but with interest, with awareness. It's as if they're trying to memorise you, to understand every part that makes up the whole.

The old tension is there, coiling in your gut like a shadow returning to haunt you — not because of them, but because of memories and past experiences that have taught you to fear.

You rub your thumb over the silk scarf, tracing the intricate patterns as if seeking some form of solace in its softness. A deep breath fills your lungs, the exhale slow and shaky.

A gentle nudge from James pulls you back from the precipice of your thoughts. "Hey, you still with us?"

"Sorry." You manage a nod, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... I'm not used to this."

Remus leans closer, his eyes softening. "That's all right. You don't have to be used to it yet. No one's expecting you to suddenly change."

"But we're not going to stop trying," Sirius adds, his tone surprisingly gentle. "You deserve things that feel soft against your skin, smell like the ocean or sunshine, and maybe—just maybe—if I have anything to do with it, bring a bit of excitement into your life."

"Especially the excitement," James chimes in, a grin tugging at his lips as he takes another sip of his drink.

Your laugh catches you off guard more than anyone else in the room. It's a real laugh, one that shakes your shoulders and warms your chest. The tension in the room lightens slightly as they join in, their own laughter softer, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether they're allowed to share in this moment of levity.

You trace the pattern of the fabric once more before carefully folding the scarf and placing it back in its box. The action gives you something to focus on, something other than the three pairs of eyes watching you. It's easier to pretend they're not there when you're looking at the scarf, but only just.

The words are casual, tossed out to disrupt the tension that clings to the air like static. "You're making me wish I'd brought something."

"But you did," Remus counters, his voice softening. "You came."

"Exactly." Sirius's eyes glint with something unreadable. "And your work... it's impressive enough to be a gift in itself."

Your gaze flickers up, meeting theirs. The compliment is unexpected but not entirely surprising. You knew they must have seen it online, but hearing it acknowledged aloud adds a layer of reality that sends a shiver down your spine.

"So, you've been looking," you say, a statement rather than a question. It's not an accusation, merely an acknowledgement of what you already suspected. There's no hostility in your tone—only curiosity.

"Of course we have." James's reply comes without hesitation, his gaze steady on yours. "Why wouldn't we?"

The question is asked with such calm sincerity that it feels as natural as breathing, as if seeking out the hidden layers of a person is the most normal thing in the world.

Remus's voice is softer still, a counterpoint to James's confidence. "They're beautiful, you know. The way you stitch them—it's like... it's like speaking without words."

You glance down at your hands, the fingers that have done so much yet remain so steady. The edge of the table is cool under your touch, grounding you in this moment as your thoughts drift to the pieces hanging back home—one with barbed wire encircling a blood-red rose, another proclaiming we do not mend to forget. Your cheeks warm, not from embarrassment but from the unexpected tenderness of their words and the silent understanding that fills the room.

"Your stitching," Sirius begins, his voice low and curious, laced with something warmer—wonder, perhaps—"it's like you're writing poetry." He leans forward, elbows on the table, his fingers brushing against the edge of the fabric close to yours. His nearness is palpable, yet not suffocating. "Every loop, every knot seems to hold a word just beneath its surface. A warning. A prayer. A dare."

A soft laugh escapes your lips, more from surprise than amusement. "You're not wrong," you admit, your gaze flickering up to meet his. "Mostly, it's anger."

James' smile is one of understanding rather than judgement. He's been mostly silent, taking in your words and the emotions behind them. His hand cradles a cup of coffee, the steam rising gently like the thoughts that seem to simmer in his mind. The other hand rests against his chin, fingers brushing his lower lip—a gesture so subtle you almost miss it amidst the intensity of his focus. "But even anger can be beautiful," he offers, voice low and measured. "Especially when it builds instead of breaks."

Across the table, Remus has been a quiet observer, his attention never wavering from the exchange. When he finally speaks, his words carry the weight of careful consideration. "Do you plan the pieces in advance? Or do they... emerge on their own, as if they need to be made?"

The question catches you off guard, not because it's intrusive, but because it's accurate. "They just come out," you confess, staring at the remnants of the scone on your plate. "I tell myself it's intentional later, to make it feel less like I'm... losing control."

He nods slowly, his gaze steady. "I understand that. I write in a similar way. The structure comes after. First, there's freedom. Chaos that eventually forms into something meaningful."

Sirius leans back, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the table. His eyes narrow, not with suspicion but something akin to respect. "Is there a piece you've been avoiding? Something you're afraid to create?"

You pause, your mind flickering over the countless images and ideas you've tucked away. "Yeah," you admit at last, your voice barely above a whisper. "There's one about my mum. I think it's still too big for me. Or maybe I'm just not ready to face it yet."

James moves then, his hand reaching across the table to rest lightly against your wrist. The contact is brief, but its message clear: You are not alone. "Then we'll wait for that one," he says softly. "No need to rush."

The conversation takes on an easy ebb and flow, the silences filled with the clink of cups and the murmur of the café around you. Your fingers toy with the sleeve of your jacket, tracing the seam in thought.

Remus's gaze lingers on you, eyes thoughtful. He leans forward slightly, his voice a low thrum that threads through the ambient noise. "I've always been fascinated by what drives people to create," he confesses, hands wrapped around his own cup. "For me, it's grief, love, anger, wonder… all of it tangled together."

His admission draws your attention away from the window, back to the warmth of the table. You meet his gaze as he continues, "And I see some of that in you." There's a pause, a hesitation before he ventures further. "But what emotion would you say is most present for you right now?"

A half-smile tugs at one corner of your mouth, but there's a sadness behind your eyes that tells a deeper story. "Survival, mostly," you admit after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. "Anger too. And finding beauty in the broken."

Sirius tilts his head, considering this. "And grief," he suggests gently, not as an accusation but an understanding. "It has a way of sneaking up on us, doesn't it?"

You exhale, slow and steady, and offer a nod of agreement. "Always," you say. "It's... persistent."

James shifts in his chair, stretching his legs under the table until his knee brushes against yours—a subtle gesture, grounding and real. "Each stitch you make," he says, voice low and thoughtful, "it's like a tiny act of resistance."

The corners of your mouth twitch into a wry smile. "Life is a constant struggle, isn't it? Too many people suffering, too many voices telling them it's their own fault."

Silence falls over the group—not awkward or stifling, but heavy with implication. They don't rush to fill it with empty reassurances or platitudes. Instead, Sirius leans a fraction closer, his eyes holding a glimmer of understanding that wasn't there before. "But your work... it's more than just protest, isn't it? It's evidence."

You glance at him, surprised by the accuracy of his words. "Yes," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Evidence that I was here. That I didn't accept things as they were."

"A record of rebellion," James murmurs, tapping his fingers against his mug. "And the parts you don't show anyone...?"

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. You don't need words to confirm what they already know.

"We'll need to have a room dedicated to your work," Sirius interjects, his voice almost light as he grins over his cappuccino. "A wall lined with your pieces so that I can wake up each morning and feel thoroughly inadequate."

James nudges your elbow gently, drawing your attention back to him. "I want to see where you create. Even if it's just a corner with poor lighting and a box fan. I want to see your chaos—the fabric snippets, the needles stuck into cushions."

"It's not pretty," you warn, though the edge in your voice betrays the curiosity kindling within you.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter. If it's yours, I want to see it."

"Tell us the stories you've never put into words," Remus says, his fingers curling around a mug of coffee. "The ones that have shaped you, that you carry close to your heart."

You look down at your own cup, cradling it between your hands. "I... I don't often speak of those stories. Not aloud."

Sirius leans back in his chair, a shadow against the morning light streaming through the window. "You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to," he offers, his tone softening. "But we'll listen all the same.”

"Even silence can tell a story," James adds, his voice steady and soothing. "We just want to be there to hear yours, however you choose to tell it."

This isn't small talk or a performance; it's an invitation to connect, to share truths too long kept hidden. You feel the tension in your shoulders ease as you breathe out, the warmth of their acceptance seeping into your bones. The part of you that's always ready for a fight, always braced for impact—it starts to uncoil, just a fraction.

And then the questions shift again, slipping sideways. Softer. But somehow heavier.

"Tell me," Remus begins, leaning back in his chair, "what makes you feel safe?" His tone is neither soft nor wary—simply open, unadorned with pretense.

The heaviness of the question doesn't seem to touch the room; it hangs suspended between sips of coffee and shared laughter.

You blink, taken aback by the sudden shift, but you don't shy away from answering. Your shoulders lift in an almost imperceptible shrug. "Consistency, I suppose," you say. "Control over my own choices when it matters most. The ability to leave when I want to—without it turning into a spectacle."

James, who had been quietly nursing his coffee, looks up at your words. There's a slight furrow to his brow as he turns the mug in his hands. "You mean like... not having to justify your every move?"

"Exactly." You nod, and he grins, pleased with his understanding.

Sirius watches you for a moment longer before tilting his head to one side. "And luxury? What does that look like to you?"

"Being warm," you say without hesitation. "Not having to decide between eating or heating the flat. A bed that doesn't creak with every move. Peace and quiet."

James grins, looking more like the boy from your memories than ever. "We can definitely do warm."

"And we can do quiet," Remus adds, his voice low but filled with an unspoken promise.

Sirius leans closer, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "We might even start a new competition—who can bring you tea first in the morning."

The thought steals your breath—not from fear, but from something new and undeniably hopeful. You find yourself smiling, not the forced, careful curve of your lips you've grown accustomed to, but a real smile that reaches deep within and radiates outward.

It's warmth, you realise—not the kind that comes from a well-stoked fire or the sun on a clear day, but the kind that starts inside and grows, as natural as breathing, as right as the moon's pull on the tides. It's not flashy or imposing; it simply is, enveloping you like a blanket, woven with threads of acceptance and belonging.

"Can I ask something?" James's voice is soft, careful now. Not wanting to shatter the delicate trust that's beginning to form. "Not as a suggestion. Just a genuine question."

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing slightly, but you nod for him to continue.

"If this became something more—like an arrangement—what would it mean for you?"

The question prompts you to pause—not out of fear or suspicion, but because its sincerity demands thought. It's not about what they can offer or how much they're willing to give; it's about what it means to you.

"Security," you admit after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. "Freedom. Room to breathe. The relief of not having to choose between eating and heating."

Sirius nods, his expression serious now. "That makes sense. That's honest. But what else?"

"More?" you echo, tilting your head. "Beyond that?"

Remus, who has been silent for a while, leans forward. His eyes are soft, filled with understanding. "What if being cared for didn't mean losing your independence? What if it didn't come with conditions?"

You ponder his words, the question sparking something inside you. "It would mean... rest. Being valued without having to constantly prove your worth. Structure, but not rigidity. Affection without expectation. And real consent—not just a yes or no, but a way to express it fully. The kind that allows you to breathe, to exist without asking for permission first."

"Sounds like you've given this some thought," says Sirius, and there's no mockery in his voice—only acknowledgement.

Remus's eyes are kind, understanding. "Take your time. Share as much or as little as you want. We don't expect you to sort it all out right away."

"Exactly," James chimes in, his smile reassuring. "This isn't about quick fixes. It's about building something that endures."

"And with no bounds," Sirius adds, a glint of mischief in his grey eyes.

Then come the promises, each one a seed planted with care, meant to take root and grow within you.

"I want to cook for you," James says. His voice is soft but firm, like worn leather. "Nothing extravagant. Just eggs the way you like them, toast not too burnt but not too soft either, and tea—just the way you prefer it. Every morning, if you let me."

"You like breakfast," you say, almost in spite of yourself.

He chuckles, a low rumble that seems to echo around the room. "I like taking care of people. And breakfast is a good place to start."

Sirius's promise comes in a different form, smooth as silk yet just as binding. "I want to photograph you," he says, his voice dropping slightly. "No poses, no filters. Just you, in whatever moment you find yourself in. I want to capture the things others might miss."

"Do I get veto rights?" you ask, aiming for humour but landing somewhere closer to vulnerability.

"Of course," he replies, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But know this—I fall in love with light easily. And with you in it, I'll never stop taking pictures."

Remus lifts his coffee to his lips, the gesture slow and deliberate. "I want to give you a library of your own, endless hours to lose yourself in its quiet, and the freedom to return when you're ready," he says, his voice low, soothing. "Your place should be one of peace, not demand."

Their words aren't just promises; they're painting a picture of what closeness could look like, shaped by their knowledge of you, their desire for you. It's not a fantasy spun from thin air but a shared reality awaiting your permission to unfold.

"You're not trying to convince me," you say, the words barely more than a whisper. "You're offering it."

James nods. "Exactly. We want you to want this, all of it, for yourself as much as for us."

The air between you shifts subtly, charged with the potential of what lies ahead. The future isn't some abstract concept now; it's mornings spent with James' humming filling the kitchen, afternoons captured under Sirius' watchful gaze as he takes photos of you bathed in natural light, evenings tucked against Remus in the library, his fingers tracing patterns on your thigh while he reads aloud. You can almost feel the weight of the blankets, smell the hint of cinnamon clinging to the pages of old books, sense the warmth radiating from three bodies that ask nothing of you but your company, your comfort.

There's an undeniable sugar daddy element to it, yes, but it doesn't feel transactional. Instead, it feels like devotion poured into every corner of a life they're willing to share.

Their questions probe deeper, asking not just what you desire but what you need. When is the last time you allowed yourself true rest? And again, you find yourself answering honestly, more candidly than you intend.

"It's been a while," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't remember the last time I slept without keeping one eye open, or ate without saving some for later. Or didn't calculate the cost of every bite."

James's hand finds yours on the table, his fingers warm and steady against your skin. His thumb moves in slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you in the moment, in the reality that this isn't just a dream. "We can help with that."

Sirius's voice is softer now, gentler, as if he recognises how fragile this moment feels. "Or at least make it a bit easier. Give you space to breathe."

"Or share the load with you," Remus adds, his eyes meeting yours with an understanding that goes beyond words. "So you're not carrying it all alone."

You swallow hard, taken aback by the sincerity in their voices, the genuine concern etched into their faces. "It's strange," you murmur, mostly to yourself. "How easy it is to want this. And how terrifying."

"That makes sense," James says, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. "Wanting something without fear... that's a luxury too. One we'd like to offer you."

The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken promises and potential, yet there's no pressure, no rush. Just the hum of possibility and the faintest stirrings of hope, intermingling with the warmth that radiates from the man beside you. It's a different kind of quiet, one that doesn't demand answers or action, but simply waits—patient and steady—for you to decide when you're ready.

You look back at them, these men who ask nothing of you but offer everything they have. Your chest tightens, the ache of longing and fear intertwined.

"You don't need to choose us now," James says, his voice a gentle murmur. "But we want you to know what choosing us would feel like."

"We want you to want it because it feels safe," Sirius adds.

Remus leans in a little closer, his eyes softening. "And if safe means locked doors and quiet nights, then that's part of it too."

You wonder if they'll still want you when the panic takes hold, when the scars are revealed, when the weight of silence becomes too much to bear. You wonder if this moment can withstand the darkness, the flashbacks, the way you sometimes forget how to be gentle.

But none of them look away, their gazes steady and unwavering. No trace of doubt mars their faces—only understanding, acceptance, and promise.

"Exactly," James leans in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "So, we were thinking."

"Another meeting," Sirius picks up the thread, his grey eyes glinting with a familiar mischief that once brought Hogwarts' halls alive. "More private, less... formalities. Somewhere quiet."

"Comfortable," Remus adds, the corners of his mouth curving upwards ever so slightly. "No distractions. Just us, time, and honesty."

"Meaning?" you press, raising an eyebrow.

"To talk," Sirius says, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. His grin is slow, confident. "To listen. To dream, even. And to make sure we're all reading from the same script."

James's smile broadens at that, but there's an earnestness in his gaze that grounds the moment. "This was about testing the waters, seeing if we click. If the chemistry is there. And I reckon it is, don't you think?"

You pause, letting the words settle around you like dust after a storm. The air between you crackles with anticipation, waiting for your answer.

"Yeah," you admit, finally breaking the silence. "It is."

Remus nods, a soft sigh of relief escaping him. "The next step is to do this right."

"We'll take it slow, as slow as you need," James assures you, his tone steady and strong. "We set the pace together."

"And we'll be open," Remus continues, his voice measured, resolute. "About what you need from us, what you want from us, and what we require and hope for from you. Boundaries, expectations, hopes—everything will be laid bare."

"Especially the things we're afraid to say out loud," Sirius adds, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

The thought of something long-term, something permanent, doesn't fill you with dread anymore. Not when everything feels so right. Not when your body isn't screaming at you to run. Not when your instincts, usually so sharp and wary, are curious rather than alarmed.

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'll tell you what I need, what I can give, where my boundaries lie."

James meets your gaze, his eyes earnest. "And we'll respect that. Every word. It's not just a requirement; it's a promise."

The silence that settles is heavy with shared concern, and even the air seems to hold its breath in anticipation. When you finally pull out your phone, your movements slow and careful, their eyes follow every detail.

"Are you ordering a taxi?" James's voice cuts through the stillness, a note of hope threading through his question.

You nod, your gaze not leaving the screen as you get the app up. "Yeah."

"Good," Remus murmurs. "You shouldn't have to."

Sirius shifts in his seat, glancing towards the entrance before his eyes return to you, protective and resolute. "We're waiting with you, obviously."

Your smile is faint but genuine as you look up at them, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction. "You don't have to—"

"We know," James interjects, already rising from his chair. His glasses catch a glint of light as he adjusts them, determination etched into every feature. "We want to."

The breeze outside is sharp for the time of day, teasing through your coat and catching at your curls, but you hardly feel the chill with one of them at each side. James's hand rests on the small of your back, a steady presence guiding you forward. Remus's shoulder brushes against yours, an unspoken promise of support.

You stand together, waiting for the taxi to arrive. The conversation is light, steering clear of the night's heavier topics. You talk about the latest music and your favourite ridiculous TV shows, anything to keep the darkness at bay. James recounts how Sirius burned toast three days in a row while attempting to create a "masterpiece breakfast," and Sirius grumbles about how his camera app has updated again, throwing off his entire photo organisation system.

Remus listens, contributing when there's space, but mostly he watches the three of you, a small smile playing on his lips. It's as if he's already committing this moment to memory—three friends standing on a London street corner, finding laughter amidst the chaos.

"Are you sure you're alright?" James asks once more, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I am," you reply, meeting his gaze. And it's true—the warmth spreading through you isn't just the aftereffect of adrenaline.

The taxi pulls up to the curb, and they spring into action, each with their own role in ensuring your safety. Sirius holds the door open as you climb in, his grimace a stark contrast to his usual smirk. Remus double-checks that you have everything—your phone, your purse—his brows furrowed in concern.

James bends down slightly at the window, his hazel eyes meeting yours. "Text us when you're home," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "No matter what time it is."

"Even if it's just an emoji," Sirius adds, trying for levity but falling short.

You nod, clutching your phone tighter. "I will. Thank you. For everything."

"This isn't over," James promises, straightening as he steps back. "It's just the beginning."

As the taxi pulls away from the curb, you glance back. They haven't moved. They stand there, three figures bathed in streetlight, watching until you're out of sight. And even as the cityscape blurs again with the rhythm of the road, you can still feel it.

***

The taxi pulls away, leaving you alone in the chill of the evening. You grip the handles of your rollator tighter, the cold metal biting into your flesh, and begin the slow journey towards the entrance of your flat. Each step sends a jolt of pain through your body, a reminder of the price you've paid for tonight's revelations.

"Thanks," you mumble to the retreating vehicle, though your voice is weak, swallowed by the air.

Inside, you barely make it to the couch before your legs give out. The house is silent, a stillness that should bring relief but instead feels oppressive, heavy with unspoken dread. You remain rigid for a moment, half-expecting something to shatter the quiet.

You don't bother taking off your shoes or coat. Instead, you sink into the cushions, letting their worn softness cradle your aching body.

Your phone buzzes, the vibration startling against the silence. An instinctive flinch tugs at your muscles, old fears resurfacing despite your exhaustion. You pull the device from your pocket, squinting as the screen illuminates the dim room.

A notification.

New bank deposit: £1,000.

There is no message, no explanation accompanying the transaction. Just the stark reality of those numbers, an undeniable fact that stirs a mix of relief and unease within you.

Your chest tightens, the air thinning as if you've ascended too quickly to a great height. You look at the number again and again, afraid it will disappear if you blink too hard. It seems like another cruel trick of the light, but it's not. It's real.

You glance over at the walker by the door, its cold metal gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. It stands there, a silent testament to the life you have painstakingly built here. Your hands tremble, not from fear this time, but from the sheer weight of this moment. For once, it feels like someone sees you, truly sees you, without wanting something in return.

Curling up on yourself, you rest your forehead on your knees. The world narrows to the rise and fall of your shallow breaths, each one more ragged than the last.

You don't cry yet. It's too much, too sudden. The tears will come later, when the relief and terror can finally coexist. But for now, you just breathe.

Reaching into your bag, your fingers find the scarf. It's still there, the fabric cool and comforting against your skin. You pull it out and press it to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent of salt and bergamot fills your senses, mingling with the sterile smell of the hospital. It's an odd comfort, reminding you of freedom and the courage of a stranger who reached out when no one else would.

You text them without thinking:

You: I'm home. Safe. Warm. Just taking it all in.

There's a pause. Your fingers hover over the screen, not quite knowing what to say next. You're still sifting through the day's events, trying to make sense of them.

You: Thank you for today—the scarf, waiting with me, the money. I don't know how to express it yet. But... thank you.

The message sends with a small sound that echoes in the quiet room.

A few minutes later, responses start trickling in:

James: No need to explain or apologise.

Sirius: Get used to it, beautiful. This is just the beginning.

Remus: Get some rest, message us in the morning.

You set the phone down gently, treating it like something precious. You lean back, letting the couch support your weight. For once, you don't brace yourself for the next blow.

Instead, you let yourself feel tired. You allow the whisper of hope—a tentative belief that maybe, just maybe, you're safe.

The scarf rests on your lap, light yet solid, a tangible link to something you can't name yet.

Slowly, you close your eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, the darkness doesn't feel threatening. It feels like rest.

[pointycorgiears]

Sometimes, when nothing else was happening on or around the island, Buggy would immerse himself in the circus tent. There he would throw daggers at spinning wheels, flip over and over on balance beams, and twist around in various pole dances. It was a way to take his mind off things, when he didn't have to be anything but a clown. He didn't have to perform for anyone but himself.

Usually, Mihawk gave a wide circle around the circus tent. He only went there if he absolutely had to, and the times he did it was to pull Buggy away for something important. Today, he followed the clown inside out of his own interest. It was the first time Mihawk willingly stepped into the tent without feeling the need to grit his teeth or roll his eyes.

There was one thing that was certain about the circus tent though. Buggy was at his most primal here. Mihawk could see it every time he came here, and now was no different. Buggy moved like an animal gliding and scaling trees in the jungle. Every muscle, sinew, and tendon was visible as they flexed in tune with each other under the black skin-tight garments he wore only in this space. His hair was tied up to keep it out of his eyes. It was here Mihawk was always reminded of just how strong Buggy actually was. A lifetime of manning ships and twirling acrobatics shaped the clown into a formidable warrior, doubly dangerous with his added knowledge of weaponry and explosives to compliment his physical strength and abilities. Mihawk just could not figure out why Buggy chose to hide that strength away from the world, only letting it emerge when an extreme enough situation demanded he do so.

Then again, Mihawk also hid himself away from most people on an isolated island. He chose to sail alone rather than be part of a crew for most of his life. He just preferred things that way. Perhaps he did understand Buggy's desire to remain secretive about certain aspects of himself after all.

What Buggy could never hide was the blue and green luminance in his eyes and hair. The color bounced and reflected between long strands and scintillating irises. Mihawk could see it better than anyone. Even from the very beginning, from their first meeting, the clown appeared to have tiny jewels about him. Buggy was physically fit, had remarkable muscle definition, and a proud square jawline that made him handsome when standing in the sun and intimidating when baring his teeth from the shadows. Even with all of those traits, there was still an additional beauty with the smaller details caught in the light of his blue and green hues, in a spectrum only Mihawk could see. Never before had he seen such a mirror of the ocean in a set of eyes, or the endless blue of the sky in windswept hair. Mihawk was captivated, and he wondered how long these things had gone unadmired, by anyone. Perhaps he was the only one with the ability to see them.

He watched them now, in the tent, while Buggy did his routine as if Mihawk wasn't even there.

Both were completely lost in themselves. 

Mihawk felt there was one thing in this tent that was going to be the end of him. The trapeze swing. The way Buggy commanded it to fit his movements, gliding back and forth like a pendulum…it was hypnotic, and Mihawk could not turn his eyes away. Buggy twisted around the bar, hooking his legs and arms in different positions as he moved through the air, pretending to catch or launch an invisible partner. 

Mihawk looked closer as he passed by. Buggy's eyes were closed, his face completely relaxed like he'd fallen asleep from the gentle swaying. The only indication that he remained somehow focused was the tightness of his wrist and the flex of his thighs over the swing. His knees were hooked on the bar, leaving him hanging upside down. The downward force pulled on his hair-tie, and it came loose. The hair swept over his face with his motion.

Instead of a gasp, Mihawk drew in a long breath to get air to keep his heart pumping. Buggy didn't seem to mind his hair becoming free and continued his inverted swinging before Mihawk's eyes. The exhale of Mihawk's long breath came out with a slight hum. 

Gentle noises left Mihawk's throat. He soon found himself humming to Buggy's motion, rising and falling and changing in pitch with the clown's arcs in the air. 

Sing about something just because, it doesn't have to make sense, he remembered Buggy telling him earlier, trying to get Mihawk comfortable enough to sing aloud with him. 

Mihawk's eyes were transfixed on the clown as his voice got carried away by the breeze of the swing. "Something…something in the way…he moves…"

Buggy held the swing with one leg and bent the other, pulling and twisting the swing midair. He moved his arms over his head in a twirl like he was dancing. He cracked an eye open to see what his audience was doing and he smiled behind his hair.

Of course, Mihawk saw it clear as day. His voice rose a little louder with his hum. "Somewhere in that smile...he knows...that i don't need no other lover..."

He grinned at Buggy as he swung by. Mihawk talked to himself, or maybe he was singing to himself. He didn't know. He was just saying random words at this point, much like the clown always did. "Something in his style...that shows me..."

Buggy pulled himself upright, sitting on the bar and watching Mihawk as the swing began to slow.

Mihawk began stepping towards the swing as it glided to a rest above him. "Something in the way he knows..." It was only a few heads high in the air, and he could reach up and almost grab Buggy's leg if he wanted to. He did want to. "All I have to do is think of him..."

Buggy lowered himself til he hung by his arms from the bar. Mihawk steadied his legs and body as he came off the swing. Buggy let go of the bar, his arms landing on Mihawk's shoulders. His feet finally touched the ground again, but he didn't let go of the swordsman. They stared at each other for a moment. Mihawk brushed back a blue strand from Buggy's jewel-like eyes, whispering, "Something in the things you show me."

Buggy smiled. Mihawk finally leaned forward in a kiss and Buggy continued to hold on to him, silently returning the gesture.

Mihawk smiled under Buggy's lips.

I don't want to leave him now.

~~~***~~~

Something

~~~***~~~

This was originally a scene from one of my fics, but I wanted to rework it so it could be a standalone thing. Might come back to this in the future. I've just had acrobat Buggy and the Beatles on my mind lately.

Fun tidbit: The original inspiration for this scene is an act in the LOVE Show from Cirque Du Soleil.

[tavyliasin]

Villain-Fucker Angst Hours

Good timezone, darlings~ Are you ready to get all up in your feelings? No? Me neither, loves, but here we are regardless so the words are going to flow as they usually do... This is focused on Raphael from Baldur's Gate 3 and his fandom, but the latter section can easily apply to any villain fandom.

Self-Analysis of Devil-Fuckery, Or Why Do I Adore Raphael When He Is Very Obviously Evil: A Short Essay by TavyliaSin (Who Still Cannot Name Anything With Less Than A Full Paragraph) ((NSFW)) (((Game Spoilers)))

The following may discuss heavier topics, but without specifics, so whilst it should be safe for most to read without triggering any difficult memories please be aware of Raphael's entire vibes, the content and context of his story, and I'd also like to mention that this isn't a "woe be us for we are terrible people" piece, it's actually more about:

"There is an inherent kindness and warmth to much of the Raphael fandom, and I think there could be some common threads behind that, pulling us all in closer in a comforting blanket that we wrap around each other to keep out the cold of the world."

So, what in the nine hells am I on about? Well. Raphael-fandom is a wild and wonderful place to be. The rest is in sections, so feel free to skip through to what you feel is relevant to your interests. I am so prone to waffle I should open a restaurant~

Who Are Fans Of Raphael? What Do They Want?

We are feral, unhinged, all sheets to the wind "I want that devil man, carnally, and there is no force in all the planes that could stop me". There's the vanilla to the extreme and every level in between, tops, bottoms, versatiles, Doms, subs, and switches - there are a whole lot of people who would love to get their hands on either (or both) of Raphael's forms, for a simple smooch or something far more spicy~ [edited in] To add on to this, not all of us even desire him in a sexual way, for many it is romantic, soft, or even just the rather pleasant thought of spending an evening with drinks by the hellfire because he would be fascinating company. Aces, Aros, and AroAces may all find themselves well within the devilish corners of fandom too~ which is a whole other essay~ [end edit] So, I see you. I'm one of you. Extremely loud and utterly hingeless in my fan appreciation for Raphael. He's one of my favourites to write about, I seek art of him, and the same goes for his mirrored other half, Haarlep, who I arguably love more despite there being far less content of them in the game.

And the Fandom? The Vibe?

From my experience in the Raphael Fandom areas, we have a very deep and abiding understanding of consent, respect, and treating each other with an absolute and uncompromising kindness. We've had talks about keeping each other safe in fandom, exchanged details of people we have encountered who need to be avoided, even shared details between moderators of different fandom servers to pre-ban people proven to be creeps and/or art thieves. We've also discussed consent, including the issues with it in the game, and how areas of the story can only really be considered dubious at best and could easily be triggering for people. And these discussions have been open, honest, fair, and with the acknowledgement that most of us love these scenes anyway. So there's a sense of care that runs through everything, behind the horny-posting and fan content, behind the endless thirsting after our favourite fictional characters. We have a depth of kindness that warms my sinners soul every time I see it.

What Does This Have To Do With Self-Reflection, Raphael, or Villainy In General?

Well let's look at Raphael. He's a villain, obviously. He's manipulative, devious, and inherently evil by his very nature. He keeps Hope chained in his basement, constantly subjected to endless torture. There's also mention of how Gortash was sold into his service at a young age, clearly not an enjoyable experience given the other details and how things turn out (particularly as Raphael would need Gortash's own plans to fail entirely in order for him to succeed in his own and get that crown). And as fans, we accept that. We don't sit making excuses, or trying to say "well actually Gortash is a little shit and Hope probably deserve it", and we don't shy away from or conveniently ignore those darker sides of him with malicious intent to enable more evil to flourish. What I noticed, when I allowed the thoughts to continue, is that there is a theme here.

If Evil Can Be Loved Then So Can I

That's the core. Of course, darlings, I am not claiming to be a heinous monster. I certainly do not have a laundry list of crimes that would make the devil himself say "Uh, that's a bit much." But I sure as fuck treat myself like I do sometimes. You see, I think a lot of us have that tendency, to judge ourselves far more harshly than anyone else. Our patience, understanding, and forgiveness for others runs deeper than the Mariana Trench, but when it comes to our own flaws? One minor mistake and we think ourselves to be the worst beings ever to disgrace the earth. Thus, the villainy we see reflects how we are treating ourselves. So by loving and accepting all of those things that should be terrible, hated, we are actually learning that no matter how poorly we think of ourselves that we can be worthy of that same love and acceptance. We are extending the affection we are unable to show ourselves to someone we see the worst parts of ourselves amplified within. And that's why villains attract the people with the most kindness. The most forgiveness. Because it takes someone with a truly huge amount of empathy to find love for the embodiment of evil.

Or, IDK, maybe villains are just hot and we're too far down to care.

But wait, before you go!

THERE'S SOMETHING WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT.

All of this is about FICTION. We should never be accepting of the kinds of evil we see in the game irl. We do not owe anyone kindness if they do not show it to us.

What is hot in fiction is not always OK IRL.

Look after yourselves out there, remember that consent is key in all things, and please do try to learn to love yourselves, darlings, you are worthy of it and you should judge yourself by the same standard you judge others. If you are in doubt, if you are worried, if you feel afraid - reach out, talk to someone. There are many who will listen.

Treat yourself as you would treat a friend. You deserve that much.

Oh, and all Raphael fans who understand kindness are welcome around me, any hour of the day, I adore our little fandom circles and would gladly collect all of us together. I'm following a lot of you as soon as I find you, like hunting shiny pokemon~

See you in Avernus, my darling Little Mice, may we all find joy in the Cambion's Embrace~

[my-mt-heart]

Day 2 of "what the hell is going on with TBOC's promo," which is kind of a rhetorical question because I'm pretty sure we're witnessing a duel between two opposing marketing strategies again. I wish AMC would just put their foot down already and tell the dudes trying to ruin everything for Melissa and the fans to sit in the corner and stfu because the whiplash is not serving anyone, especially not two weeks before the premiere. Let's look at these bios...

Carol’s bio really does capture the true nature of what Daryl means to her and it gives her a strong emotional drive for her journey in S2. I think it also could've touched on her dealing with the trauma of losing Sophia all those years ago to round out her arc, although I'd argue that even that isn't separate from finding Daryl seeing as though that loss "ignited" their "unbreakable bond" in the first place. In any case, I like Carol's bio a lot and I have no doubt Melissa's performances throughout the season will bring it to life. Whether or not Zabel's writing can live up to it is a post for another day (Notice that the word "friend" did not come up once? That's how you know Zabel didn't get final approval on this one). Here's the thing about soulmates, though. If one feels that deeply connected, the other should too. If one of their stories gets damaged, the other's does too and that's what's bothering me right now. We should see their soulmatism reflected in Daryl's story as well, but we don't and without that mirroring, both his and Carol's journeys just feel sad.

Long before the promo circuit for TBOC started, I was worried that we wouldn't get to see Daryl fighting to get home to Carol (specifically), catch glimpses of him missing/thinking about her (specifically), or feel that spiritual connection that Carol does and this bio does absolutely nothing to alleviate my worries. This makes it sound like Daryl is going to be solely focused on whatever is going on in France until Carol arrives and even then, I worry about how he'll interact with her (thanks again for your unthoughtful analysis on that, Zabel). Similar to how Daryl has been taken hostage by the French characters, albeit through gaslighting, it feels like he has also been taken hostage by Zabel, Nicotero, and other men in charge who desperately want to use him as a stand-in for the generic, emotionally unavailable action hero that male viewers are supposed to identify with and/or aspire to. They won't let him be the character many of us were drawn to in the flagship show: the unconventional hero who's loyal to his family and falls in love "forever" with one woman (Carol). Like I said yesterday, "loyal" Daryl is the only Daryl I recognize and the only Daryl I want to watch, so it needs to be explicitly clear where Daryl's heart lies. We need to see that Carol is his first and only choice and we also need to see that Daryl has no romantic interest in Isabelle. That's the other problem...

Without Daryl's and Carol's bios mirroring each other as they should, Carol and Isabelle get framed as opponents in a quest for Daryl's heart, which is completely unnecessary, gross, and straight out of the "book of TV tricks" Zabel claims not to use. Daryl and Carol have 11 seasons of chemistry to capitalize on. Caryl's romance is the only one that's been earned, the only one I'm invested in, and the only one that needs payoff. Clemence is an extremely talented actress whose portrayal of a nun could've added something really fresh to the story, but having her catch "feelings" for Daryl after knowing him only a few months and question her long-standing faith of over a decade not only paints her as a weak woman whose weak principles are no match for a man's charm(?), but also glosses over the string of lies and emotionally manipulative plays she made against Daryl in S1. Isabelle's character has become nothing more than Zabel's and Nicotero's seriously problematic projections of what defines a woman, and I don't want it. It's an insult to Clemence, to Caryl's bond, to Daryl's history of childhood abuse, and to fans who have also suffered through CA or DV. So believe it or not, retconning her as a "former" nun all of a sudden does absolutely nothing to make this forced romance less abhorrent, AMC.

If the last couple of days have proved anything, it's that Daryl's and Carol's show needs a female showrunner who understands how to write not only complex female characters like Carol (and like Isabelle could have been), but complex male characters who don’t fit the dudebros’ definition of what makes him masculine or heroic. That's what Caryl, Melissa, and the fans deserve. They deserve a successful show and promo that gets everyone excited instead of confused and anxious. I enjoyed the clip of McReedus discussing the scene where Carol flirts with Daryl on top of the bus in S3, I liked hearing them confirm that Daryl's reaction was due to trauma and not lack of desire. I wish AMC would let them do the heavy lifting instead of trying to placate three EPs who keep self-sabotaging (seriously, you don't need all of them hogging the mic and spewing nonsense at Palyfest/NYCC). I don't appreciate being given consolation prizes (today's video, Carol's bio, yesterday's poster) after being kicked in the teeth. It says a lot about what I can expect from the season, which isn't very encouraging. It just means AMC is still trying to make everyone happy and will end up making no one happy and potentially ruining two iconic characters in the process.