#and another I think is just kind of realizing that people I thought I’d share stuff with…I won’t anymore because of the crap that happened

[st4rlvr]

Chasing You || CSN

I think the worst part wasn’t watching him fall for someone else.

It was realizing that somewhere along the way, I’d become easy to leave.

San had always been there. The kind of presence that didn’t need announcing. He showed up like sunlight through a window — soft, steady, unnoticed until it was gone. People talked. Said he liked me. Said he had for years. I brushed it off. Not because I didn’t care — I think deep down I knew I did — but because I never let myself think about it too long. I didn’t date. Never had. I always told myself I wasn’t built for all that messy, complicated stuff. But maybe that was just an excuse.

They told him there was no shot. That I’d never feel the same way. And maybe they were right. Maybe I didn’t feel the same.

Maybe I felt something worse.

Something messier.

Something that couldn’t be named until it was too late.

I noticed the shift when he stopped texting first. When “let’s hang out” turned into “I’ll let you know.” When his laugh — the one I knew by heart — was being shared with someone else across the room.

He looked happy. And she looked at him the way I never let myself.

Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know what to do with feelings that sat so quietly in my chest.

When he told me about her, he didn’t say it like it was news. He said it like he was already halfway gone, like he was easing me into the idea that I didn’t matter the same way anymore.

I told him I was happy for him. And maybe some of me was. But most of me was just… tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of missing him while he was still standing in front of me.

The truth is, I did like him.

I liked the way he always waited for me to finish talking, even when I rambled.

I liked the way he remembered the little things — how I liked my coffee, how I hated thunderstorms, how I hummed when I was nervous.

I liked the way he looked at me, like I was something.

And now, he looks at her like that.

We were never together. Not really. So I don’t know if I have the right to feel like something ended.

But it did.

And I think the saddest part of all is that when he moved on, I didn’t just lose a chance at love.

I lost my best friend.

And I don’t know how to tell him I miss him without making it sound like I want him back.

Even though… maybe I do.

⸻

It had been over ten years.

I was in my late twenties now, living in a different city, with a different kind of life. The kind of life you build slowly and half-heartedly when you’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re over something — or someone — you never really had.

I dated.

I tried.

But nothing was like him.

It wasn’t that they weren’t kind or sweet or handsome. It’s just… none of them made me feel like me the way San used to. None of them looked at me like I was a song they couldn’t stop humming.

I thought I had moved on. Really, I did. I knew San had. He’d been with her for over a decade. Her name was everywhere — tagged in photos, mentioned in mutual friends’ stories, tied to his smile. They were getting married. I saw the post. Simple. Elegant. He asked. She said yes.

I stared at it longer than I should have, then turned my phone off and went to sleep. Or tried to.

So when I got the call from Wooyoung, I didn’t believe it at first.

“San called it off,” he said, like it was just another update.

“What?”

“The wedding. It’s not happening.”

I paused. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

There was silence, but it was loud. Everything in my head started spinning — memories, old regrets, half-buried what-ifs.

I thought about how sure they had seemed. How in love he looked. I thought about all the years that passed, all the chances I didn’t take. And for a split second, I wondered if maybe this was the universe offering me one last chance to make sense of what never did.

But then I stopped myself.

It wasn’t my business. Not anymore. Whatever had happened between them — that was their story. Just because something ended didn’t mean it began again. And even if it did… where would I even begin?

I hung up the phone and sat there for a long time. My apartment was quiet, and so was my heart, but in that aching, tired kind of way. I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile. I just sat.

Because I didn’t know how to feel.

Was I relieved? Sad? Hopeful? Guilty for even feeling anything?

I had spent so long convincing myself that it was over — that he was over — that I didn’t know what to do with the tiniest spark that flickered up in my chest at the thought of maybe.

Maybe he still thought about me.

Maybe he wondered too.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of everything — just the start of something we’d never had the courage to explore.

Or maybe… maybe some people are just meant to haunt each other quietly, forever.

It was a Thursday. Gray skies, light drizzle, the kind of day that already felt too heavy before anything even happened.

I wasn’t expecting anyone — much less him.

But there he was.

San.

On my doorstep.

He looked different, older in the way we all were now — sharper jaw, tired eyes — but still him. Still the boy who used to sit next to me in silence just to be close. Still the boy I never had the guts to love out loud.

I froze. My heart practically stopped.

“How… how did you—?”

“Wooyoung,” he said, breathing hard. “Of course.”

Of course.

I stepped aside, unsure if I should even let him in, but he walked in anyway — like his body moved faster than his thoughts.

He looked around once, like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like he didn’t know whether to cry or scream or both.

“I’m sorry for just showing up,” he said, voice shaking, “but I couldn’t stop thinking, and if I didn’t say it, I was going to lose my mind.”

I swallowed. “Say what?”

He stepped closer, eyes burning into mine. “Do you think of me too? Do you think of me the way I think of you?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because what do you say to the ghost that never really left?

His jaw clenched. His voice cracked, but his words came hard and fast.

“Y/N, I can’t keep pretending like what happened between us didn’t hurt me.” His fists clenched at his sides. “I love you. I love YOU.”

He shouted it like it hurt to say.

And maybe it did.

Tears welled in his eyes, and I knew the anger wasn’t really anger — it was pain. All of it was. Years of unspoken things, all crashing into one brutal moment.

“You don’t get to do this now,” I finally snapped, voice rising. “You don’t get to show up now and throw that in my face like I didn’t spend years wondering if I made a mistake! You moved on, San. You left.”

“I waited! I waited for something — anything — from you! And all I ever got was silence!”

“Because I was scared!” I shouted, the words cutting my throat on the way out. “I was scared of losing you, of ruining what we had — and I lost you anyway!”

His tears spilled over, mine not far behind. And suddenly we were both yelling. Shouting through ten years of built-up regret, of longing, of missed chances. The kind of yelling that only happens when the silence has lived too long.

“Do you know what it felt like?” he yelled. “Loving you and knowing I was never enough for you to say it back?”

“You were everything to me!” I cried. “And I was too much of a coward to admit it! Don’t you get it? You were it. You were it.”

Silence.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe. I could feel the pain radiating off of him like heat, like it was mine too — because it was. It always had been.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” he said finally, voice barely a whisper. “But I know I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.”

And I broke. I broke in the way people do when they finally let go of pretending.

I took a step forward, shaky and small.

“I never stopped either.”

His eyes searched mine — wild, red-rimmed, desperate. Before I could say anything else, he grabbed my face like he was afraid I’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And then he kissed me.

Rough. Unfiltered. All emotions and trembling hands.

It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t pretty — it was years of love and longing and pain crashing together in one breathless, heartbreaking moment. It was him pouring everything he couldn’t say into that kiss, and me drinking it in like it was the only thing that had ever tasted right.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged, voice shaking.

“Y/N… it was never her.”

I stared at him, lips still parted, eyes wide. My heart felt like it might shatter.

“I wasn’t happy,” he said, chest heaving. “Do you know how often we fought? She knew. She knew it was you. I didn’t have to say it — she saw it in everything I didn’t say.”

His voice cracked, and his hand dropped to my waist like he needed the anchor.

“I proposed because I don’t even fucking know — I thought maybe if I committed, it would stop hurting. I wanted to be done. I wanted to move on from you.”

His voice broke entirely, and he looked at me like he was begging me to understand.

“But I can’t. Not when you’re still here.”

My hands gripped his shirt, knuckles white.

“I’ve always been here, San,” I whispered. “You just stopped looking.”

His eyes slammed shut, and he let out a shaky breath, leaning into me like he needed to fall into something real. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him like I should’ve done ten years ago.

Because after all the pain, all the silence, all the almosts — he was still him.

And I was still his.

Even if we never said it before — our hearts had known all along.

We didn’t get it all back at once.

That first night, we didn’t make some big, sweeping promise. There were no dramatic declarations, no sudden fixes. Just the two of us sitting on my couch, knees touching, hearts still raw. His hand found mine, fingers lacing slowly, like he was asking, Can I still hold you like this?

And I let him.

He stayed the night — not in the way we used to dream about, but in the real way. We fell asleep fully clothed, tangled in old blankets, with the TV playing low and his head resting against my shoulder. It wasn’t romantic. It was comforting. Familiar.

The next morning, we talked. Really talked.

About what happened. About her. About the time we lost. About how love — the kind that sits quietly in the corners of your life — never truly leaves. He told me about the ring he never really wanted to buy. I told him about the nights I cried over the thought of him belonging to someone else.

We both apologized. For the silence. For the fear. For the decade of “maybe.”

And then, we tried again. But slowly.

We didn’t move in together right away. We went on actual dates — movies, museums, late-night drives where the windows were down and the world felt soft again. Sometimes, we argued. Sometimes, we cried. But every time, we chose each other.

This time, we said the things out loud.

Two years later, he proposed. Nothing big. Just him and me, sitting on my old porch swing, the one that creaked too much and leaned a little left.

He handed me a ring and said, “Let’s not waste another ten years.”

We got married in the fall. Nothing fancy. Just people who loved us, leaves turning gold, and vows that felt less like promises and more like truths we’d finally learned how to live.

It wasn’t perfect. Life never is. But it was ours.

And that made it everything.

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Oikawa

(This is connected to another drabble I made in my series 'Unreq Love' so here is context if you'd like the full experience: Oikawa & Bonus)

--

The gym is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles like dust in the corners—heavy, still, waiting. The lights are off, but the late afternoon sun filters through the high windows, painting the floor in long strokes of gold. The volleyball net hangs limply between its poles, no longer taut with purpose. There are scuff marks everywhere, like memories burned into the wood—ghosts of spikes, dives, the relentless rhythm of ambition. The echoes of laughter, shouting, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers still seem to hum beneath the silence, like the gym itself refuses to forget.

You spot him immediately.

Oikawa stands near the back wall, his figure backlit by sunlight, facing the net with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders are drawn tight, his posture still and unreadable. He doesn’t move when you step in, but he knows it’s you. No one walks into a gym like you do—especially not after hours. Especially not him.

You take your time crossing the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little, but he doesn’t flinch. The air smells like dust and floor polish, and something sharper underneath—like endings. Like goodbye.

“I figured I’d find you here,” you say, coming to a stop beside him.

He huffs, a soft, humorless sound. “You always do.”

“Well,” you shrug, “someone’s gotta make sure you’re not brooding yourself into an existential crisis.”

Finally, he glances at you. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, something far quieter than the version of him everyone else sees. You know it well. You’ve seen it before, behind locker room doors, in the quiet of bus rides home, in the way his voice would sometimes crack when no one was supposed to hear. He looks like someone who's been chasing a shadow for too long and just realized it was always out of reach.

“I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, it’d feel different,” he murmurs, gaze shifting back to the net. “But it still hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” you reply, arms crossing over your chest. “You gave everything to this place. You bled for it. You obsessed over every drill, every stat sheet, every match. Losing was never going to be painless.”

He chuckles, and it’s low and bitter. “We didn’t even make it to nationals. What was the point of all of it?”

You frown, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Tooru, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”

That earns you a sidelong glance, the barest glimmer of amusement.

You soften. “You weren’t just chasing wins. You built something here. A team that trusted you. A legacy. People are going to remember you—not because of a scoreboard, but because you made them better. You made them believe. You pushed them to be more.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tics. He always does that when he’s trying not to feel something. The weight of three years rests on his shoulders like armor that no longer serves him.

“And what about you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you more fully. “You stuck by me through everything. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You scoff, leaning back on your heels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Tooru.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You think I followed you around like a lost puppy for three years because I enjoyed your tantrums and diva moments?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a little?”

“God, you’re insufferable.” You shake your head, but your voice loses its edge. “I stayed because you were worth it. Because you’re more than volleyball. You always have been. Even when you were too busy being dramatic to see it.”

The silence that falls between you is thick with years of shared glances, missed chances, and words left unspoken. The light shifts across the floor, turning everything gold like the last flicker of a day that tried its best.

You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not when he’s already unraveling.

You glance at him again, then down at your hands. Your voice comes out low, more to yourself than to him. “God, I can’t avoid this, can I?”

But it’s been sitting in your chest for too long, and something about the way the light hits his face—the rawness there, the quiet ache—makes it impossible to keep in.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “...What?”

You inhale slowly, like that’ll steady the thundering in your chest. “I said I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met. Since you made that dumb joke during orientation and somehow managed to trip over your own feet.”

Your voice wavers slightly, but you push through. “I thought it was just a crush. Something stupid. But it never went away. Through every win, every loss, every time you walked into a room and lit it up like you didn’t even know—through all of it, I kept falling. I knew every version of you—the charming captain, the insecure overthinker, the friend who stayed behind after practice to help pick up stray balls—and I still fell.”

You swallow hard, heart aching in your chest. “And I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think I had the right to. I thought I’d be a distraction, or worse—just another person you’d feel responsible for. But standing here with you, watching you look at that net like it still owes you something... I couldn’t walk away without telling you. Because it’s not just about volleyball. Not for me. Not when it comes to you.”

You take a step back, the burn of embarrassment creeping up your neck, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get it out of my system.”

You turn, ready to bolt before you make a bigger fool of yourself—but before your foot even hits the line, his hand wraps around your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip isn’t desperate, but it’s firm—anchoring. When you look back, he’s already there—closer than you thought, close enough that you can see the flicker of emotion dancing in his eyes. His breath is uneven. So is yours.

His gaze lingers on your face, moving from your eyes to your mouth, then back again, as if trying to piece together something he should’ve realized long ago. You see it hit him all at once—the memories, the missed moments, the way you’ve always been right there. His shoulders loosen like something inside him’s finally cracking open.

His hand moves slowly to your face, tentative but gentle, and his thumb brushes against your cheek like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers tremble just slightly, and the warmth of his palm grounds you in place.

“How did I never see you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question meant for you. It’s a confession all on its own, shaped by regret and wonder.

Then he kisses you.

Soft at first, hesitant—like he’s asking permission.

Then again—deeper, fuller, with the kind of reverence that comes from finally seeing someone who’s been standing in the light all along. His hand curves behind your neck, the other still holding your wrist like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for once, Oikawa doesn’t say a single word.

He just pulls you closer, holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and lets the silence speak for itself.

In that quiet, there is no loss. No disappointment. No game that slipped through trembling fingers.

There’s just you.

And it’s enough.

[imonabitchparade]

💥 “The One That Doesn’t Exist” — Bob Reynolds x Reader Insert | Part One

Warnings: BOB!!! FINALLY!!!

Masterlist | Part Two

Summary: Every team member’s gotten the meme-shirt treatment—except Bob. The others start to notice. So does he. But what no one knows is that you do have ideas for a Bob shirt… you’re just terrified he’ll hate it. Or worse: he won’t say anything at all.

The shirts had become a tradition by now.

At first, it was a running joke—a chaotic hobby that got the whole team laughing. But over time, the meme shirts started to feel like something more. A kind of badge of honor. A strange, funny love letter to the weird, dysfunctional family you’d all become.

Each team member had gotten one. Ava’s was framed in her room. Walker wore his to bed. Bucky kept his in a box of memories under his bed. Yelena wore hers around the tower. Alexei had a matching mug.

Except for Bob.

Bob didn’t have a shirt.

And it was starting to get obvious.

He never mentioned it, not once, but he felt it. Every time he glanced over at a new reveal. Every time he gave a soft, warm chuckle and said nothing more than, “That’s a good one.”

He smiled every time.

But never asked.

The others started to notice.

“Still no Bob shirt?” Yelena asked casually one day, twisting her hair into a bun. “What gives? He’d be hilarious.”

Alexei chimed in from the bench press. “You should make one where he’s vaporizing a printer. Or, like, lurking.”

You laughed it off, because that’s what you always did.

“Oh, I don't know,” you said.

But inside, your stomach twisted.

Because the truth was… you did have shirt ideas for Bob.

Good ones.

Ones that made you smile just thinking about them.

One of him floating above the Watchtower kitchen like a cryptid, eyes glowing faintly as he peered at a box of Pop-Tarts. Caption:

“He hungers.™”

Another of him in his full Sentry glow, but you edited it to look like a vintage romance novel cover. Flowing hair, exaggerated lighting, a dramatic backdrop of swirling cosmic energy. Caption:

“Local himbo accidentally turns into a god. Film at 11.”

But you never printed them.

Because with Bob… it felt different.

Everyone else you could tease, push, prod. But Bob? You liked him. Too much. And you were scared.

Scared he’d misread it. Scared it would embarrass him. Scared it would make him pull away.

Or worst of all—scared he’d just… say nothing.

So you didn’t make the shirt.

And Bob noticed.

He didn’t say it. But he felt it.

The way you’d look at the others, laughing, nudging them, giving them the spotlight—and then glance at him and look away too fast.

He started to wonder.

Had he done something wrong? Was it because of what he was? Because people still looked at him sideways sometimes, like a bomb waiting to go off?

He never asked.

He didn’t want to make it weird.

But every time he walked into the lounge and saw someone wearing a shirt you made, something ached in his chest.

Until one day, while the others were gone and the Watchtower was quiet, he found you alone in the command room, editing a new design.

He stepped in silently, watching you from the doorway.

You didn’t see him.

Your screen glowed with the outline of a shirt.

His face.

Stylized. Cosmic. Glowing just a little too much. Underneath it, the caption:

“He’d never implode me.”

You turned in the chair to adust you positon. You froze when you realized he was standing there.

He said nothing at first.

Just blinked, slowly.

Then—softly, carefully, almost shyly—he asked:

“…Can I have that one?”

Your heart stuttered.

You met his eyes. “Really?”

He smiled—small and awkward, but honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d wear it.”

You swallowed.

“…I thought maybe you wouldn’t want one.”

“I’ve wanted one this whole time,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t know how to ask.”

You both stayed there, feeling the silence curl around your shared confession.

Then, finally, you nodded.

“I’ll print it tomorrow,” you said.

And for the first time in weeks, Bob’s smile reached all the way to his eyes.

[charlotte1253]

Denial

Sweet Pea x Reader

Warnings: no use of y/n, fluff, cursing, mentioning of sexual themes.

Summary: Sweet Pea confronts you after you both share a night together but avoid each other for the next few days.

Sweet Pea had always been trouble. You weren’t really friends. You weren’t anything, really. Just two people who couldn’t seem to be in the same room without snapping at each other.

Until the night you stopped fighting… Until the night you let him touch you, let him ruin you in ways you hadn’t even realized were possible.

…And then he left. No calls. No texts. Nothing. So you avoided him.

You weren’t stupid. Sweet Pea didn’t do feelings. And you refused to be another name in whatever list he kept. But Sweet Pea wasn’t the kind of guy you could ignore forever.

So when you stepped out of Pop’s one night and found him leaning against his bike, arms crossed over his broad chest, waiting- You knew you were screwed.

“You been hiding from me?” His voice was rough, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, as you become very nervous. “I’ve been busy.” His lips twitched, but there was no humor in it. “Bullshit.”

“I have been” you quickly lied and walked down the steps and tried to leave. Sweet Pea grabbed your wrist, refusing to let her go. “Bullshit,” he repeated, pulling her closer. “Try again, princess.”

“Don’t call me that….” You murmured, getting memories from what happened almost five days ago. “Why not?” He smirked, still holding your wrist. “You seemed to like it that night.”

“I-… what do you want sweet pea?” You say, slightly flustered. “You.” He said bluntly, pulling you closer until you were pressed against his chest. “You’ve been avoiding me, princess. Why?”

“You’ve also been avoiding me!” You say quickly, trying to defend yourself. Sweet Pea sighed “Don’t play stupid.” His grip on her wrist tightened slightly. “I’m not the one hiding away.”

“Then why did you avoid me the day after we…” you said slowly trailing off. Sweet pea sighed quietly. “Because I knew that if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to keep away.” He admitted, his voice barely above a whisperer. “I knew that if I saw you again, I’d do it all over again.”

You blush. “Then why are you here?” You asked confused with a frown plastered on your face.

“Because I can’t stay away any longer.” Sweet Pea said seriously, his grip on her wrist softening until he was gently stroking her skin. “Because I need you.”

“You… need me?” You ask softly in a shocked tone. “Yes.” He said simply, his fingers still tracing the lines of your wrist. “I do.” He pulled you closer, his other hand going to your waist. “And I think you need me too.”

You stay quiet but are trying to hide a smile that creates onto your face.

“That’s what I thought.” Sweet Pea said softly, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You’re struggling to deny it, but you can’t, can you princess?”

“No…” you mumbled after a few moments of silence. “Say it.” He demanded, his hand on her waist tightening. “Tell me you need me.”

“Sweet pea…” you mumble with a slight glare.“Don’t give me that tone.” He warned. “You know you want to say it. Just let yourself be honest for once.”

You sigh in a nervous tone before you speak up, “Fine… maybe I do need you” you mumble in a flustered tone.

That was enough to have his grip tightening on your waist. “Say it again.” He whispered, leaning in closer. “Louder.” You bit your lip slightly before saying, “I need you…”

His smirk widened, clearly pleased. “There you go.” He murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip again. “Was that so hard princess?”

MasterList

[viviansturns]

𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒔 - part 1

... you find yourself falling for your university pen pal

cw (whole series): flirting, fluff, very sad angst

September 10th, 2024

Hi Matt, Or do you go by matthew?? I kinda like matt better so i'm sticking with that.

I don’t really know how to start this. I haven’t written an actual letter since I was like, 8, and it was addressed to the Tooth Fairy. I also wrote one to my family when I tried running away.

Anyway, I’m y/n. I’m in my first year at Oxford, and I signed up for this pen pal thing because I thought it would make me have purpose and also practice my penmanship. I honestly just want to yap and vent into letters for some rando to respond. 

I’m majoring in psychology which is already horrifying. Also fun fact I like drawing people I see on the subway. Or just drawing people in general, that’s always fun. I do pottery, I play volleyball, and I have an cat named sally. I’m also super into photography and polaroids and such.

I don’t know what you look like, but I’ll stereotype you when you get back to me and tell me your major!

I hope this program’s mailing system is quick. Anyways bye!

—y/n

P.S. Are we allowed to swear? Cause i’m itching to.

_______________

September 21th, 2024

Hey Y/N,

Matt’s good, matthew is for my teachers and that’s it. Also the mail shipping takes like a week, that's crazy.

I haven’t written a letter like this since forever, so this feels different and way personal than text messages or whatever.

I’m in second year at UCLA, studying Art History. Mostly trying to figure out why people painted the weird stuff they did, and hoping my own sketches don’t look like a toddler’s.

Pottery sounds impressive. I can’t even handle a moldable eraser I fear… anyways I’m super into drawing people too so it’s crazy that we both draw ppl on the subway!

I don’t have a cat, but I’m definitely a cat person. Low-key hoping you’ll send a Polaroid of Sally sometime. Please please please.

I like that you want to vent in letters. Same here. No pressure though, I just wanna talk to people about things.

Anyways I’m looking forward to hearing more about Sally and everything else you want to share.

—Matt

P.S. Here's a sketch of a cat if that maybe convinces you to send me a pic…

ALL CREDITS TO John Nixon ON PINTEREST

_______________

October 2th, 2024

Hi Matt,

You win. Sally and I took a Polaroid just for you. I tried to get her to pose but she’s deeply uncooperative and bit my thumb halfway through. Ignore that my face is in it, being right up against my face is the only way she’ll ever cooperate.

I put it in a little sleeve thing so it doesn’t get smudged. I expect a thank you note (or another sketch).

Also your cat sketch was like so good. Like, I showed my roommate and she said, “Tell your pen pal I’d buy that for 12 bucks at a thrift store.” Which is her version of a compliment, I think.

Psychology is still horrifying. Did you know there's a phenomenon called "the illusion of explanatory depth" where you think you understand something until you try to explain it and realize you know nothing? That’s literally this degree.

Anyway. My week’s been kind of weird. I dropped my coffee on a guy’s shoe and then he asked me out right after. I guess that's a good sign? 

This letter’s kind of all over the place but whatever, you said no pressure, and I’m holding you to that. 

Hope UCLA is treating you nice. Tell me more about your art history class! Also, I’m kinda sad that the shipping takes so long. I guess the distance from oxford to LA is really far but still…

—Y/N

P.S. You never answered if we’re allowed to swear. I’m going to assume yes and just censor myself creatively until confirmed.

_______________

October 13th, 2024

Y/N,

Sally looks like she owns your apartment and you just pay rent. Also I thought she was a full grown cat, but she's a kitten! Also I owe you a thank you for the Polaroid, sally is so cute. You look nice too. Or at least the corner of your face

The sketch I sent was just me messing around. I hadn't drawn anything outside of class in a while. It felt good, actually. Thanks for giving me a reason, I might just keep doodling shit for fun.

This week’s been foggy. I’ve been spending more time in the library than I want to admit, mostly pretending to read while I look at the pages. There's a painting in one of my textbooks of a woman crying in the dark, but you can’t see her tears. Just her hands. I keep coming back to it.

You said you draw strangers. Ever think about what they’d say if they saw the versions of themselves you made? Do you make them kinder looking?

—Matt

P.S. I wouldn't mind any other pictures of you or Sally or something.

_______________

October 23rd, 2024

Matt,

Thanks! You’re so sweet, I'm sure you look nice too.

And yeah, I wonder about that sometimes, how people would react if they knew I’d sketched them mid-yawn or while picking at their sleeves on the subway. I don’t make them better or worse. I try to draw them like they are, but there’s probably bias in my work. I think it’s hard not to romanticize people when you’re just observing.

Thanks for the sketch again and the new one. Just so you know, I’m cutting them out to put it above my desk. I also want to get back into sketching, if you wanna keep doing that back n forth.

Oxford’s been grey in that relentless, boring kind of way. I bought an overpriced croissant and ate it on the steps outside the psych building like I was in a film. It was stale.

What about you? You never really told me what made you choose Art History. Or drawing. Why that, and not something practical?

Also, if you really want a photo of my full face, say it straight next time. I’m not scared.

—y/n

P.S. That was a threat.

P. P. S. I'm just kidding, you’re cute lol

_______________

November 3rd, 2024

Y/N,

Fine. I want a photo of your full face. Direct enough? I kinda want to draw if you think that's okay.

As for Art History, my mom wanted me to study something “useful.” I picked this to spite her at first. Then I stayed because it stopped feeling like spite and started feeling like mine. I like looking at something that once mattered to someone else and figuring out why. That includes faces, sometimes.

I don’t know. The world’s already loud enough. Drawing is the only thing that makes it quiet. It’s not even about being good at it. Just having a place to put things.

Lately, it’s been harder to concentrate in class. Everyone’s always talking like they’re performing for each other, and I keep zoning out. It’s exhausting, pretending I care when most days I’m just trying to keep from going under.

I’ve started sketching you. Just based off that Polaroid. Not in a weird way. I just liked the way the light hit your cheek. I’m really into sketching people if you haven’t noticed…

Send the real photo. I want to get it right. Or at least try.

—Matt

P. S. I’m out of things to P. S. write back soon I guess?

_______________

November 14th, 2024

Matt,

Umm I’ll have you know I always write back as fast as possible. mail just takes ages dude. Also, I attached the photo. Let me know if it’s okay, I tried to make it a not awkward picture.

It’s weird, letting someone draw you. There’s something about it that feels like handing over a version of yourself and hoping they don’t miss the parts that matter. But I trust you. I don’t know why.

Psych’s been eating me alive. We’re doing a unit on perception. How two people can look at the same thing and see it completely differently. It made me think about you. But I feel like you pay attention. 

And I get it, it’s also hard for me to pay attention in class. Everything just moves so slow.

Also, I sat in that terrible jazz café again. The muffins haven’t improved. But there’s something comforting about knowing exactly what you’re going to get. Even if it’s underwhelming. I really like consistency if you couldn’t tell. Maybe that’s why I like this whole pen pals thing

Draw me how you see me. I won’t be mad if it’s not perfect.

—Y/N

P. S. Ugh. I’m tired.

[Photo here, could not find a good one, mb! Also i wanna be inclusive so just imagine ur face here.]

_______________

November 28th, 2024

Y/N,

The photo is way better than the Polaroid. You’re smiling in it, which surprised me for some reason. Not in a bad way. Just didn’t expect it.

I finished the sketch. It’s folded into this letter. I kept thinking I was done and then going back in to fix the curve of your mouth. You smile a little unevenly. That’s not an insult. It made the whole thing feel more alive.

Most of the time when I draw people, it’s like cataloging expressions. With you, it felt more like remembering. That sounds too serious, but I don’t know how else to say it.

I’ve been kind of stuck lately. Everything’s loud and too much and pointless in that vague way where nothing is technically wrong. But drawing you just steadied everything for a bit.

Anyway. Hope it looks like you. Hope you don’t hate it.

—Matt

P. S. You don’t have to, but I’m always willing to draw more.

P. S. P.S. I know the pen pals program is pausing over the break, but I’ll miss hearing from you. Write to me anyway?

ALL CREDITS TO @Chommang ON YOUTUBE AND INSTAGRAM.

_______________

December 10th, 2024

Matt,

Duh, I'll write during the break. Even if it’s just one letter because of this stupid shipping time.

I didn’t hate the sketch. I love it, actually. I stared at it longer than I should admit. You made me look calmer than I usually feel. Softer, maybe. It’s strange, seeing yourself through someone else’s hands. But I don’t know, it made me feel understood.

It’s literally unfair the amount that you’re able to capture facial expressions. I showed it to Sally and she immediately sat on it, so take that as her formal approval.

I’ve been thinking a lot about perception lately. Not just in the psych-class way, but in the real-world way. Like, how you can know someone for years and never see them. Or never know someone for a couple months and see them.

Oxford’s gotten cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones feel hollow. But I like the way the fog rolls in across the river in the mornings. Makes everything feel unreal in a good way.

Anyway, you said you’re always willing to draw more. So I’m holding you to that.

—Y/N

P.S. I made you a playlist. You don’t get a say in the matter. It’s one of those spotify codes that you can scan.

_______________

December 22nd, 2024

Y/N,

I’m glad you liked it. I think I was trying to draw how you made me feel, not just how you looked. Hope that doesn’t sound weird.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t reread your last letter a few times. That part about perception—I keep circling back to it. How some people never see you right, and others just... do. I think that’s rare.

Campus is quiet now. Everyone’s gone or going. I stayed behind for a few more days before heading home. Something about the silence feels easier to manage when it’s earned.

You mentioned fog. I haven’t seen real fog in months. Just Los Angeles haze that smells like old traffic. But the sky’s been orange lately, and it’s the kind of color that makes you want to say something even if there’s no one around.

I’m working through the playlist. Trying to really pay attention to the lyrics.

—Matt

P.S. I hope you’re having a good christmas break. If we were in the same city, I’d take you out for hot chocolate at the Italian cafe. Or maybe a better place, I don’t know oxford.

ALL CREDITS TO Mike Phillips ON PINTEREST

_______________

January 3rd, 2025

Matt,

You got your wish. I’m writing from my childhood bedroom. I’m surrounded by a shit ton of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Sally is sulking in my suitcase because she loves my parents and knows I’m leaving again soon..

Break has been fine. Way stranger than I’d like, like time folds differently here. Everyone I used to know feels just a little unfamiliar, like they’ve all been redrawn slightly wrong. Or maybe I’m the one who shifted. I don’t know.

Your letters make more sense than most conversations I’ve had since I got back. That’s not a sad thing. I think it just means I trust you in a way that’s starting to feel pretty permanent. I guess I’d say my relationship with my parents is complicated. I’m not about to trauma dump on you, but things are just weird around them.

Appreciate these lovely sketches, that’s a great santa/elf?

—Y/N

P.S. You were right about smiling. It is harder to fake than it looks.

ALL CREDITS TO Elliana884 ON PINTEREST

idkkk how i feel about this...i tried being creative and now i have this.

*THESE POSTS ARE SCHEDULED AS I AM AWAY CURRENTLY, TO FIND OTHER PARTS YOU NEED TO SCROLL DOWN ON MY BLOG*

[coolgrl111]

heyy everyone. although i’ve been pumping out these texting aus i still write a little too 😭 here’s something short and sweet

—

you and art were the kind of high school sweethearts people talked about like a fairytale. everything about you just fit—the way he’d wait by your locker, grinning like he had the biggest secret in the world; the way your laugh seemed to pull him out of his own head, especially during the relentless pressure of tennis tournaments. weekends were spent driving aimlessly through town, sharing milkshakes, or stretched out in his backyard, counting stars and dreaming about futures you didn’t realize would one day diverge.

art was a star even back then, his name already whispered by scouts and coaches, while you worked tirelessly on your own academic goals. but there was always time for each other. late night calls about everything and nothing, love notes passed during lectures, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on your palm as you studied together in the library.

it seemed perfect. and it was, until the weight of his tennis career and your academic pressures began to press down on the bubble you’d built together. time grew scarce, tempers short, and the ease that had always been your foundation started to crack. you drifted. quietly at first, then all at once, like a tide pulling you apart. the breakup wasn’t explosive; it wasn’t cruel. it was just… sad.

years passed.

art’s name popped up on the news occasionally, a rising tennis star. you cheered for him from afar, even when it hurt. eventually, you found your own happiness—married someone kind, built a family, carved out a life that, while good, never quite felt whole in the same way.

and then one day, by chance, you saw him again. you were at a park, chasing your kids as they laughed and stumbled over their own feet. and there he was—older, of course, but unmistakably him, his son on his shoulders, the same boyish grin still lighting up his face.

he saw you too, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed. he walked over, his voice tentative but warm. “hey… it’s been a while.”

you talked, awkward at first but quickly falling back into an old rhythm, reminiscing about the lives you used to share. “funny how things work out,” he said, glancing at your children, then his. “we got what we wanted, didn’t we?”

“we did,” you agreed, though your chest ached. it was true—you were happy. he was happy. but as you sat together, watching your kids play, you couldn’t help but think of all the little things you’d missed. the quiet mornings. the shared dreams.

“in another life,” he said softly, almost to himself, “i’d love to just… fold laundry with you or something.”

you smiled, tears stinging your eyes. “me too, art. me too.”

what he meant was—share the domesticity of life. together. what a sweet thought, what a desperate need. the moment passed. you went your separate ways again, carrying the quiet weight of a love that had been good, even if it hadn’t been forever.

[wonlvures]

FALLING FOR YOU ୨୧ - SIM JAEYUN

PAIRING: idol!Jake x Idol!reader

SYNOPSIS: you and Jake secretly have a thing for each other when you guys are idols and have a secret relationship

GENRE: fluff, romance

AUTHORS NOTE: this was highly requested by a generous user!

Jake had always known that being an idol would come with its fair share of challenges—late nights, early mornings, grueling schedules, and fans who loved him unconditionally. But there was one thing he hadn’t expected when he first entered this world: to meet someone who didn’t seem to care about any of that.

It happened on the set of a variety show. Jake, along with his group, had been invited to participate in a cooking challenge against another group of idols, and Y/N was the one chosen to co-host and judge. She had been in the industry for a while, but not in the same group as Jake. He had seen her on TV, admired her work, but he never imagined their paths would cross in such a casual way.

The cameras rolled, and the challenge began. Jake, known for being a bit of a perfectionist, was focused on the task at hand, but there was something about the way Y/N smiled and teased the contestants that caught his attention. She was sharp, quick-witted, and radiated a warm, approachable energy that made everyone around her relax. Jake noticed, too, that she didn’t treat him like a star. While others hesitated or were overly polite, she was relaxed with him—like they were just two people doing their jobs.

During the break between filming, they ended up sitting next to each other. Y/N turned to him with a grin.

“You know, I’m actually kind of impressed by your cooking skills. I thought idols couldn’t cook.”

Jake laughed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I may not be a chef, but I can follow a recipe. Plus, I’ve been living on takeout too long. I had to learn something.”

Y/N’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I totally get it. If I didn’t learn how to cook, I’d be living on ramen forever.”

As the conversation flowed easily, Jake realized just how down-to-earth she was. She didn’t talk about her fame or her achievements. Instead, she asked about his hobbies, his favorite food, and even complained about the exhaustion of being in the industry. It was refreshing. She wasn’t fawning over him, or putting him on a pedestal—she just treated him like a regular person, which, for Jake, felt rare.

When filming wrapped up, they exchanged numbers to keep in touch for future shows. Jake didn’t think much of it at the time—he figured it was just part of the job. But over the next few weeks, he found himself looking forward to her messages.

Their texts started off small—simple messages about scheduling, a funny meme here and there, or asking each other for advice about their upcoming performances. But something shifted as the days went on. They began to open up more. Y/N shared her worries about the pressures of being an idol—how fans’ expectations sometimes felt suffocating. Jake, in turn, confessed his own struggles with the constant demand to be perfect, to always smile, to always give his best even when he was running on empty.

It was during one of these late-night conversations that Jake found himself looking at his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard, uncertain of what to say. He had never been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but there was something about Y/N that made him want to.

He typed, then deleted, then typed again.

Jake: "I know we’ve only known each other a little while, but... I feel like I can actually be myself around you. And I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately."

Y/N’s response came just a few moments later.

Y/N: "Jake, I feel the same way. I’ve never really had a chance to connect with anyone like this in the industry. It’s... kind of nice."

Jake felt a weight lift off his chest. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was talking to someone who wasn’t interested in his status as an idol but in him—the person behind the image.

It wasn’t long before they started meeting up in person. Sometimes it was after a late-night show or a photoshoot, where they’d steal a few quiet moments for themselves. They didn’t have to go to fancy restaurants or glamorous locations. It was the small things that mattered—grabbing bubble tea together, walking around the park after a long day, or just sitting in a cafe and talking about everything and nothing at all.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting day of filming, Jake texted her again.

Jake: "Hey, I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready to collapse. Want to meet up for a quick bite? Somewhere quiet?"

Y/N read the message and smiled, already feeling the same fatigue, but also the familiar pull of wanting to see him again. There was something comforting about being with Jake—something that allowed her to forget about the bright lights and the pressure for just a little while.

Y/N: "Sounds perfect. Meet you at the usual place?"

They met at a small, out-of-the-way restaurant, a little hole-in-the-wall that had become their spot. It was the kind of place where no one cared who they were or what they did for a living. No flashing cameras, no eager fans. Just food, laughter, and quiet moments together.

As they sat down, Jake looked at her across the table, watching the way she pushed her hair behind her ear, a habit she had when she was nervous or thinking.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Lately, I’ve realized I look forward to our conversations more than anything. It’s... it’s strange, but it feels different with you. Like I can finally relax.”

Y/N felt her heart flutter, her chest tightening with an unfamiliar warmth. She had thought about Jake a lot too—about how easy it was to talk to him, how much she enjoyed his presence, and how it felt like they were falling into something that was beyond just friendship.

“Jake,” she started, her voice a little more nervous than she intended, “I feel the same way. You’re... different from everyone else I’ve met. I feel like I can just be myself.”

There was a long pause, and Jake’s gaze softened. Then, almost as if he had been holding his breath, he leaned in slightly.

“Y/N, I like you. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I—"

Before he could finish, Y/N reached across the table, placing her hand on his.

“I like you too,” she said, her smile genuine and a little shy. “I’ve been trying to figure out when the right moment would be to say it, but I guess... now’s as good a time as any.”

Jake laughed softly, the tension in his body releasing. He didn’t need to say anything more—he could see it in her eyes. They had both been tiptoeing around something that had always been there, and now, it felt like they had finally crossed that invisible line.

From that night forward, their relationship deepened. They still had their moments of uncertainty—moments when the pressure of being public figures weighed heavily on them. But through it all, they kept finding ways to support each other, even when the world seemed too loud or too demanding.

They continued to meet in secret, sharing quiet moments in the midst of their busy lives. Sometimes they would slip away for a quick coffee, other times they would sit in the park at night, talking about their hopes for the future, about what they wanted for themselves and each other.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling practice, Y/N found herself waiting for Jake outside the practice room. When he stepped out, exhausted but smiling, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Are you always this tired?” she teased.

Jake grinned, his eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “Pretty much. But it’s worth it when I get to see you.”

Y/N smiled, feeling her heart flutter once again. It was in moments like these that she realized how much they had changed each other—not as idols, but as people. Jake wasn’t just the idol she had admired from afar; he was someone she could trust, someone who understood the difficulties of their world and who was willing to take the time to show her that there was more to life than just the spotlight.

And as for Jake, he had never imagined that something so simple, so pure, could grow out of the chaos of their shared world. But with Y/N by his side, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for love to bloom amid the flashing cameras and the noise.

Their love wasn’t something they shouted from rooftops or shared on social media—it was something they kept close, something between the two of them. But in their hearts, it was more than enough.

Together, they learned that sometimes the most unexpected connections are the ones that last the longest.

[bunni-v1]

May I ask your advice on something? I want to make a cookie that will be loved by shadow milk and I toss and turn the idea in my head thinking about his loneliness, but his arrogance in assuming most cookies aren’t worthy of his time makes it difficult. It leads me to building the cookie to be bigger and more powerful/elaborate than him so he immediately recognizes it, but that’s unsatisfying for me. I’d like them to be ordinary, clever of course, observant, and quick witted to not only keep up with shadow milk, but to even outpace him at times in a verbal sparring match. But most ordinary cookies don’t really fit the bill. They usually either worship or fear him depending on personality and self awareness. Both are good and what he needs/uses, but you can’t really be friends with a tool. Makes it hard to think of an ordinary cookie that might have caught his attention. I liked your analysis of what getting close to him pre corruption was and he’s a more viable candidate, but even he on some level looks down upon ordinary cookies that know less and don’t live as long. Namuwiki and regular wiki categorize his corruption as both an obsession with his own power as well as loneliness in a truth that broke him. I think the truth that did so or that at least planted the seed of corruption was: that cookies/people don’t care about the truth. He states as much so many times to pure vanilla to weaken his resolve, his dedication to truth. How cookies willingly/happily turn from the bitter truth to embrace a sweet lie. How cookies were more interested in listening to him speak than what he was really saying. It’s a one two punch realizing the cookies around you don’t really care about the thing that makes you you. And if they do it may only be for selfish gain, not for knowledge in itself. And the real rub is the reason they don’t care is often times due to some form of ignorance or stupidity. I mentioned this to a friend irl and she said,”oh he got bullied before he got corrupted. 💯” Which made me think of the cookies before his fall, who maybe took for granted that 1. The font of knowledge even exists and 2.That he would willingly and happily answer their questions truthfully forever and 3. Would never lose his patience. Because how much do you want to bet that the illusion from the sugar free road he taunted pure vanilla with, the woman yelling at him saying “tell us where to seek healing! Tell us how to be healthy to live in wealth and happiness! Use your power! Share your power with us! Do it if you truly care!” Were words from a cookie in shadow milks past? How many refused to seek the truth themselves, wishing no demanding he provide it for them. And criticizing him if/when he either refuses or lies, like bratty children. “Nothing but empty promises. All a lie.” Give them! Cookies who were so ignorant and stupid wanting to take away the thing that makes him him. Because that’s all he is isn’t he? His power his soul jam. Neither he nor anyone else it seems has seen him beyond his abilities. To who he is as a cookie.

Which is just another layer to his isolation, but all of which to say. Maybe the ordinary cookie who just happens to be curious, innovative, and above all patient and kind is his only balm against such words. And maybe that cookie crumbles under the weight of their deceit. Maybe that helps crumble his resolve. After all the main thing hes running from, the big lie he tells himself is that nothing bad ever happens to him. Because how could it? He’s a god, he’s all knowing, but not all powerful. Thoughts?

I think Shadow Milk's fall is the most interesting, because it could quite honestly be either he fell first or last. I'm a bigger fan of the him falling last theory, because it's very interesting to see how he would react to his friends becoming beasts and realizing he too will shortly.

With the new costume's story we can get a better look into him, and he's a lot like PV. Patient, kind, gentle, intelligent, and more than willing to share his knowledge with cookies. With such knowledge, he is very separate from other cookies. He knows and understands things that other cookies could never dream of.

That much knowledge will weigh on your being, even if you are a god. Especially if it's all you're supposed to be, a fount of knowledge for cookies. I think he does enjoy sharing his knowledge and the truths of the world. He cares for his cookies. How could he not? they are innocent and freshly baked, full of fear and confusion. His knowledge is meant to soothe them.

But, cookies fear what they do not understand. When they start asking harder questions, and he gives them the truthful answer, they don't like it. They lash out and deny the truth, and he realizes they would rather live in a lie than bear the truth. The fact that, even if it's unintentional, the very cookies he loves and cherishes are rejecting him... well, it would devastate anyone.

Shadow Milk Cookie became a beast because he was rejected by his people. He became the embodiment of lies to become what they wanted, rejecting the truth to show them the error of their ways. This is what they wanted, right?

I think that's why he needs a partner who challenges him. They can't just accept everything he does as okay. He doesn't want or need someone who just sits there and affirms him like his minions. His partner needs a backbone and a strong moral compass, the confidence to look at him and say, "Absolutely not."

They also need to have the awareness that he is the master of lies. They need to be able to see through his lies and illusions by themselves because he can't hold their hand all the time. He has this deep aching need to be seen, though he doesn't acknowledge those feelings. They have to be able to crack his shell by themselves and show that they care, and only then will he open up to them.

It's certainly not an easy feat for a normal cookie, but if Ginger Brave and co. can do it, I'm sure his partner can also do it. It takes a special cookie to get the master of deceit tripping over himself, after all.

[seospicybin]

SEOSPICY PREVIEW.

DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently.

Preview under cut!

...

It’s the last day of filming. The air on set buzzes with a kind of quiet satisfaction—the kind that only comes after long hours and countless takes, and now… it’s finally done. The final scene wraps, and applause breaks out from cast and crew alike. You hang back, watching as people surround Felix, patting his back and congratulating him with bright smiles and heartfelt words.

You wait by his trailer, bouquet in hand—something simple but thoughtful, wrapped in soft paper and tied with a black ribbon. When Felix finally approaches, a little winded from all the farewells, his eyes light up at the sight of you.

“For me?” he asks, smiling as he accepts the bouquet.

You nod. “Congratulations. You were incredible.”

He cradles the flowers in one arm and looks at you warmly. “Thank you for everything. All the help. The support.” Then, with a cheeky little grin, he adds, “And for that motorcycle ride that day.”

You chuckle, feeling a flicker of guilt twist lightly in your chest—but you brush it away. That was Minho. Still, you say, “And thank you for making my job easier. Always so nice to me.”

Felix shrugs, playful. “I think you know that’s ‘cause I like you.”

It catches you off guard. You blink. “Wait… what?”

He looks at you, slightly amused by your surprise. “I told you that before.”

Your lips part as you search your memory, and realization hits—of course. He told Minho. Not you.

Felix studies your face with growing curiosity. “Do you already know what you’re going to do about it?”

A soft laugh escapes you, more out of disbelief than anything else. So Minho didn’t tell you. Or maybe he meant to. Either way, you don’t feel hurt. Just… quietly amused by it.

You start to speak, but Felix chuckles first and says, “It’s okay. I know. You like Minho.”

You blink again. “You�� know?”

He nods. “Pretty obvious. But it’s okay. I still like you. I just hope he treats you well.”

You feel your chest tighten with something tender. “Thank you,” you say, sincerely. “For being honest. For being… you.”

He smiles, softer this time. “I hope we work together again.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And as if the moment calls for it, the two of you step into each other’s arms—no hesitation, no awkwardness. Just a long, warm hug shared between two people who understand each other, even if it didn’t end the way one of you had hoped.

When you pull away, he gives you one last sunshine smile before retreating into his trailer, and you watch the door close behind him. You smile to yourself, tucking the moment away gently, like a photograph pressed between pages. It’s a good ending, but something else is just about to begin.

...

DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER full fic will be released this Friday, June 27th. Or you can read it early on my Patreon:

[slut4thebroken]

Second Chances

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Emmett x reader

Summary | Emmett takes advantage of your kindness and hospitality.

Warnings | Smut, 18+, non con, emotional manipulation, praise, guilt tripping, very large age gap, painful sex, first time, breeding, crying, bro has hella trauma fr.

Words | 2.5 k

Notes | Direct result of my Emmett brain rot (Also two fics in one day??🫣)

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

“Here you go.” You smiled, handing the steaming mug to him. 

“Thanks.” His voice was quiet as he took it from you and held it in his lap. 

“What’s your name?” You asked, sitting down next to him, hoping you weren’t intruding too much. He paused for a moment, seemingly debating if he actually wanted to make conversation with you and give you “personal” information about himself. 

“Emmett.” He finally said. 

You gave him your name and watched as his eyes dragged down your body, taking in every inch of you. With a blush, you cleared your throat and looked away for a moment to gather your thoughts. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? Are you warm enough?” He looked over you again with a neutral expression that made you squirm a little. 

“Actually I’m still a little cold. Is there anywhere I could go that’s inside?” 

“Oh- yes! Of course.” You said quickly as you got to your feet. “My parents will be out of the house for another couple of hours so you can use some extra blankets and maybe lay down on the couch for a while.” You smiled. He didn’t return the expression as he stood up and followed you for a couple minutes until you finally walked up a porch to the front door. 

“Okay, let me just grab another blanket and then I’ll start the fire place as well.” You ran off to retrieve a blanket and when you came back, he was sitting on the couch looking around the room. 

He gave you a small “thank you” after you handed him the blanket and you could feel his eyes on you as you walked forward, then kneeled down in front of the fireplace. “You live here with your parents?” He suddenly asked, almost startling you. 

“Yeah. Since there’s three of us, we got our own place. A lot of other people had to share.” He hummed in acknowledgment and you finished up with starting the fire before turning around to face him, finding his eyes already on you. “Can I get you anything else?” 

“This is more than enough.” He said softly. 

“Okay… Well, I’ll let you rest. If you’re hungry I can try to make something?” You offered with a kind smile. 

“Actually I’d rather talk with you.” 

“Oh-” You said, eyes widening in surprise— He didn’t seem like the kind of man who would want to make small talk with a stranger. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to someone like this.” You hesitantly got up and sat down next to him on the couch. 

“Like what?” You asked curiously. 

“So loud… and about things other than survival.” His voice was still quiet, but this time there was a bit of a solemn undertone to it. 

“Oh.” You bit your lip, trying to think of what to say, but not really knowing how to approach this. “You never… had anyone to talk to about normal stuff? Surely it wasn’t all survival.” You can’t even imagine what he must have experienced. When he suddenly looked away and clenched his jaw, you realized that you might’ve over stepped. “I’m sorry, that was— I shouldn't have pried…”

“It’s fine. I had a family, but they’re gone now.” He still wasn’t looking at you. Taking one last sip from the mug, he leaned forward, then placed it on the coffee table. 

“God, I- I’m so sorry.” You said quietly. 

“It’s silly, but… I miss being able to hug them— to hug people.” He finally looked at you again, this time with a sad smile. “I remember the last time I felt someone’s touch… 11 weeks ago.” That must have been when his family died…

“Would you like a hug?” You offered nervously, hoping you weren’t too bold again. He studied you for another moment before nodding. 

“That would be really nice.” Once you had his approval, you moved closer and wrapped your arms around him, letting him do the same even though his wet clothes were starting to dampen yours. He let out a quiet breath and relaxed into the embrace. “Thank you… I’ve been so lonely.” He whispered, making you frown. 

“You won’t have to be anymore. The people here are very kind, you’ll make plenty of friends.” 

“I can tell.” His voice was a little amused now and he pulled back just enough to look at you. “If it’s not too much trouble… could I hug you a little more?” 

“Of course.” You said instantly, then let out a startled sound when he lifted you onto his lap so you were straddling his thighs. You thought he meant more as in for a longer period of time, not.. this…

“Thank you.” He said again, pulling you closer and burying his face in the crook of your neck. You were stiff for a few seconds, still trying to process this new development, but finally you relaxed into him and hugged him a little tighter. “I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like.” He whispered against your neck. 

“To hug?” You wondered, trying to understand. 

“Yes. But also the gentle touch of a woman.” A blush took over your face and you cleared your throat awkwardly. “You know, my wife… I was with her when she passed.” He said quietly. You were already dreading where this was going, not sure you could handle learning about any more of the pain he’s suffered since the start of everything. “I had a really hard time understanding and accepting this… but she said she wanted me to move on. To be happy again.” One of his arms stayed wrapped around your upper body, but the other moved a little lower, pulling you closer so your hips were also flush with his. 

“Emmett…” You said quietly, trying to pull away, but he just tightened his grip and you finally felt the bulge pressed up against your heat. You tried not to gasp at the realization.

“Shh… It’s okay. I just— You look so much like her…” You had no idea what to say. You’ve never been in a position like this before. “I’m sorry.” He suddenly pulled away and you stared down at him in confusion. “I’m sorry. I don’t deserve this. Not after everything I’ve done— everything I didn’t do.” Your lips parted, but no words could come out for a moment.  

“You deserve feeling safe and cared for. Everything you had to do was for the sake of staying alive.” At least you assumed it was. Honestly you have no idea what he’s done. “And it’s not your fault— what happened to your family. You did everything you could.” You said softly and he started shaking his head. “Yes. You can’t blame yourself, Emmett. Maybe that’s why your wife said that to you before she passed… because she knew how much you’d struggle with it.” 

“You remind me of her so much.” He said through a choked sob, making you freeze. You had no idea he’d get so emotional. Not knowing what else to do, you just pulled him back into the hug and held him tightly. “That’s exactly the kind of response she would’ve given.” He croaked. In response, you just hugged him even tighter. 

“It’s okay…” You whispered. “I’m so sorry, Emmett. No one deserves to go through what you have.” 

“It hurts.” He cried, making your heart ache for him. 

“Tell me what you need. How can I help?” You said quickly, not wanting to see him like this any longer. 

“Can I— can I kiss you?”

“What?!” You choked out, making him pull back to look at you. The tear tracks on his cheeks were far less than what you thought they’d be, but maybe they just wiped off on your dress. 

“Please. I miss her so much and… god you look exactly like her.” He whispered, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek. 

“I…” You’ve never kissed anyone before. Are you really about to give it away to a stranger you just met less than an hour ago? “Emmett…”

“I know I don’t deserve it— I know. But I just… it hurts so bad, I can’t take it.” He all but whimpered, making your hesitant expression melt into something softer and more sympathetic. 

“…I’ve never kissed anyone before.” You admitted quietly and you swore his eyes darkened, but it was too hard to really tell. 

“I know I’m asking far too much of you— I know I don’t deserve your kindness,” 

“Stop saying things like that.” You frowned. “You deserve kindness, you deserve to feel loved, just like everyone else.” He stared at you for a moment, his eyes still glossy with tears, then he was suddenly leaning forward and capturing your lips in a kiss. You let out a muffled sound of surprise and brought your hands to his chest, trying to push him away. In response, he snaked his hand around your head to grasp your hair, holding you still as he moaned quietly. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled against your lips. You let out another startled sound when he suddenly threw you off of him so you were laying on your back on the couch. Before you could move away, he was crawling over you, kissing you again as his hands roamed your body. 

“Emmett-” You tried to say as you continued pushing his chest, but he was too strong. “Stop!” 

“I know.” He panted before snaking his hand down your stomach all the way to the apex of your thighs. He slipped under your dress easily and roughly cupped your sex, making you whimper. 

“Emmett, please stop.” 

“I will. I will— I just need this. I haven’t been with a woman in so long…” He whispered. “I promise I’ll be fast.” 

“Please don’t,” You whimpered, already feeling tears brimming in your eyes. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” His hand suddenly left your body to open his pants and free his cock, then he was pulling your panties to the side and lining up. 

“Please! I- I’m a..” You sobbed, trying anything to get this to stop. 

“I’ll be gentle.” He promised, then faltered and added, “At least… I’ll try to be.” When you felt the head of his cock drag through your folds, your body went completely rigid. 

“Please! Emmett, please don’t,” You cried, still trying to push him away. 

“Shh…” The blunt head of his cock was against your entrance now, pushing as hard as possible, trying to fit inside you. When he finally breached your opening, his hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your shrill scream. “Oh— fuck… I'm not gonna last.” He moaned loudly, letting his head drop down for a moment. The tears in your eyes were finally falling and you sobbed almost violently behind his hand. Your crying only got worse though when he continued pushing in. 

“Almost there.” He whispered and you let out an anguished sob in response. It felt like you were being ripped open as he continued pushing deeper, a lot farther than what you could comfortably take. “Good girl… Just a little more.” Your body was trembling from the pain and you started clawing at him, trying anything to get this to stop. But he was undeterred. When he finally bottomed out, he let out a low groan that was overshadowed by your cry of pain. 

“I know… I’m sorry. Fuck, you feel so good. Just like how she felt.” He whispered. “I think she’d be happy that it’s you.” He gave you a small smile, then slowly pulled out until only the tip was inside before forcing it back in. 

“Please!” You cried, the word coming out muffled from behind his hand. 

“God- your cunt is so good.” He groaned, picking up the pace, making you cry harder. 

“Stop! Please…” You whimpered brokenly. 

“I know, baby. I’m almost done, I promise.” He said breathily. You tried kicking your legs, thrashing under him, pushing him away, but he was too strong. “Just a little longer, you’re doing so good.” He removed his hand, but before you could scream, he was kissing you again. This time, he shoved his tongue passed your parted lips, licking into your mouth in a desperate, almost feral manner. That, along with the fact that you couldn’t focus on this kiss because of how hard you were crying, made it incredibly messy and sloppy and wet. 

He snapped his hips into you, chasing his orgasm as he kissed you like he’d never be able to kiss anyone ever again, making it feel like you could barely breathe. Mostly because of the kiss, but also because of how overwhelming the pain of the stretch was. He continued kissing you and his facial hair felt scratchy against face, only furthering your discomfort. 

“I’m close.” He whispered against your lips. At least it was almost over. “I haven’t filled up a cunt in over a year.” He practically growled, making you stiffen again. 

“N-no… Emmett, please don’t. Please pull out.” You begged desperately, trying to speak coherently through all of the crying. 

“I thought you said I deserve this? That I deserve to finally be happy after everything.” He frowned, making you falter. 

“I didn’t mean… this.” You choked out, not sure what else to say. 

“I know…” He said quietly, letting his eyes flutter shut. “I’ll try to pull out.” 

“Emmett, please. You have to,” He leaned down and cut you off with another kiss as his thrusts became even rougher. 

“You’re such a good girl…” He murmured against your lips, breathing heavily as he neared his release. “So good. I’m gonna make you mine. I’ll take care of you, just like I took care of her. But we’ll be safe this time...” You shook your head, unable to do anything else. “No monsters, no illness— It’s gonna be perfect. We’ll even have some boys, yeah?”

“No,” You sobbed, quickly feeling defeated. You couldn’t stop this no matter how hard you tried. “Please, Emmett… I just turned 18, I- I can’t…” He moaned quietly when you said that. 

“Shh. Yes you can. I’ll help you, baby, we’ll do it together.” You shook your head in disagreement as you continued to cry. “Fuck,” He choked out, eyes closing again. “Ready?” 

“No— no, Emmett… please. Please pull out!” You yelled, making him curse under his breath. With one final groan, he forced his cock all the way in, pushing up against your cervix uncomfortably. 

“Oh, good girl.” He moaned, lazily rutting into you as he rode out his high. “So fucking good. So tight… milking every fucking drop.” He said proudly, making you cry harder at the verbal reminder that he just came inside you. 

“Emmett…” You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch inside you. 

“Thank you.” He said through a breath. “Thank you so much.” He almost sounded like he was about to cry in relief and that made you falter. This man has been alone for weeks, just haunted by the memories of his family with no real outlet or source of comfort. So when someone finally offered him some… he jumped at the chance immediately. You probably would’ve done the same, had you lost your entire family. 

“And I meant what I said. I’m going to keep you safe this time, I promise.” He said quietly, reaching down to feel where his cock was bulging your stomach— where a baby would be growing soon enough. “All of you.” 

[moonstruckme]

hayy!! so tonight i went to a small little show that my friend was doing with his band, and me and the bassist made crazy eye contact while he sang the lyrics “good, i’m proud of you” to me. (i’m dead) ANYWAYY it made me think, this is kinda out there but maybe a james potter band au?? like he’s a drummer or bassist and you keep making crazy eye contact and the tension is THICK.. (maybe even some groupie activity later??) IDKK i’d love to see youre interpretation 😋 or even just to chat about it!!! i love you’re work sm

That sounds so fun babe! Thanks for sharing omg <3

cw: bar

rockstar!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

As much as you like Marlene, you’d sort of thought her band was going to be shitty. And in your defense, most of the ones who play this venue, where the crowd is typically too drunk to care what sound fills the space and it only costs a few quid to get in, are pretty amateurish. They’ll play their one or two original songs, then fill the rest of their time with covers, trying all the while to figure out how to work the stage and engage the crowd. 

These guys definitely don’t seem like amateurs. 

Marlene had said they were just starting out, but you don’t believe it. She, as you expected, is incredible. She embodies this fierce, uncaring kind of cool, fingers sliding up and down the neck of her electric guitar with skill you didn’t know she had. The guys in the band aren’t half bad either. The singer has a voice that seems always on the edge of a scream, and he and Marlene play off each other’s energy, him occasionally leaning the mic her way to belt something together. The bassist seems a bit aloof, long fingers moving with an almost lazy dexterity, which seems to be driving the people clustered at the edge of the stage even madder than they might be if he paid them any attention. And the drummer…

Perhaps you’re partial to the drummer because he doesn’t seem like he’s trying to be cool at all. There’s something completely uninhibited about him that lights something in your chest and sends a buzz of excitement through the room, like you’re all feeding off his energy. He looks like he’s having the time of his life. Sweat shines brilliantly on his dusky skin and drips off the ends of curly brown hair that’s just long enough to flop into his eyes. Someone threw him a headband earlier in the show seemingly to help prevent this, so now he’s got it pushed back, curls protruding from his head and bouncing as he bobs enthusiastically to the beat. A smile splits his face as he launches into a brief solo, and coincidentally your stomach erupts in butterflies at precisely the same time. 

You’re thinking of trying to jostle your way up to the barricade when the drummer’s eyes take another skim of the crowd, and this time they catch on you. Your heart stutters. A tall figure moves in front of you, obscuring your view of the stage, and when they pass the drummer’s still looking at you. And holy shit. This is eye contact. You’re not totally sure how well he can see you what with the lighting in here, but it feels like his eyes are looking right into yours and saying Hello, nice to meet you. 

A few seconds more and he has to tear his attention away as they go back into the chorus, but your eyes keep finding each other’s. It feels more intimate than it probably should, with several meters of distance between you and the crowded, raucous atmosphere, but you can’t help the giddy lightness that accumulates in your chest over the course of the set. 

During what the singer says will be their last song, his gaze flicks to you with something different in it. It’s not something you can place, but in the next second it’s gone, and all his attention is on his drum solo. You cheer with the rest of the audience as drumsticks fly, almost too quick to see, over the drums and cymbals, and you’re so caught up it takes you a second too long to realize one of them actually is flying. 

Your hands flinch up in front of you just in time, protecting your face and fumbling the drumstick nearly to the ground before you catch it. You look back towards the drummer, and his eyes have flared with alarm. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the screeching of guitars, earning a glare from the singer a second before all sound cuts out. 

Marlene takes the mic, announcing that they’re done performing for the night but will be available to receive free drinks until closing. The band starts to pack up and leave the stage. 

The crowd splits in two, one half migrating towards the bar and the other towards the exits. You’re not quite sure where to go. You want to meet up with Marlene, maybe give her the drumstick to pass along to her bandmate and thank her for inviting you before you head home, but you’re not bold enough to venture backstage. You cast a glance toward the bar, twirling the wooden stick absentmindedly between your fingers. Maybe you can find a seat to wait for her? 

“You’re not bad at that.” 

You turn, and the drummer from the band is standing behind you. 

“Oh.” You glance down at the drumstick in your hand, feeling a bit silly as you hold it out. “Thanks. Here you go.” 

“Thank you.” His eyes are even better close up. He’s put on glasses, magnifying the warm brown of his irises and the thick, dark lashes that nearly brush his lenses when he blinks. “You looked like you’d be a better catcher.” 

You laugh. “Not sure what would make you think that.” 

“Well, you did manage it in the end.” He smiles. It’s charming with a touch of roguishness, and you get the impression he’s someone accustomed to being forgiven. “Sorry for almost hitting you in the face.” 

You shrug, suddenly unsure what you usually do with your hands. “It happens,” you say. “I don’t take it personally when musicians lose their instruments in my direction.” 

“Oh, well I wasn’t trying to lob it at your head, but tossing it your way wasn’t an accident.” 

Something funny happens in your gut. “It wasn’t?” 

His grin spreads and he shakes his head. “I figured it was my best shot at getting a chance to meet you.” 

Your face heats. You hope you’re not smiling as big as it feels like you are. “You could’ve just asked Marlene,” you say. “No need to throw things.” 

He laughs, a warm and hearty sound. “I’ll have to refine my methods,” he replies. “I’m James.” 

You tell him your name in turn, and he gets this look on his face like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night. 

“Do you wanna join us at the bar for free drinks?” he asks, taking out the headband and ruffling his hair so his curls bounce onto his forehead. It’s more than a little distracting. “I’m sure Marls would love for you to stay.” 

“I…” You glance towards the bar. “I’m pretty sure the free drinks are just for people in the band, no?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” He waves you off, taking your hand and leading you towards the bar. “You won’t be paying regardless. Just tell me what you like.”

[michanvalentine]

Hi, (sorry for anon!) I love your analysis posts so much! You have such a thoughtful and thorough approach, and always include details from the game that I've missed. I'm blown away every time. The question I have is about Astarion's experience with SA, which is obviously an intense topic, so no pressure to answer this at all. I just have noticed that there doesn't seem to be unanimous agreement in the fandom over whether or not Cazador directly perpetrated sexual abuse against Astarion (beyond the sexual slavery he forced him into). As I understand it, and I could be completely wrong, there is no confirmation of this in the game other than some subtle implications and vague assumptions. I see people headcanon either way all the time. What are your thoughts on the topic? Do you think it's up for interpretation?

It's significant, I think, that my first thought was: "Wait, maybe the anon made a mistake and meant to send the question to someone else." I'm now realizing I have impostor syndrome. ^^' So thank you very much for the kind words about the thoughts I share here on Tumblr — I truly didn't expect them, but they are deeply appreciated, even if I'm a bit embarrassed. I'm blushing. >//////<

Now, this is a very delicate question, so I’ll try to respond with the sensitivity it deserves. This is a topic I don’t mind discussing (unlike pedophilia), but I do believe it needs to be approached with caution and care.

First of all, I’d begin by clarifying the concept of sexual abuse — which, it’s worth noting, is not the only kind of abuse Astarion suffered (but if I stop to talk about everything, I’ll end up writing a whole treatise on trauma, psychology, and the various disorders and consequences that can follow).

Regardless of the motive, sexual abuse occurs when a person forces, manipulates, or coerces another person into participating in sexual acts against their will or in conditions where they’re unable to give free, informed, and conscious consent. Not only that, but consent must also be reversible! Sexual abuse can include physical contact, but not exclusively. Forcing someone to undress, to witness sexual acts, or subjecting them to invasive or threatening sexual comments can also be considered abuse.

So yes, Cazador did personally perpetrate acts of sexual abuse against Astarion, and he would absolutely be legally prosecutable if we were in the real world.

Sexual abuse does not necessarily require an act of physical penetration or direct involvement of the abuser's body. Even if Cazador didn’t physically rape Astarion, he still abused his sexuality and his bodily autonomy. We already know this, but I’m highlighting it again because I believe it’s important to do so.

That said, let’s take a look at why the headcanon that Cazador personally raped Astarion is so widespread in the fandom.

First of all, because a character like Cazador has both the means and the depravity necessary to commit any kind of vile act. He’s a vampire lord—wealthy, powerful, with an entire palace and a host of servants at his disposal—who feeds on the poor of Baldur’s Gate and gets away with it. As if that weren’t enough, he has complete control over his vampire spawn, whom he routinely subjects to torture and neglect without showing the slightest trace of mercy. If he were to regularly rape one or more of his "children," I don’t think anyone would be surprised. In fact, it would be perfectly in character for him.

In this sense, the character of Cazador fits perfectly into the "sadistic master" trope — a widely used narrative archetype, especially in gothic stories, horror, dark fantasy, and disturbing erotic literature. This trope centers around a character in a position of absolute power over a subordinate figure who is subjected to their whims. The resulting dynamic often involves physical and/or psychological torture, and sometimes even the eroticization of violence. So, the connection comes almost naturally.

An example of this can be found in many texts, the most striking being Marquis de Sade’s Justine and Philosophy in the Bedroom.

The Marquis de Sade literally gave his name to the term “sadism.” His writings are filled with sadistic masters who psychologically and sexually abuse their victims.

Adding this point helps to contextualize the fandom’s widespread perception: it’s not that fans are simply “projecting,” but rather that they’re recognizing in Cazador all the classic elements of a well-established trope — an archetype deeply rooted in narrative culture.

If we also consider the implicit references in some of Astarion’s dialogues, the ambiguity becomes strong enough to complete the equation: “[...]I was just another wretched toy for him to play with[...]”, “He loved having power over me”, “From that day on, I was his,” etc.

And that’s without even mentioning the most controversial line from the Early Access version of Baldur’s Gate 3:

“You know what separates us from animals? Choice. I choose to travel with you. A dog would do it on instinct. To fulfil a need. Disrespect me again and I won't choose to kill you... I'll do it on instinct. To fulfil my need to hear you scream.”

That line carries a much heavier implication, especially because it’s tied to the Dream Guardian, who in EA was a seductive figure. In that version, Tav/Durge’s dream had distinctly intimate and sensual undertones. So, although debatable, the choice to have the Emperor enter Astarion’s dream in the guise of Cazador seems to suggest something more — particularly because, when Tav/Durge makes a tone-deaf joke about “the master in the bedroom,” Astarion reacts with a rage that’s nothing short of visceral. Perhaps because the insinuation isn’t something that can just be laughed off? We’ll never know for sure.

All the more so because, in that same scene, when Astarion reveals he dreamed of his master, Tav/Durge can choose a polite reply and say it doesn’t sound enticing at all. And Astarion confirms it without hesitation — which again makes me wonder what exactly prompted the Emperor to choose such a form. Perhaps more than seducing him, he wanted to scare him? Who knows.

Anyway, within this kind of dynamic, we often find powerful and significant themes such as the thin line between love and possession, or between power and sex. "You are mine," Cazador says repeatedly about Astarion, as if he were a jealous lover — even though we know full well that this isn’t love. Likewise, sex — and therefore rape — can have nothing to do with desire, but rather with control: ruthless, brutal and dirty, meant to destroy, demean, and dehumanize.

And unfortunately, we have countless real-life examples of this. One only has to look at history — at the wars that have followed one another — and how the “victor” often claimed the right to plunder, crush, and humiliate the occupied territory in order to assert dominance.

Just a few examples:

The Rape of Nanking (1937): Around 200,000 Chinese civilians, mostly women, were raped by Japanese soldiers.

The Red Army in Berlin (1945): Estimates speak of hundreds of thousands of German women raped during the occupation.

The Balkan Wars (1990s): Systematic ethnic rape was used against Bosnian, Serbian, and Croatian women — deliberately employed to terrorize, humiliate, and “contaminate” bloodlines.

Rwanda (1994): During the genocide, tens of thousands of Tutsi women were raped. Rape was used as a method of social and psychological destruction.

And sadly, the list could go on. As Astarion would cynically say: “The powerful can do whatever the hell they want—just look at the world.” And it’s precisely when you can’t entirely disagree with him that you realize how important it is to try and make a difference. But that’s a whole other conversation.

Nevertheless, even though for us the difference is clear, within a toxic context or an unhealthy relationship — such as the one between Astarion and Cazador (which, symbolically speaking, can even verge on the incestuous) — concepts like love and possession suddenly become ambiguous. They blur together, mix, and lose their definition. The same applies to sex and power — a dynamic that Ascendant Astarion himself brings back to the surface in one of his dialogues with Tav/Durge.

"Everything is about power, sex, relationships, violence. They're just different form of control," his exact words.

So it’s not difficult to imagine how the relationship between Cazador and Astarion could go even further on a carnal level — through the deplorable act of rape, which encompasses all the meanings we’ve discussed so far.

Of course, all of this also depends on the sensitivity and experiences of the player — interpretation is open, especially when there’s such a wide space for maneuvering. Not only can we pick up on different details and connect them however our personal intuition suggests, but we also have the freedom to project our own experiences onto situations, characters, and relationships — exploring them through imagination, and most importantly, in a safe environment.

This is also reflected in the vast array of fan-created content — fanfiction, fanart, videos, and more — where these themes between Astarion and Cazador are often explored. In this regard, Larian has been meticulous: they never spelled out every detail of the abuse Astarion endured. Yet the evidence we do have in the game — malnutrition, systematic torture, sexual exploitation — is already more than enough to paint a truly chilling picture.

All this to say that yes, there is room for interpretation — and if Cazador had directly raped Astarion, it would be entirely consistent with the situation, the relationship, and the character. Of course, it remains a headcanon, because — and I want to emphasize this — everything is left vague, perceptible but not tangible.

If we’re talking about my personal gameplay experience and interpretation, I can honestly say that I don’t believe Cazador forced himself on Astarion. And here’s why…

If it’s true that there are details and lines that might suggest Cazador directly raped Astarion, it’s also true that there are just as many details and hints that, to me, suggest the exact opposite.

Let’s start with the fact that Cazador is a vampire lord who has held power for a very long time—especially when compared to his predecessors. One thing that Baldur’s Gate 3 makes abundantly clear is that vampirism sucks. It’s a curse. Vampires can’t walk in the sunlight, they must be invited to enter homes, they can’t cross running water, etc. They’re despised — seen as parasites worthy only of being staked on sight. Moreover, as time goes by, they become increasingly consumed by their thirst for power and control, eventually descending into paranoia. A vampire’s mind, therefore, is not necessarily stable—it’s subject to madness and suffering, something we can even see in Vellioth. I’ve discussed this in another post, which I’ll leave HERE for those interested.

When we read Cazador’s mind in his coffin, his mental and emotional state is crystal clear (copy-pasting from another one of my posts because I don’t feel like rewriting the whole thing again, lol):

“These deathless dreams hold memories of a mortal life once-forgotten. Of the boy I was, the man I became, the monster that will not end. I sleep, but cannot rest. I live, but cannot die. I’m eternal, and I grieve.”

"The message couldn’t be clearer.

But let’s take a closer look at what he says: deathless dreams—this means he keeps having them, over and over again, every time he closes his eyes. They’re deathless, after all; he can’t get rid of them. And what do they do? They hold. A beautiful word, one that somehow suggests care, even a certain gentleness. And what do they hold? The memories of his mortal life. It’s heartbreaking. He mourns the boy he was, the man he became… in favor of the monster. The one that will not end. He knows perfectly well that this last part is the strongest, the most pervasive, the one with no end—swallowing him whole.

That’s why he sleeps, but cannot rest—because the memories of who he once was torment him. He regrets who he used to be. He is “alive,” but even if he wanted to end it all, he can’t die—he’s forced to drag himself through this non-existence. He’s eternal… and that’s why he grieves.

I’d say there’s little more to add… it perfectly conveys just how horrible his condition is, and how he’s willing to do anything to change it—without realizing that every attempt is futile and will only serve to feed the monster that will not end."

I’ll underline that immortality is not a gift at all. It’s a sentence to the slow, relentless decay of many things: relationships, the mind, memories, identity. Everything fades with time. And being eternal means facing an overwhelming amount of time; when you’ve done and seen everything undeath has to offer, boredom sets in—monotony, inertia, the drag of existing without any inner spark or drive, without any true or new purpose.

That’s where Mephistopheles and his pact come into play—the spark in which Cazador places his hopes of improving his condition. Not just to gain more power, but also to alleviate the agony of vampirism, in the hope that he might regain what he lost: the pleasures of mortal life.

As Raphael himself makes clear: "All the strenght of his vampiric form will be ampliefied, and alongside them he will enjoing the luxuries of the living. The arousals and appetites of man will be return to him[...]"

At this point, someone might be wondering why I’m going on this long tangent, lol. The thing is, in my opinion, Cazador has no sexual appetite whatsoever. He’s frigid, if you will. Impotent. He’s lost the capacity for that kind of pleasure, just like he’s lost many others. He’s cold as ice, rigid — not just in behavior and mindset, but also in his bodily expressions and physical reactions.

And I believe there are only two things that still make him feel something — that give him a thrill of excitement. Blood, because he's a vampire. And torture, like a true sadist (even though he often hands the reins over to Godey). Moreover, torture in this case seems less like a sexual fantasy and more like a psychological extension of his delusional paternal role — the belief that, as a 'father,' he has both the right and the duty to discipline his 'children' through punishment whenever they disobey. It’s not merely about sadistic pleasure; it’s about control, structure, and the preservation of a distorted sense of order and authority.

Some might object: "Didn’t you just say that sex, in this case, is a manifestation of power or control? A weapon?" Absolutely. But Cazador can achieve the same dehumanizing, humiliating effect by leaving the act of defilement to others.

Come on — there are a million ways to "bring dinner home for daddy." The point is, Cazador is meticulous. He’s obsessed with precision, perfection, cleanliness. His palace is filled with frantic servants rushing around because there mustn’t be a single speck of dust — or else the master might lose his temper. He even says of Astarion: “I strove for perfection in all things. Even those as imperfect as you.”

And that’s the crux of it: Astarion is not perfect. Cazador finds him irritating, bland, disobedient, and above all — considering his rigidity and obsession with order and hygiene — dirty. Astarion is a whore who has lain with countless people, men and women alike, for centuries. As terrible as it is to say, I genuinely believe Cazador finds him disgusting. He wouldn’t touch him — not even with a fingertip.

Cazador’s obsession with dust, the discipline of his slaves (“Don’t slouch in front of me, boy”), the architectural perfection of his palace… all of it speaks to an anankastic mind, obsessed with form. He lives by a corrupted aristocratic logic: purity, decorum, beauty, order. Lying with Astarion—so wretched and filthy—would be tantamount to contaminating himself. Assuming, of course, that he’s even capable of getting an erection in the first place… which, as I’ve argued above, I strongly doubt.

And that conveys an implicit disdain for someone who, when all is said and done, is merely a victim. It borders on a kind of victim blaming.

But even if we wanted to set all that aside, as I’ve already discussed regarding Cazador’s obsession with Astarion, I believe it stems from something entirely different — certainly not a sexual motivation. I’ll just copy and paste my previous thoughts here for convenience (and laziness, lol):

"I’ve read theories suggesting that Cazador is so obsessed with Astarion because he might remind him of Vellioth. But personally, I think the opposite is true: Cazador sees in Astarion his former self — the person he once was — now fighting against the very incarnation of Vellioth, which is Cazador himself.

I believe that, for Cazador, this thought — however unconscious — is simply intolerable. Because not only has he become what he once despised, but Astarion acts as a mirror that reflects back at him everything he used to be, everything that once drove him despite what he has now become. And that hurts. It makes him ache. It makes him grieve for what he lost — something we already know from reading his mind, where he’s tormented by memories of the boy he once was.

And the only solution is to shatter that mirror. To erase the reflection. Just as Vellioth once shattered him.

If we go back to Vellioth’s “lessons,” we can clearly see how Cazador tries to eliminate Tav/Durge in the same way Vellioth eliminated Cazador’s friend. Or how Cazador locked Astarion in a tomb for a year — just as Vellioth impaled him for eleven. Both punishments came in response to the same offense: rebellion.

It’s a powerful parallel.

So yes, I do believe that Cazador — even though he had a different personality — faced his relationship with Vellioth in much the same way Astarion now faces his relationship with him. And in that, I think there’s also a thread of paranoia, because Cazador is perfectly aware of which of his spawn might one day try to overthrow him.

Perhaps it’s precisely the one who, like Cazador once did, may no longer carry a living flame — but still holds embers smoldering within, just waiting to reignite.

And there lies the root of his obsession: the constant monitoring, the watching, the controlling, the punishing, and so on."

From this point of view, even more so — if we take Astarion as a reflection of the young Cazador — then the vampire would have to be even more sick, twisted, and perverse than he already is, since he’d be raping a version of himself. And as much as Cazador remains a monster beyond redemption, I see him far more as sad, small, and desperate, rather than some deranged pervert driven by overwhelming urges.

So, to conclude and summarize the answer to the question: No, there’s no confirmation in the game that Cazador directly raped Astarion — but it’s absolutely open to interpretation. And while I personally believe the vampire in question is just a pitiful wretch pretending to be a grand and pure figure, I won’t deny I could be completely wrong. For all I know, Cazador might be a stallion in bed who indulges in every kind of twisted fantasy that pops into his head, taking turns with all his spawn. Lol.

I’d say I’m done — hopefully I haven’t rambled too much nonsense. Thanks again for giving me something to reflect on. It’s always a pleasure. <3

[oldsoul007]

whispers

joel miller x reader

summary: y/n sees someone she’d thought she’d never see again

joel miller masterlist

The world had changed. That was something me and Joel knew all too well. Decades had passed since the outbreak—since everything we once knew had crumbled. But, as with all storms, there came a time when the skies cleared, and the silence after the chaos was almost as deafening as the screams had been.

I hadn’t expected to find him, not here, in this small town where I had relocated to escape the past and search for peace. I lived in a modest house on the outskirts of what used to be a bustling city—now a quiet, semi-abandoned place. It was one of the few communities where life seemed to have some semblance of normalcy again. People worked the fields, traded goods, and occasionally gathered around campfires in the evenings, sharing stories and building new memories. But I had never imagined I would run into someone from my old life here.

I had heard whispers of a man named Joel Miller—a name I hadn’t thought about in years. Joel. She remembered the way his laugh used to fill a room, his strong hands, the kind of man who could hold a gun as easily as he could hold a child’s hand. The memories of him came flooding back, but with them, came the painful reminder of the world that was lost.

It had been over twenty years since the outbreak, since everything had fallen apart, and I hadn’t heard his name once in all that time. He’d been a part of my life before the chaos, and then, just like everything else, he’d disappeared into the dark recesses of my mind, buried under the weight of survival. There was no time for reminiscing then. There were only the daily battles for food, shelter, and safety.

But now, here we were—two people standing on the other side of that storm.

It was late one afternoon when she saw him. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the dusty road that led to the town square. I had just returned from trading some produce at the local market when a familiar figure caught my eye.

Joel.

It took a moment for my mind to register the sight, but when it did, my heart skipped. He was older, of course, his hair graying and his face lined with age and hardship. But it was him—there was no mistaking those broad shoulders, that confident stance. He looked as if time had been kind to him in some ways, cruel in others.

My heart clenched as I hesitated, not sure if I should approach. I had to remind myself that the person I once knew was likely long gone. The man standing in front of me had survived the same brutal world I had—perhaps even in the same way. We had both adapted, changed, become someone else entirely. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. The past, the scars, the brokenness—we all seemed distant, like something trapped in another lifetime.

He looked up then, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, he just stared, as if he too were unsure if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. And then his face softened. “Y/n,” he said, his voice rough but familiar.

My breath caught. It felt like a lifetime had passed since anyone had called me by that name in a way that mattered. A name spoken in love, in comfort, not survival.

“Joel,” I whispered, taking a tentative step forward.

His eyes searched mine for a moment, as if to confirm that I was real. Then, with a small, half-smile, he closed the distance between us. His presence felt like both a weight and a relief, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said, his voice low.

“Neither did I,” I replied, my voice almost a whisper.

We stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to say next, unsure of who we were now. But it didn’t matter. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of history, full of shared memories that neither of us had ever been able to talk about.

Finally, Joel spoke again. “You… you still remember the old days? Before everything changed?”

I nodded slowly. “I try not to. But, yeah, I remember. Sometimes, it feels like a dream. Or maybe it’s the world that’s the dream.”

Joel chuckled softly, his gaze distant for a moment as if remembering the same things I was. “I remember when we thought we had time. When we thought the world could never get so bad. How naive we were.”

I smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “I remember our first date. I didn’t even know if it was a date at the time. I thought you were just helping me out because I was new in town.” I paused, shaking my head. “Turns out you were a lot more than that.”

Joel’s face softened. “Yeah, I guess I was. You were always good at making things feel normal, even when everything around us was falling apart.”

We both stood there, processing the weight of the words and the years between us. There was no rush to speak, no need to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter. We had already shared enough in our lives—grief, loss, and survival. What they had now, what they could build, was something new. Something fragile but beautiful.

“I never thought I’d see a place like this again,” I said after a moment, glancing around at the now-quiet town square. “I thought I’d spend the rest of my days running from everything that happened.”

“You’re not the only one,” Joel said quietly, his eyes flicking down to the dirt road beneath our feet. “But, somehow, we’re still here.”

I took a deep breath, my heart aching with all the things we hadn’t yet spoken. “Do you think it’s possible to go back?” I asked, my voice small.

Joel’s eyes met mine again, and this time, there was a softness there that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t know. But I think we can find something new. Something worth living for.”

We stood together, looking out at the remnants of the town we once knew. The wind whispered through the trees, and the sky was still—peaceful, for the first time in a long while.

And for the first time in decades, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of a future. Not the one I had once dreamed of, but one where the echoes of the past could coexist with the hope of something better. Maybe, just maybe, the storm had passed, and there was room for something beautiful to grow in its place.

Joel’s hand brushed mine, and I took it, feeling the warmth and strength in his grip. No words were needed. Our past had shaped us, but it didn’t define them. We had each other now, and that was enough.

The world had changed, but so had we.

[cyucya]

Building off of what anon said, I was also thinking that maybe Sonic and Shadow had SC as a way to ‘fix their problems’ (I actually sent this quite a while back, but it may have been buried XD)

But if we’re really thinking about, it could make sense, I mean, Sonadow are ALWAYS at each other’s throats, if they were divorced by the time SC came around, then chances are they were already having quite a bit of trouble in paradise, so what’s *usually* the number one thing that keeps people together? A Family!! Wow Sonadow, you’re so smart, that is exactly what we need. A kid to have that kind of connection to each other again, to remind them of why they fell in love in the first place.

And so SC is born, except, he’s not what they thought they would be. While they were looking for someone more along the lines of how *they* were, the perfect combo of both of them, they instead got a sickly, low energy, powerless kid. How can this be? Sonic’s the fastest being in the universe, speed perfected, and Shadow’s the ultimate life form, how is it that they created something so utterly powerless?

Now instead of fixing their problems it only made them worse. Now they’re playing the Blame Game, because “he couldn’t have possibly been that way cuz of me!” And because “I’m the Ultimate Life Form, I don’t produce people like this” and lo and behold they’re at each other’s throats again. What was supposed to be the solution to their problem actually became the cause of their problems hence causing the divorce. Obviously this takes a toll on our poor SC.

HOWEVER! Let’s take this a step further ( >:) ), and let’s now include Spark. Few years pass and Sonadow are missing each other because for all their problems and fights, they are still the only ones who can keep up with each other, and despite everything they still technically love each other very much. So they start trying again, just to see if it works out. Now I don’t actually know if Spark was planned or not, but it sounds like initially at first she wasn’t, but once they realized she was on the way, they were like ok, let’s give this another shot, maybe it’ll be better this time, and they officially get together again.

Spark is born, the most perfect little girl, who is *exactly* what SC was supposed to be. SHE is the one with the abundance of chaos energy, SHE is the one meant to continue Sonadow’s legacy, SHE is what they were going for the first round with SC. And so obviously this is not a good thing for our dear lovely SC.

Because for the first time it looks like he might be seeing what his parents were originally doing for him. Because now he’s realizing that Spark is the one that fixed their relationship.

Spark became the very thing Skylar-Chilli was supposed to be, and that shit is SEVERELY messed up. Poor SC, free my boy.

~Love, Evie

Oh wow, this message is absolutely incredible—I love seeing such deep, thoughtful takes on my AU! The way you’ve broken it all down and connected the dots is just plainly awesome. It makes me so happy to know that people are thinking about these dynamics as much as I am!

That said, I don’t want to comment too much on it just yet since I’d hate to accidentally spoil anything, but just know that I really appreciate this message and the effort you put into it. It genuinely made my day—thank you so much for sharing your thoughts!

[ksnzuy]

Hi, could you write Mitsuya with female reader where he fall in love with her at first sight (please, make him 14-15 years, during Toman timeline)

۶ৎ Stitching Hearts Together.

۶ৎ auth: hope you like it <3

۶ৎ Summary: the first time he laid eyes on you, he fell in love.(short scenario)

۶ৎ: scenario | female reader.

۶ৎ Characters Included: Mitsuya Takashi

It was a quiet summer afternoon, and Mitsuya was making his way home after another exhausting Toman meeting. The sun hung lazily in the sky, dipping just low enough to paint the city in shades of gold and orange. His mind was still half-focused on the day’s events, thoughts swirling about Mikey, Draken, and the ever-looming chaos that seemed to follow Toman. But those thoughts came to a screeching halt the moment he saw her.

She was standing by the corner near a small fabric shop, carefully examining rolls of pastel-colored fabric. The soft breeze made her hair dance gently around her face, catching the last rays of sunlight. Her expression was one of pure focus, eyes scanning the delicate patterns as if she was searching for something specific.

Mitsuya stopped dead in his tracks.

Who… is that?

His heart skipped a beat—no, several beats. He had never seen her before, but something about her drew him in instantly. Maybe it was the way she bit her bottom lip slightly while thinking, or the way her hands delicately brushed over the fabric, as if she respected its beauty. She was different.

“Oi, Mitsuya, you good?”

The distant voice of Hakkai barely registered in his ears. Mitsuya was too lost in the moment, his lavender eyes locked onto the girl who had unknowingly stolen his breath away.

“Yeah…” he murmured absentmindedly, his gaze never leaving her.

Before he knew it, his feet were moving on their own. He found himself walking toward her, his usual calm demeanor replaced by an unfamiliar nervousness. The closer he got, the more he realized just how beautiful she was up close—her eyes gleamed with curiosity, her lips slightly parted as she examined the fabric.

“Thinking of making something?” Mitsuya asked before he could stop himself. His voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant, but it caught her attention.

She turned toward him, and that’s when it hit him hard. Her eyes met his, and Mitsuya felt his entire world tilt on its axis.

“Uh, yeah…” she replied, her voice warm and gentle. “I was looking for something soft… I’m trying to make a dress.”

Mitsuya’s heart slammed against his chest. A dress? His fingers twitched—his love for designing and sewing igniting a familiar spark. But that wasn’t what floored him. It was the way she looked at him, eyes filled with quiet determination, her passion for creating something beautiful mirroring his own.

“You… sew?” he asked, his tone filled with genuine interest.

“Kind of,” she smiled shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m still learning… I’m not that great yet.”

“Everyone starts somewhere,” Mitsuya said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I… I sew too.”

Her eyes brightened, and Mitsuya swore his heart stopped.

“Really?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” he nodded, his usual calmness returning, though his heart was pounding louder than a drum. “If you want… I could help you. I mean, if you’d like…”

For a moment, she just stared at him, and Mitsuya wondered if he had said too much too soon. But then, that smile—that smile—lit up her face, and he felt like he could die happy right then and there.

“I’d like that,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, Mitsuya knew.

He was done for.

The rest of the world faded into the background as they stood there, talking about fabrics, stitches, and ideas. Mitsuya listened intently, offering advice while she shared her dreams of making clothes that made people feel beautiful.

And with every word she spoke, he fell harder.

By the time they exchanged names and numbers, Mitsuya was already smitten. His mind raced with thoughts of her—how she smiled, how her eyes lit up when she talked about her passion.

As he walked away that evening, his heart still pounding, he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

She’s perfect.

For the first time in a long while, Takashi Mitsuya wasn’t just thinking about the chaos of Toman or the weight of protecting his family.

He was thinking about her.

And deep down, he knew—this was only the beginning.

[cuppajj]

Thoughts about BY 5 and 6

So I finished the episode at an unhealthy morning hour, and now after getting my full sleep, I can fully share my thoughts!

And of course, spoilers for the newest episode!

First things first, I want to talk about Burning Spice himself. A while back, I made a post about my hopes for him and how I didn’t want him to be a temperamental meathead, but instead a smart and calculating person who took from his extensive knowledge of history to psychologically destroy as much as physically. Did we get that?

Kinda, kinda not. Spice isn’t another Purple Yam like I’d hoped, he has more character than being just angry, but the hotheadedness does remain most of the way through. He reminds me of a strongman anime villain, the kind whose braun speaks more than brain, but still capable of strategy. Most of that strategy comes from Nutmeg Tiger though, as Spice is mostly interested in fighting Cheese from beginning to end. There’s no moment where he messes with her mind directly and picks apart her vulnerabilities beyond surface level “you hold things dear to you that I will destroy”. Which, implication is that he was more focused on just fighting, which in the context of how/why he is the way he is, kinda makes sense.

And about that, I’ll address it briefly: So we learn that Spice’s corruption, at least the straw that broke the camel’s back, was that he got bored watching history unfold. I think it’s very cool! While I was interested in a little more nuance behind his boredom, sometimes villains don’t need a complex reason for why they do what they do. It does make Spice less sympathetic than Mystic Flour though, so it seems like not all Beasts may be equal in cause and backstory. However, stuff about him may be explored later, since he’s going to be back.

So I would say that Spice isn’t as one note as I’d hoped, but he is a simple villain. A simple and very very fun and scary villain, but there could’ve been a lot more to his character in this story that made it lacking for me. I know BY chapters are usually short, but there could’ve possibly been more time showing the parallels between him and Cheese beyond a dialogue or so. It would’ve been really cool if Spice addressed those directly, using it against Cheese. Making her rethink/relive the trauma of losing everyone and mentally destroying her… like what if there was an exchange in the prison cell when she was at her lowest? What if Smoked Cheese had either been incapacitated and unable to speak, or in a separate cell so Cheese could be entirely at the Beast’s mercy? (We DID get a bit of that when Cheese realized how apathetic he was and what he saw in her soul jam, but that was more of a disgusted shock than a mental breakdown.) Smoked could help her out of her turmoil later (an exchange between him and Spice could’ve also been awesome), but Spice leaving mental damage on Cheese would’ve further spread the idea that he also values breaking things internally.

But, I guess Spice is just destroy destroy destroy to the point where he doesn’t really care about anything else, which is… fine. Admittedly not my cup of tea because it’s so basic, but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy his motivation. I hope we get a little more nuance next time we see him.

Anyway love these sprites!! I wished we got more related to the first two, it shows a mellower and/or ironically colder side of him that I think would’ve really helped amplify his fear factor. Spice is all fun and destruction but the oh shit comes from him showing more of the calculated side he used to have.

But speaking of Golden Cheese, I’ll talk about her next.

Overall I really liked her story here! I love seeing her in action and on her own, and her interactions with Smoked Cheese were fun to see! Smoked Cheese was extra fun, I loved how he had sass while still caring for people beyond his kingdom’s entourage (his voice and mannerisms remind me of tfp knockout it’s crazy). I was also happy to learn how the soul cheese worked, since that was a question I had from last episode. It appears Smoked isn’t in his body, but his soul is projecting a physical form given mass that relies on Golden Cheese’s power. Very interesting, and I wonder if he’s just going to stay out now, or if he’ll return? And what of the others too…

Now, something I will say about Cheese is that while her character arc made sense for her in a bubble, I feel a similar thing like I did with Spice that it could’ve been much better. Personally, while Cheese staying true to her greediness and immense care for her treasures is a good thing to power her up, I don’t think it made her as bigger a person than Spice than she could’ve. What would’ve been cooler and more thematic for her character would’ve actually been accepting that destruction and the loss of things she cares about is a natural part of life.

What I mean by this is that while Spice embodies destruction, Cheese essentially embodies creation, which are two polar opposites that have their place in the universe. Antagonizing one or the other should come with a deeper approach to the message, and frankly, antagonizing destruction in its entirety is a very black and white angle. Destruction can be inherently bad and tragic, yes, but it can also pave the way for new life and new things to be created. Plantlife grows back after a forest fire. You can build something better upon the ruins of what was before. For Cheese, her kingdom could’ve been lost/destroyed, but she could’ve accepted it and strove for a newer and better kingdom. Which, in some parts she did, but my philosophy also applies to people lost too.

Death and destruction was a prominent theme in Cheese’s backstory, and much of her Golden City arc was confronting that. I suppose this is a separate talk for another time, but to put it simply, she didn’t have an arc about accepting those who were lost, moreso about striving to bring those who were lost back. The story ended with her promising to bring her friends back, instead of accepting that she lost them and focusing her strength on protecting those she still has with her. That last part could’ve actually been what the Spice story led to, with her first wanting to find a way to bring everyone back, but deciding by the end of it that she can protect the memory of her kingdom along with the living friends she still has. Smoked Cheese could’ve even helped her with that, showing that he cares for her over himself, leading to a heartfelt goodbye between the two. This is just a wishful image, but it would’ve been a really good way for CRK to tackle a deep theme and touch a lot of people’s feelings. But what we got was a lot simpler, with both Spice and Cheese’s characters and themes, which I guess makes sense. Some stories (or the game itself) don’t really want to be anything super deep in narrative, and that’s fine as long as they’re still fun, which this was.

Lastly I will say, I fear the awakening thing will get a little predictable and repetitive from here on out. Beast is a threat for the first chapter, continues to be a threat up until Ancient does a power of love and friendship introspection and transforms into a stronger version of themself. I hope one of them will be a little subversive in this—I don’t know how, I just hope these great stories aren’t bogged down by predictability!

But anyway, those are my thoughts about BY 5 and 6. Overall a great story, I’m so happy to get Spice and Cheese action because they’re two of my favorites, Smoked Cheese was fun, and I’m looking forward to the new Shmilk stuff we will be getting around the anniversary. After that I really hope Eternal Sugar is next, I have a bunch of thoughts/hopes for them too!!

Anyway thanks for reading!