#Fridge Brilliance (trope)

[kahran042]

A TV Tropes question

So, I'm banned from the TV Tropes forums, but not from editing. I want to make an edit to a Fridge page, but I'm not sure if my edit is valid. So…

Reblog for larger sample size!

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

The Twelfth Inspector’s first appearance in ‘The Space of the Inspector’

was actually a brilliant moment, when the audience is clued in to the fact that the Eleventh Inspector isn’t his/her last incarnation.

[fortunxa]

❝ HOT & COLD ❞

Jinx x fem!reader / modern AU

summary: Jinx and you are over—officially. But the lease says otherwise. Add a blizzard, a broken heater, one very unfortunate bed-sharing arrangement, and too many grudges to count. The blanket is thin, but the line between hatred and muscle memory is even thinner. Who knew emotional repression could be this warm?

contents: soft angst & fluff, exes to… something, forced proximity, only one bed trope, accidental intimacy, domestic tension, mutual pining, yearning, idiots (still) in love, poor communication skills, sleepy confessions, romcom fic, modern AU.

wc: 4.4k

Jinx masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

Jinx and you broke up.

Like, broke up broke up.

With tears, screaming, one shattered mug (accidental), one shattered phone screen (less accidental), and silence, in the end. Not the peaceful kind—just the kind that buzzed with all the things you didn’t say and probably wouldn’t.

It was Jinx who muttered, “Fine. We’re done,” and you who said nothing in response.

Not because you agreed, but because you didn’t want to beg. Again.

But, in your infinite brilliance, neither of you remembered to check the lease. Or maybe you did remember—just silently hoped the other would cave first and move out.

Because rent was hell, and pride was worse. And if you left, Jinx would win.

She was absolutely thinking the same thing.

Weeks passed. Two months, technically.

Two long, passive-aggressive, emotionally charged, death-by-a-thousand-paper-cuts months of sharing the same apartment like strangers who knew exactly where the other kept their trauma.

She holed herself up in the bedroom, headphones always on, voice rising in chaotic bursts during gaming streaks or mechanical rants to no one. You took the couch, curled into yourself at night, watching bad movies on low volume, mouthing along to the dialogue just to feel less alone.

It was the kind of breakup that involved changing the other’s profile picture on Netflix to their least favorite character just to push buttons, arguing about mugs that were mysteriously “stolen” (Jinx still maintained that the “World’s Okayest Girlfriend” mug always belonged to her), and a dramatic declaration from you that you needed “space to grow without someone damaging your Minecraft village every night.”

You coexisted in a very passive-aggressive ceasefire, held together by sheer spite and a mutual agreement to pretend the other didn’t exist outside of kitchen-related war crimes.

“STOP EATING MY CEREAL” became a recurring sticky note on the fridge.

“STOP BUYING SHITTY CEREAL,” Jinx wrote back, underlining shitty three times.

You labeled your food with threats like a deranged librarian. She responded by using your fancy almond milk to water your plants.

“You poisoned my fern!”

“She was a bitch anyway.”

One particularly tense morning, you found all your movie posters defaced with crudely drawn mustaches. Jinx’s crime was marked by the signature blue Sharpie and the fact that she cackled for ten minutes straight when you discovered it.

You retaliated by unplugging her gaming setup mid-boss-fight.

The scream could probably still be heard echoing down the hall.

She logged into your shared Spotify account and replaced your sad indie playlist with Yodeling Kid remixes.

You bought a life-size cardboard cutout of some D-list actor she hated and propped it up in the hallway.

She put googly eyes on it and called it her new roommate.

It was a cold, petty war. Very stupid, but livable.

Until the blizzard hit.

It came out of nowhere. No gentle snowfall or cinematic build-up—just a sudden, blinding white wall outside the windows, like karma finally cashed in all its receipts. Within the hour, the entire city went quiet, like someone had unplugged the world.

And then came the outage—lights gone, Wi-Fi dead. The fridge stuttered to a halt with a shudder, and everything fell into a hush thick enough to taste.

You were in the kitchen, standing over a sad bowl of reheated soup—portion for one—trying to stir some kind of comfort into it. The only light came from your phone’s flashlight, its narrow beams cutting through the room like a lighthouse in a sea of passive-aggressive clutter.

Jinx emerged from her room like a startled raccoon, squinting at the sudden dark. She blinked blearily, purple hoodie half-zipped, screwdriver still tucked behind one ear, and a half-disassembled drone clutched to her chest like a wounded animal.

“Hey,” she muttered, “did you pay the—?”

“It’s the storm,” you said, not even bothering to look at her as you angled the flashlight toward the stove. Your tone was flat and practiced. The tone of someone who had once shared a bed with her and now shared nothing but bills.

She paused. Processed.

“Cool,” she said flatly. “I love the apocalypse.”

“You would.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she scratched her neck, the way she always did when she was about to say something either vaguely important or incredibly stupid.

“So, uh,” she began, rocking back on her heels, “the heater’s dead, too.”

You turned your head slowly, deadpan. “What.”

“It was making this noise like eeeeeeeeeeeck—” She flailed one arm vaguely, mimicking an engine dying mid-scream. “Then nothing.”

You stared at her. “I told you we should’ve bled the radiator last week. It was already wheezing like a dying Victorian child, gasping out its final confession.”

Jinx just shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, well. He died doing what he loved. Making terrible sounds and being a nuisance,” she shot back like a stubborn teenager before realization hit. “Wait—were you just speaking to me like we’re still on speaking terms?”

“No, I was speaking to the other emotionally stunted idiot I share rent with.” You rolled your eyes, but your jaw tightened.

She blinked at you for a long second, eyes catching the flashlight. “Must be a crowd in here, then,” she finally muttered under her breath.

The tension had been simmering all evening—quiet, sharp, inevitable. You and Jinx stood in the darkened apartment like two ghosts who hadn’t figured out how to leave the place where they died. Wrapped in too-thin hoodies and thicker layers of resentment, you both waited for the other to break first.

“We could light candles,” you offered eventually, voice clipped, arms folded across your chest like armor.

Her head turned slowly, eyes glinting. “You mean my candles? The ones you took from our room after the breakup?”

You scoffed. “You don’t even like vanilla sugar cookie.”

“I like spite,” she snapped back. Then, of course, she went and fetched them anyway. She lit each one like she was performing a ritual—striking matches with far too much intensity, her face flickering in the flame’s glow like she was summoning a demon instead of basic warmth. You watched her set the candles down on the windowsill, the kitchen counter, and the old coffee table stained with memories.

The room was suddenly full of soft light and the scent of synthetic sweetness. It clung to the air like nostalgia—unwelcome and too familiar.

You pulled on another hoodie and cocooned yourself in a blanket from the couch. Lukewarm soup in hand, you sat cross-legged in the living room, the spoon tapping gently against the ceramic bowl like a nervous tic. Jinx paced behind you like she couldn’t stand still for too long without combusting.

“Bedroom’s warmer,” she finally muttered, not looking at you.

You raised an eyebrow without lifting your gaze, watching the soup swirl in your bowl like it held some kind of moral high ground. “Because you hoard all the blankets.”

“It’s called survival instincts,” she replied, leaning one hip against the doorframe. “Sorry you weren’t born with any.”

“I was too busy being born with emotional maturity.”

“Boring,” she tossed over her shoulder and turned on her heel, feet thumping softly against the floorboards.

But she left the bedroom door open.

You stared at it for a while. At the golden light pooling in the hallway. At the shape of her shadow disappearing inside. At the crack in your own will widening with every second.

Eventually, logic won.

Or loneliness did. Hard to say.

Ten minutes later, you stood in the doorway like a reluctant truce offering with crossed arms and toes curling into the icy floor through your fuzzy socks.

“You’re hogging the whole bed,” you said, trying for annoyance and landing somewhere closer to exhaustion.

“You weren’t in it,” she replied from somewhere under the blanket, her voice muffled.

“You left one pillow.”

“I am one pillow.”

“Gross.”

“True.”

You climbed in anyway.

The mattress creaked beneath you like it remembered things you didn’t want to. The blanket was warm in the places she’d already been, cold everywhere else. She didn’t move to make room, and you didn’t ask. Just shifted into the empty space beside her with the kind of caution reserved for old battlefields.

The silence between you was immediate and loud, only broken by the wind hurling itself against the windows like it had a vendetta. You lay stiff and awkward, the air filled with unsaid things and the scent of faint shampoo and stubborn memories.

“I’m still mad at you,” Jinx muttered into her side of the bed, her voice muffled and sullen, breath fogging faintly in the frigid air.

You didn’t bother turning around. “Then don’t cuddle me.”

“I’m not cuddling you,” she huffed defensively, indignation wrapped in shivers.

After a muttered argument and one poorly constructed pillow wall that collapsed under the weight of pettiness and shared body heat the moment you moved, the two of you ended up back-to-back, pressed together beneath the blanket like awkward divorcees forced to share a hotel bed at a family reunion. Two ex-girlfriends, one blizzard, zero dignity. But a whole lot of silence, tension, and regret.

Then, softly—reluctantly—she mumbled, “…Move closer, dumbass. I’m freezing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it could’ve powered a generator. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, but you scooted back, just a little. She moved, too, slowly, like she wasn’t totally desperate for warmth. Or the smell of your hoodie. Or the shape of you.

Her toes bumped your calf, and you flinched. “Your feet are ice,” you hissed.

“You’ve got the warm ones. Share, frost witch.”

You kicked at her half-heartedly, but she just tangled her legs into yours like it was nothing. You both squirmed, adjusting awkwardly—arms crossing, knees knocking, elbows bumping into ribs—until you landed in a mess of limbs that felt more like a habit.

Jinx’s nose brushed against your shoulder—accidentally, on purpose—and neither of you mentioned it.

A long pause settled over the room. The kind of silence that comes after too many almosts and not enough apologies.

“…Are you still mad at me?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like the question had snuck out before she could stop it.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, then exhaled. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words leaving your mouth half-formed, like they didn’t want to exist outside of your chest.

Silence settled again. Not cold, but careful.

“I saw you crying during Finding Nemo last week,” she blurted out, trying—and failing—to keep the amusement out of her voice.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glare half-heartedly. “That movie is devastating. He literally loses his son.”

She grinned in the dark. “Yeah, but I was emotionally dead inside before the stingray scene.”

You let out a short, reluctant laugh—sharp at the edges, but real. “You’re the worst.”

“You love it.”

“I did.”

The air shifted.

Not just the temperature, but the weight of everything unsaid, and you could’ve sworn you felt the mattress dip with the gravity of it.

“…So. Past tense,” she said quietly.

You shifted beneath the blanket, fabric brushing against her leg. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Her voice was too innocent.

“Make it sound like I’m the villain in your sad indie song,” you murmured.

Jinx blinked. “I would never.” Then, she smiled. Softly, almost fond. “Your vibe is more… tragic lesbian who dies in Act III.”

That earned another huff of laughter from you, but quieter this time. Sadder.

You turned to face her—just barely—and your noses nearly touched. Her breath was warm against your mouth. You didn’t move, and neither did she. The space between you was almost nothing, but still everything.

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other in the half-dark. Breathing the same cold air, wearing the same old ache, still pretending the word love wasn’t curling in both your throats like smoke.

Her eyes fluttered. You could see her trying to stay present, to stay with you. But every few seconds, her gaze would soften, blur a little, until she blinked hard again and refocused on you—like your face was something she didn’t want to lose track of.

Your chest rose, and so did hers. In time.

It was around 3:00 a.m., though neither of you knew it. Because Jinx was curled against you like she forgot you broke up and lost the right to touch, and you didn’t remind her.

Maybe neither of you cared.

You fit together the way people who’ve fought and fucked and forgiven each other a hundred times always do—like old puzzle pieces with frayed edges, soft from use.

You weren’t really awake, but not quite asleep either—somewhere in the middle, suspended in that liminal space where your body acts before your brain does.

So when you stirred beside her—shuffling closer, sighing softly into the crook of her neck—it felt natural to respond. Familiar, like muscle memory. Her arm curled instinctively, draping over your waist like it used to.

You didn’t flinch. Simply exhaled, deep and steady, while your nose brushed against her collarbone in the dark. A second later, your lips followed, grazing soft skin—too lightly to be deliberate, too precisely to be random.

“You still grind your teeth when you’re about to fall asleep,” Jinx mumbled suddenly, her voice low and heavy, half-buried in the pillow between you.

You smiled into the dark—one of those worn-in smiles that surfaces from memory before thought. You didn’t mean to. It just happened, the way muscle remembers softness even after months of tension.

She exhaled, her breath warm against your temple, slow and even like the rhythm of a tide she couldn’t resist. Her lips brushed skin—not purposefully, not quite. But close enough to blur the line.

It wasn’t a kiss.

But it wasn’t not a kiss.

More like an echo.

A ghost of the old days, when goodnights always came with kisses and mornings meant shared coffee—too sweet, made one-handed while you still wore your blanket like a cape—and legs entangled in sleepy domestic knots.

An entire life lived in tiny routines.

You shifted slightly, voice drowsy as you murmured, “You’re breathing on me.”

“Can’t help it,” she mumbled, her words slurred with sleep. “You’re warm.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“Probably,” she hummed in response, a quiet, contented sound. The words melted into the quiet like honey in tea.

You moved again, slowly, thoughtlessly—half-lost to sleep yourself. Your nose brushed the curve of her cheek, skin to skin in the dark. “You’re soft.”

Jinx didn’t respond to that.

Because what could she say?

That she knew?

That she’s only ever soft with you?

That the word soft coming from your mouth made her want to cry in a way nothing else ever did?

That she missed being called that more than she’d miss breathing?

So, she said nothing.

She just leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead—so light it could’ve been imagined, so instinctive it didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Not even thinking.

Just moving. Reacting. Remembering.

“I still set the kettle out for you,” you whispered suddenly, voice barely audible in the dark.

She stirred beside you. “What?”

“Every morning. I don’t know why.”

She went quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that meant she was holding something between her teeth, turning it over.

“I still charge your phone when you forget.”

You blinked, eyes stinging suddenly, inexplicably. The quiet pressed in around you again, heavy with all the things you hadn’t said.

“…We’re so dumb,” you said, almost laughing. It came out cracked.

“The dumbest.”

Another silence, but not empty.

Never empty.

Then she shifted, just slightly, like her whole body braced for impact before the words even left her mouth. “You know,” she said, quiet and careful, “I didn’t stop loving you. I just got tired of trying to become someone you could stay with.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t respond right away. Not because you didn’t have words, but because none of them felt like enough—not for this, not for her, and not after everything.

But slowly, tentatively, your hand found hers under the blanket. The touch was gentle, almost shy. Yet when your fingers slid into hers, they fit the same way they always had. Like nothing had changed. Like everything had. Like love learned how to hold on even when you tried to let go.

Your thumb brushed over her knuckle once. “You were always someone I wanted to stay with,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know how to stay with you and not lose pieces of myself in the process.”

Jinx’s grip tightened, just a little. Just enough. “I would’ve given you space,” she murmured.

“You didn’t know how,” you said, not unkindly, just true.

“I do now.”

Silence again.

Then, slowly, she tilted her head. Her mouth brushed the edge of your jaw—featherlight, slow, like she wasn’t sure she had permission. Like she was trying not to wake you. Like the memory of loving you was still rooted in her muscle memory, twitching to life in the dark.

And you let her. Turned into it, just slightly, because you were too tired to pretend you didn’t miss the way her lips used to know exactly where to land.

You met halfway.

The kiss was nothing like the ones you used to share. No urgency, no hunger, and no frantic pulling at clothes or gasps between apologies.

It was soft and short and not entirely awake—it happened so gently, so sleepily, you didn’t even realize you were kissing until it was already over.

Just a peck. The kind people don’t mean to give—like a sigh, or a yawn, or reaching for the light switch in a room you haven’t lived in for months but still remember.

Like coming home for three seconds in the middle of a snowstorm.

And then, without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed another kiss to the tip of her nose. Barely a whisper of contact. Just enough for her to breathe in sharply, like even now, even half-asleep, your affection still caught her off guard.

Then a third one—this one landing a little off-center, a little clumsy, brushing messily across the corner of her mouth.

A hello.

I remember you.

This still lives here.

Jinx made a small, involuntary sound—something between a sigh and a whimper—low and soft against your lips, like her body remembered you before her mind could. Your noses bumped lazily, and you smiled into it like it hurt.

When you finally paused for air, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, “This doesn’t mean anything… right?”

She nodded against you. “Right. Just… survival. Warmth.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, breath puffing against her lips. “Like penguins.”

She cracked a smile. “Exactly.”

“So if I kiss you again—”

“It’s so I don’t freeze to death,” she finished for you.

“Obviously.”

Another kiss.

This one lingered—longer than the last, warmer, steadier. There was a quiet kind of certainty in it.

“Penguins mate for life,” you whispered against her lips, the words soft and teasing, but not without weight. Like you tried to make it a joke so you didn’t have to admit it sounded like a promise.

Jinx blinked, caught mid-breath.

“…Shit.”

You laughed, breathless, and buried your face in her neck again, smelling her body wash and deciding not to comment on the fact that it smelled suspiciously close to yours.

Her arms slipped around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sleep,” she murmured, voice raspy with exhaustion and something far too tender. “Before we say something even dumber.”

“Too late,” you mumbled back, the words muffled against her collarbone.

You fell quiet again, tangled up in heat and history and every part of you that never quite let go, her thumb tracing something lazy into your spine.

“We’re a mess,” she whispered.

“Always have been.”

“Still want toast in the morning?”

You smiled, eyelids heavy now, the weight of the moment pressing down like warmth. “Yeah.”

Jinx’s grin was lazy and crooked, her voice slurring at the edges of sleep. “I’ll burn it just how you like.”

Outside, the storm continued.

Inside, two idiots kept forgetting they ever broke up, suddenly remembering how to be soft again.

And maybe the heater would come back.

And maybe you’d go back to hating each other in the morning.

But the body doesn’t lie the way the mouth does.

Because love doesn’t vanish—not really.

Sometimes it just moves into the living room and leaves sarcastic sticky notes.

yippeee i haven’t forgotten how to write softness!!

[princesssarisa]

I once reblogged a post about Disney's Beauty and the Beast where the OP wrote that in a sequel, they'd like to see Prince Adam still struggling to control his temper at times. I think I agree: anger issues don't easily go away. But there's something else I'd like to see in a sequel even more:

I want Prince Adam to make peace with the Beast.

I also want him to know that Belle has made peace with the Beast.

I want Adam to accept the fact that he was once spoiled, selfish, and unkind, and not to excuse it in the least, but to understand that he was made that way by his royal upbringing, not born that way. I want him to see that he can choose to behave differently in the present without hating his past self.

I want him to accept his temper – to realize that just as long as he doesn't act on it in harmful ways, it's okay to feel overwhelming anger when he's attacked or threatened. I want him to know that despite the importance of controlling it, his anger doesn't make him a bad or unlovable person, and that it can be used for good too. Namely to fiercely protect the people he cares about, as when he fought off the wolves to save Belle.

I also want him to accept the fact that he lost interest in dignity and gave in to his feral, "beastly" instincts: wearing tattered clothes, eating like a messy animal, ripping and smashing everything in the West Wing in his rages, etc. I don't want him to remember it as a character flaw, but to know that it was partly the fault of the spell warping his mind and partly out of sheer despair.

I want him to remember that he was never all bad. Even at his most beastly, he was moved by Belle’s request to take her father’s place as his prisoner, which made him agree to the exchange even before he realized that she might break the spell. Then when he saw her crying, he felt compassion and remorse, and he gave her a comfortable room and free rein of the castle. While his ferocious rage when he caught her in the West Wing was inexcusable (his anger itself was justified, but not his reaction that made her afraid for her life), he was instantly racked with remorse, and when he realized she had run into the forest and was being threatened by wolves, he risked his life to save her, which inspired her to give him a second chance.

Then, after he comes to these conclusions, I want him to be assured that Belle has done the same. I want him to know that Belle truly loves him, not just a role he learned to play to please her.

There's a comment somewhere or other on TV Tropes (I think on the Fridge Brilliance page), which says that the Beast "had to learn to hate himself" to become a better person. That breaks my heart. I don't want him to go through life hating himself and pretending to be someone else, or, if he does, for it to be portrayed as a good thing. That's no way to live.

I've been thinking of more recent Disney/Pixar movies like Turning Red and Inside Out 2, which promote accepting the messy sides of yourself (without using that acceptance as an excuse to behave badly, though) and loving every part of yourself. Beauty and the Beast obviously isn't about that mindset, but arguably just the opposite – some of the creative team have said that the Beast's character arc is about the universal process of learning to control our "animal" instincts and become civilized human beings. But are these movies’ different messages mutually exclusive? I'd like to think the Beast/Prince Adam can choose to be a civilized human being, yet fully accept the "animal" part of himself too.

I know that part of the problem is that I see parallels between the Beast and a neurodivergent person. Lack of social skills, physical messiness, struggle to connect emotionally with others, overpowering anger under stress that he struggles to regulate, etc. I see my own AuDHD qualities in him – maybe I'm projecting them too much onto him – and I feel as if part of his character arc is about learning to "mask." I know this wasn't the creative team's intention, but it feels that way. I don't want Adam to spend his entirely life masking and hating what's under the mask, or to think Belle loves only the mask and not his true self.

Let him make peace with the Beast.

[littlebitsofsmile]

if you let me - kim namjoon

summary: Unsaid words and heavy hearts - that’s what Namjoon seemingly left behind when he enlisted in the military. Three years later, he still hasn’t stopped needing that home, that anchor, that quiet support from Sowon - the girl who loved him silently and now watches his return through a cracked phone screen and a blurry livestream. Seeing him and that familiar blue, rectangular object - the diary she gave him on their last day together - makes her wonder if he still remembers her too. pairing: oc x kim namjoon (BTS) trope: kind of exes to ? word count: 2,511 warnings: emotional themes including mental health, unresolved love, identity struggles, loneliness

▵back to masterlist

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。

Namjoon lay beside her, arms and legs outstretched, face tilted toward the sun, eyes squinting into the light. The wind carried Sowon’s thoughts gently away, while her belly rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing. The moment felt fragile - like porcelain held between trembling hands - as if both sensed that the heaviness inside their hearts had finally grown too much to bear.

"Sometimes, I don’t know who I am anymore," he exhaled.

"Like I’m split into three people, and I can’t decide which one is real. Am I RM, the leader of BTS - the one who raps ‘Cypher’ on stage and gives speeches at the UN? Or am I Kim Namjoon, the guy who wonders if he’s done enough to deserve the love he’s been given, not just by fans, but by the members? Or... Joonie - the one who is..." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just weariness. "...To be honest, I don’t even know who I am to you. Or what we are."

Something inside Sowon’s heart quietly shattered. The once delicate moment turned into a vase crushed under the weight of his words. Still, she didn’t choke. Her breathing didn’t falter. She didn’t even turn to look at him. No answer fell from her lips, and he didn’t expect one.

“I’m scared of enlisting,” he admitted. “Sometimes I think we’re crazy, going to the military at our high. Do you know how many groups made it back successfully? I can’t name a single one. What if we come back and there’s no one left waiting for us?”

A glimpse. A crack. A narrow chance to pour her heart out and maybe change the trajectory of everything.

What if she hadn’t stayed quiet back then?

If she had told him how she cried at night, lying on the left side of the bed with a stuffed duck he won her at an arcade, clinging to the scent it had absorbed instead of to him. Not to the idol, not the leader - just him. Joonie. Who laughed under the covers about absurd philosophical thoughts at 2 a.m.

How she sometimes caught a hint of his cologne on strangers in the subway, only to be reminded of the calendar taped to her fridge, with red X’s marking every day until his return.

How she heard him in every song. Saw him in every ad, every mirror. How not seeing him for so long made her own mind play tricks on her.

How she read every hate comment and stayed up at night replying with kindness, opening burner accounts to send him the kind of support he’d never ask for. Because that’s what he would’ve wanted - not to let it get too close, too personal.

How she watched every fancam, every performance recap, every livestream - admiring this freer version of Kim Namjoon, a man now seemingly lighter when away from the weight of being RM. She saw his brilliance, not just in what he gave to the world, but in the way he held himself when no one was looking.

But how could she speak of her own aches, when he was carrying the weight of millions?

So that day, she executed her role to perfection. The quiet shoulder. The steady breath. She didn’t say a word about herself. Not about the promotion. Not about how she finally loved her job. Not even about how none of her accomplishments could ever fill the space he left behind.

Sowon never had the heart to ask him to stay.

She knew she couldn’t bear it any longer. And he never asked if it was okay to leave - just for a short while, just to find himself - because he knew asking would be unfair. He knew she’d say yes. That she'd wait, even if it broke her. And the last thing he wanted was to make her responsible for his peace.

She never told him how small she sometimes felt beside him. How he seemed to have already conquered the world, while she was still learning how to hold her own.

And Namjoon never told her that he felt safest when she was on his couch, wearing one of his oversized T-shirts and the glasses she hated, typing furiously on her laptop while he was supposed to be working, too - but instead, just watched her, grateful.

He never told her that her overcooked noodles were his favorite meal, because she tried. That even though she couldn’t really cook, and neither could he, he always brought food from her favorite places because she deserved something warm and comforting.

He never told her that the songs she hummed while vacuuming stayed with him for days, inspiring melodies, lyrics, feelings.

And so, his anchor - the home he longed to return to when hotel rooms blurred together and cities became just names - and her sanctuary, the warmth she saved just for him when the world outside felt too cold, both remained in that moment. On a grass field. Beneath a setting sun.

With the wind carrying away all their unspoken words, missed chances, and lingering stares.

-

A small screen lit up in the quiet of Sowon’s apartment, three years later.

There he was again - not in that field, not in that moment - but wearing his glasses and one of those oddly patterned shirts, sitting in front of a camera just hours after his discharge. She smiled, but tears welled in her eyes. Namjoon didn’t even look different. The same eyes she had fallen in love with. The same dimples. The same deep-toned voice, especially when he spoke in English. He carried himself with that quiet confidence again. It was almost hard to believe this was the same man who had once sat across from her, full of doubt, whispering fears about being forgotten.

Then he switched to Korean. He spoke about how he had suffered from severe insomnia, how he had gone to see a neuropsychiatrist, and how he had been taking sleeping pills ever since.

Sowon’s heart ached.

Just imagining how scared he must have been - must still be - made her chest tighten. She wanted to reach through the screen, to wrap him in a hug and whisper that everything was going to be okay. That yes, life is undeniably more complicated for emotionally intelligent people, and that the lows can cut so much deeper. But also that there’s so much waiting for him out there. So much light, so much hope. So many who held space for his return without demanding anything in return.

She wanted to tell him that maybe his feelings do run deeper, and his thoughts do wander into places most people never reach - but that is precisely why his presence resonates so strongly. Why his music feels like home to so many. Because yes, there’s darkness in the world. But he’s not alone. Not as long as even one person out there speaks about his heart as if its kindness is something sacred.

She wanted to tell him how clearly she’d seen his soul reflected in the lives of his fans. How she sometimes found herself reading threads where strangers poured out their thoughts with such familiarity, it felt like he had written them. His every fiber was stitched into the core of ARM - holding everything together. She saw his way of thinking in the comments on music videos, new and old. He was everywhere.

And maybe that’s what made it so hard to let him go, that day three years ago. Because even if he had no trouble letting go of her, her life still stood on the foundation he had built.

She didn’t text him that day. She only opened their old chats.

The last message still lingered. “I hope you’re okay." No answer. But that was okay. It was what they had agreed on - space, silence, no promises.

She remembered how closed-off he had become. How the late-night calls faded away. How even his laughter - once warm and lifting - had started to sound hollow. Rehearsed. She didn’t know when it started, but maybe it was around the same time the military swallowed up the version of him she once knew.

But he never talked about it. Not to her.

And she never told him what it felt like to only see his shadow. To feel the air around him grow heavy with a sadness she couldn't name. How powerless she felt when he pulled away, how desperately she wished she could hold their little bubble together, even as it slipped through her hands.

She leaned her forehead against the screen, as if it could somehow bridge the distance that silence had carved between them.

“I missed you,” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear it.

A single tear slid down her cheek, silent and slow.

She wished she could have been there on his hardest nights. When the fear crept in. When he questioned everything. When he needed someone to believe in him more than he could believe in himself. Just like all his experiences still influenced her and brought her to where she was today. More mature. Maybe even guarded. Selective with her time. But always genuine and with an open heart.

But all she could do now was sit there, watching him through a screen, remembering a love that once lived in between songs, silences, and unsent messages.

-

On BTS’ anniversary, a notification popped up during a meeting.

RM has posted.

Sowon kept her composure. Kept typing. Kept nodding. Kept breathing.

The virtual meeting continued - cameras on, mics off - and she hoped no one noticed the tremble in her fingers or the way her eyes blinked just a little too slow. But the camera caught everything. Every twitch. Every shift.

When the meeting ended, she packed up her things, quietly excused herself, and walked until she found an empty bathroom stall.

She locked the door. Sat down. Pulled out her phone. A deep breath.

Her thumb hovered over the notification bubble like it might burn her. Then she tapped.

The post opened.

She began reading - and blood rushed through her so quickly, so violently, her ears started ringing. A high-pitched tone filled her head and refused to leave for the next five minutes.

Everyone was celebrating.

BTS was back. The internet lit up with edits, pictures, cheers - a digital explosion of joy and color. For the first time in what felt like forever, people were laughing again. Crying happy tears. Being healed by the very people who had once saved them.

But no one stopped to ask who saved the ones who saved everyone else.

I think I've lived my life trying to decode your love, to match it as best as I could.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She remembered how full of stories he always was - how every time he returned from a tour or a show, it was like he came back with a new universe in his pocket. Tales of cities. Fan projects. Moments on stage that made his chest feel like it would burst from gratitude.

She remembered him pacing barefoot across his living room, hands moving as he spoke, eyes bright. And she, always curled into the couch like a quiet witness, listening like his words were her favorite song.

She’d always told him how proud she was. How happy she was to see him do what he loved.

But she never told him the rest.

She never told him about the silence after the calls ended. How sometimes she lay awake wondering what he dreamed of - when the lights were off, when the crowd was gone, when the applause faded.

What did he long for, when he wasn’t busy holding the weight of the world?

He used to send her postcards. Call from hotel rooms. Text her blurry skyline photos he thought she’d like. They gave each other pieces of their worlds. Tried their best. Matched each other’s love in different shapes, at different speeds. But in the end, they let go, gently, like holding onto something that had already started to dissolve.

The post ended. A Namjoon who is free.

She imagined how freeing it must have been to write that. How good it must have felt, even if it was lined with fear. Because now that he was back, people expected him to step back into the leader role like he’d never left it. To prove, once again, that he could carry all of it.

But what he didn’t realize was—he didn’t need to prove anything at all.

Not to the fans. Not to the members. Not to the world. Not even to her.

He was enough. His quiet thoughts, his flawed moments, his uncertain steps—all of that was more than enough. People didn’t need perfection. They only ever needed him.

And in that bathroom stall, phone in hand, tears on the edge of her lashes—she let go of her pride.

And she texted him.

For the first time in years.

Just one sentence. No emoji. No punctuation.

But her number was still saved in his phone. And for the first time in a long, long time, they picked up where words had once left off.

“If you let me, I’ll be here.”

[courtneysmovieblog]

TV Tropes pointed out that there is a hidden fridge brilliance to Idina's cameo using the DG riff other than just a mere cheeky "passing the torch" easter egg:

Idina's riff comes in the Wizomania show specifically when she narrates about the prophecy that foretells someone that could read the Grimmerie. Everything thought that was the Wizard, but as Elphaba learns, that was a lie. He never could read the Grimmerie.

But SHE can.

THIS time period, where Morrible and the Wizard are victimizing the animals, is Oz's true darkest hour. SHE is the chosen one, not the Wizard. And now she knows it.

So when she locks eyes with the Wizard at the end and lets loose that same riff she heard in Wizomania, she's doing it on purpose. it's her own personal "fuck-you" to that asshole.

[miintsprigz]

Unrelated to anything I’ve been posting but…

May I ask why I’m hearing that people dislike TV Tropes? I’m not saying that’s a “wrong” opinion (theoretically that can’t even be a Thing), and it might because it’s somewhat of a special interest for me, but like.

I’d argue that my knowledge of it helped, with my own creation of fiction and my analysis of existing fiction.

The idea of “fridge brilliance” in particular. It allowed me to connect details together in a way that I didn’t consider before, and helped me to formulate theories about fiction in a way that I couldn’t do before. My aim got better, I started getting things right more. And that made me happy!

Because I’m very autistic and I love being able to figure things out.

I know tropes can be uh…

Not so good. Because they’re stereotypes in a way, and “critics” (a.k.a. people who just like to dunk on every piece of media they see and point out “everything wrong” with them without any actual constructive criticism…looking at you, Cinema Sins… and L. Orchard…) will use them to tear apart pieces of media.

But they’re building blocks. You can build the same thing as a million other people, but you can also make different and unique structures with them! It’s nice in that way.

Anyway, TL;DR, I enjoy TV Tropes and don’t fully understand the hate towards it.

[rhys-ravenfeather]

Oh yeah, so I didn't mention this, but I ended up waking up early yesterday morning and scrolled through Inside Out 2's Fridge Brilliance page on TV Tropes, and found this little nugget:

I may get into my feelings on Envy as a whole at a later time, because I have a lot of feelings about the character, but for now, take this.

[sunnytoonsproductions]

Y'all I even forgot to show y'all these subpages from the class of 3000 TV tropes site, I'm now literally obssesed with how they added it into his site. 🎷🥁🎻🎸🎸🪈🪘🎹

[chewbokachoi]

What trope is your favorite to write?

What trope have you not written yet, but want to?

What headcanon do you always include in your stories?

What trope is your favorite to write?

I probably won't get the exact trope name right, but I enjoy writing trippy/weird dream sequences that do have actual meaning to the story. Fridge Horror (or brilliance) is one I always aim for/hope I pull off. I love the idea of reading something and then later going "WAIT HANG ON" so I try to do that in my writing. Doppelgangers are also tropes I very much enjoy messing with.

And I, uh, also very much enjoyed doomed lovers >.>

I'm sure Cassan and Smoke will be fiiiine

What trope have you not written yet, but want to?

Lovecraftian-related tropes! And I don't think I've properly delved into abandoned-anything tropes. There's so many more, but those are the ones that come to mind immediately.

What headcanon do you always include in your stories?

Ohh that's an interesting one! Regarding Mortal Kombat right now, and what I'm using to sort of help me navigate the way I write things for it (I've probably shared these before but now it's all in one place):

-Hanzo Hasashi is burdened with always making the wrong choice and/or giving into his emotions -The Scorpion mantle is for somebody who is going to live a life of tragedy and regret. Or they're somebody who is meant to be the sole survivor of something nobody should have to live through -Ashrah's older than Sareena -Sareena's not a high-ranking demon -Rain is "Go Big or Go Home" based off of what I've read of his Original Timeline endings (and could see for myself for once if only the GOG file could work) -Kuai Liang never wanted to be a leader

Thank you for asking! This was a lot of fun to answer :D

[localplaguenurse]

Jerkass is definitely more fitting for Mizuki, thanks!

And Cassandra Truth is named after the Oracle of Delphi who predicted doom and gloom but wasn’t believed. In Kei’s case he didn’t have a Vision but who would ever think that Chibana went and hooked up with an Adeptus and bore his child? Unless it was confirmed by someone who could see that kind of thing, it’s natural to assume Kei could do that because he possessed a Vision.

Also can’t wait until Zhongli learns his child was nearly arrested and traumatized. I’m sure he is going to be so pissed and demand answers

I looooove learning new tropes. My personal favourite is fridge horror, a variation of fridge logic. Fridge logic is when there's a weird little plot inconsistency or detail that you don't notice until you're thinking about it later. Alfred Hitchcock dubbed it as "icebox logic," meaning it's not until you get home after a show and start pulling food out of the icebox/fridge that you go "hey wait a minute." There's fridge brilliance where if you think about it, that weird detail is accidentally very smart, but fridge horror is when it makes the context accidentally more horrifying.

The go to example I can think of off the top of my head is Plants vs Zombies. In the game as you do your thing defending your home, the very last zombie you kill will drop a seed packet with a new plant. When you think about how this is a world with not just zombies, but also plants made to kill zombies, you wonder why would a zombie have this on them? Oh, because that zombie was someone trying to protect their home, like you, but they failed.

Probably not the direction you thought this would go but hey, it's something I get to talk about.

[the-acid-pear]

Back to hating on the TV Tropes page for The Human Centipede but it really is starting to sound like most of the people writing this didn't even watch the movie like, why is Heiter being a siames surgeon put under "fridge brilliance"? Like, a fridge trope is something you take a while to realize, something that has to sink in. This, is not that. The man outright says in his monologue that he used to separate life now he will join it and he's called a recognized doctor and he has HUGE PAINTINGS OF BABIES BEING SEPARATED like, like are these people even watching the movie i. I'm not even mad anymore im genuinely baffled rn.

[sothetherogue]

Have you ever noticed any Fridge Brilliance in DEH? I ask because TV Tropes has only three entries for it, one of which was the subject of a Kahrant.

I think one super minor one I had is when Evan says he is "Sending pictures of the most amazing trees" and how it all seems super positive because he loves nature - And looking back on the play and how he hurt himself "Amazing" might have had a totally different meaning in his mind.

I checked out the page and the part on Larry and the Baseball glove is blowing my mind. It isn't my fave song but it is an important one - And I feel like I just got another later added to it.

LOVE the rant tho. Lol Some people have like....Weird takes with good interpretations.

[princesssarisa]

I've been thinking about The Swan Princess. I haven't seen the entire series, but the original movie was a childhood favorite of mine.

I've been thinking of some ways the movie could have been better.

First and foremost, the issue of "What else is there?" How to offend women in 5 syllables or less keep the plot point of Prince Derek saying those words when Odette asks him if he loves her for more than just her beauty, yet without making so many audience members permanently hate him for it.

I actually wrote two entries on the Fridge Brilliance page on TV Tropes about this plot point. (1) This is a fairy tale, and in most classic fairy tales, love is just a matter of beauty, so that's what Derek expects. (2) There are hints throughout the song "This Is My Idea" that young Derek and Odette like each other long before they admit it to themselves. Adult Derek thinks at first that he fell instantly in love with Odette when he saw she had grown beautiful, but by the end he realizes he loved her long beforehand, for who she is as a person.

But maybe those things should have been made more explicit.

I personally would have made the movie more explicitly a deconstruction of classic fairy tale romances with their beauty-based Love at First Sight, more in the vein of later movies like Frozen. I would add some dialogue either before or between the verses of "This Is My Idea" showing Queen Uberta (bubbly romantic that she is) reading a classic Love at First Sight fairy tale to young Derek, and telling him that someday, when they're grown up, Odette will be beautiful and a single glance will make him love her. I might also add some dialogue for adult Derek later in the song, where he complains about having to marry Odette and imagines his preferred scenario – riding through the woods one day, suddenly encountering a beautiful dancing maiden, and knowing instantly that she's the one (a la Disney's Sleeping Beauty, or the original Swan Lake). This would show that he believes in classic fairy tale romance. Thus when "What else is there?" eventually happens, the audience's impression won't be "Derek is a shallow jerk who only values women for their looks" but "Derek has been raised with a fairy tale concept of love as something you feel just because the other person is beautiful."

Later, the ball scenes and "Princesses On Parade" would make it clear that Uberta is again trying to force the fairy tale concept of love on her son, hoping for a Cinderella-style Love at First Sight at the ball. But of course it doesn't work, not only because he's faithful to Odette, but because Love at First Sight isn't real.

I would also add some scenes throughout the movie where Odette and Derek each reminisce about their shared childhood. Odette could tell her three animal sidekicks about it, while Derek could recall it with Bromley and Rogers. This would help to avert the problem some critics find with the movie as it is: that Odette and Derek seem like different people as adults than as children and are much blander than their feisty child selves. It would also show us explicitly that they did like each other long before they knew it. We would see flashbacks to their childhood fights and pranks, and their adult selves would laugh wistfully and make remarks like "I wouldn't admit it to myself, but I enjoyed all that" and "We were never really enemies, we were just too stubborn and foolish to admit that we were friends."

Around the same time, I would also have Odette say a word or two about "What else is there?" to her animal friends, to explain why she's fully committed to Derek again despite having broken off their betrothal earlier. (Of course the cynical view would be that she only forgives Derek because she wants him to break her spell, but this movie isn't supposed to be cynical.) She would say something like "I shouldn't have left him. I know in my heart that he truly loves me, he just couldn't put it into words."

Going back to the childhood scenes, I would also find some way during "This Is My Idea" for young Odette to show her kindness. If at the end of the movie, Derek is going to say that he loves Odette for her kindness, then we should see her display it in front of him. I might show her finding and caring for a small animal in need – e.g. a stray kitten, or an injured bird – and young Derek would act nauseated by the sappiness of it all. But later, when Odette wasn't around, we'd see him find another lost or injured animal and care for it just like she did, showing that her kindness has rubbed off on him.

In his ultimate love confession, I would also have Derek say that he loves Odette's "cleverness" as well as her kindness and courage. That would reinforce the point that he fell subconsciously in love with her during their battles of will and wits in their childhood.

I think these tweaks would bring more consistency and depth to the love story and ensure viewers' sympathy for both of the two leads.

[brightlotusmoon]

She didn’t always look like this.  Blame the British for occupying Malaysia in the late 18th century, when they encountered the ginger flower for the first time and came home calling all their redheads gingers.  As if the redheads of the British Empire didn’t have enough to worry about, what with the witch hunts and assorted forms of libel.  But then, the people of Malaysia also had better things to worry about at the time, what with being occupied by the British, who they hadn’t exactly invited to the neighborhood, and maybe we need to move on from the origins of terms, because this is a conversation that could go on all day…

Her image was beginning to shift again when the 20th century rolled around and a television show mirroring the seven deadly sins stranded on a desert island with the Devil Himself began to air, presenting a new redheaded girl to the world.  Her name, of course, was Ginger, and Ginger found herself locked into another century of looking like a pasty white girl, sparking discussions of cultural appropriation whenever she comes to one of the culinary god potlucks and recipe exchanges.  But she doesn’t complain.

She’s here to add a little zing to your life, a little flavor to your savor, and a little joy to your tastebuds.  She only wants you to enjoy what you’re eating.  And if that’s not enough, she has medicinal benefits, too; she’ll help your cold, ease your congestion, and hasten your recovery.  And she’ll do it all with a smile on her face and a red flower in her hair, glorious to the last, forever happy to be here.

The great small god Ginger.  Long may she blossom and grow.