oddsare

Disclaimer: Yes, I started a whole new post instead of replying in that thread. Why? Because the tea was scalding, the takes were feral, and darling—I needed more room to stretch my limbs and my sarcasm. This drama deserves a proper runway, not a cramped little comment box.

And here’s what I gathered:

1. Sex too early = no romance.
2. If it starts in a garden, it should end in church (preferably with a veil and vows).
3. “BL is about love, not lust” (as if queer love is somehow less valid when it sweats).
4. If there’s skin, the writing must be lazy.
5. And my absolute favorite: “This is just smut”—spoken by someone with “Yaoi” in their handle. Darling, that irony could moonlight as a pole dancer.

So instead of throwing glitter into a thread already drowning in ellipses, judgments, and moral acrobatics, I opened a new post. Because I believe in open fandoms, messy representation, and yes—giving My Stubborn the messy, horny little altar it deserves. With candles. And maybe a safety warning.

First off—calling yourself “Yaoi BL” and then panicking over explicit content is like opening a shop called “Cheesecake & Regret” and acting surprised when things get sticky. Historically, yaoi meant “no plot, just sex.” So if we’re pulling receipts, please don’t make me unleash the archive.

Secondly, Boy’s Love is an umbrella, not a purity cult. It contains everything: soft fluff, tragic melodrama, enemies-to-lovers with murder subtext, and yes—raunchy, reckless, emotionally unstable stairwell kisses. That’s the beauty. That’s the mess. That’s the POINT.

Is My Stubborn unhinged? Absolutely. But so are most queer journeys. There’s no world in which repressed bisexuals doodling on your face before kissing you in a bathroom stall is “textbook healthy.”
But guess what? Neither is love in half the so-called “romantic” straight dramas either.

Some people want slow burns. Some want poetic pain. Some of us want to watch a man rediscover his sexuality via garden voyeurism and spiral for seven episodes. Let us live.

So respectfully, let’s stop trying to gatekeep an entire genre based on your comfort level. Not every BL needs to sip tea and whisper “saranghae.” Some want to set fire to their moral compass and lick the ashes.

This isn’t smut. It’s storytelling—with glitter, grit, and gay tension thick enough to cut with a steak knife.

Oh sweetlings—Tong is not stupid. He's just... chronically protagonisting. Let me decrypt this enigma for the besties, the thirsties, and the emotionally overinvested who've made this show their personality:

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Tong's Personality in Episode 7: A Dissertation in Catastrophic Good Intentions

Tong, our precious golden-blooded anxiety vessel, really looked at that vampire-infested medical center and made a PowerPoint presentation that consisted of exactly one slide that said:

"I've got this. No plan, no backup, no phone reception, no emotional regulation skills—but vibes? Honey, I've got vibes in biblical proportions."

How does he escape Auntie Wan's watchful eye?
With the time-honored "Mark told me to stay put but his phone went to voicemail twice and instead of texting like someone with opposable thumbs and emotional object permanence, I'm going to YEET myself into danger" protocol. This man abandoned his floral security system faster than straight boys abandon their friends after getting a "u up?" text at 1am.

And then what does our emotional saboteur do?
He cardio-sprints—not walks, not jogs, but full-on Olympics-qualifying runs—into peril like he's auditioning for "Darwin Awards: Vampire Edition," yanking poor Tonkla out of his employee onboarding session with nothing but stress sweat and sentence fragments.

Tonkla: "What's happening?"
Tong: "No time! Trust me!"
Tonkla: "With WHAT exactly??"
Tong: [combusts in untreated trauma responses]

Communication skills? Returned to sender.
Strategic planning? Never met her.
Risk assessment? On vacation.
Emotional intelligence? Loading... loading... error 404.
But heart? Tong has that in weapons-grade, industrially-processed, government-regulated abundance.

Because here's the piping hot chamomile truth: Tong isn't neurodivergent, he's *plot*-divergent. Every time he attempts to verbalize a coherent thought, the screenwriter hurls a smoke bomb and substitutes his dialogue with ✨panic-induced hyperventilation and narrative propulsion✨.

And honestly? We would die for him specifically because of this.

He didn't sign up to be logical—he enlisted to be the emotional Chaos Muppet that keeps our story turbocharged. Without him blundering into traps, performing emotional parkour over common sense, and operating with 100% heart and -12% impulse control, we'd all be trapped in a flower shop watching Mark alphabetize trauma while practicing brooding in various lighting conditions.

So let us not slander our golden retriever of a man.
He's not the tactician.
He's not the muscle.
He's the golden-blooded himbo messiah of BL drama, canonized by the Church of Chaotic Bisexual Energy.
He operates exclusively on feelings, vibes, and the narrative immunity that comes with being pretty enough to make the audience forgive literally any decision.

And that, my fellow enablers, is the psychological warfare that keeps us coming back for more.

Bless his heart. Shield it with kevlar. And maybe next time—just maybe—assign him a bodyguard who knows the difference between protection and whatever cardiac gymnastics they're doing now.

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In conclusion: Tong's not playing chess. He's not even playing checkers. He's playing Jenga with his own emotional stability, and we're all just watching the tower wobble in high definition.

Thank YOU for reading my unhinged rambles and making them feel like literature. You’re the true treasure here—stay thirsty, stay golden!

First the Roman statue pose, now this comment?? Your friend’s about to receive a full-blown gallery tour called “Sculpted Abs & Softcore Chaos: An MGB Retrospective.” Complimentary tissues at the exit.

As you should, bestie!! Episode 7 came for our lungs, our morals, and our laundry baskets. CPR? No thanks—I choose ✨chaotic gay oxygen deprivation✨.

Not Captain White Cotton reporting for one last emotionally unhinged mission! I’m SOBBING. This tank top died so thirst could live. May its threads rest where boxer briefs fear to cling.

Ahh stop it, you’re gonna make me blush like Tong in a towel scene! Thank you, angel! Your love fuels my chaos—xx right back at you!

YES. This isn’t a thesis, it’s a certified thirsis—peer-reviewed by my hormones and published in the Journal of Unholy Yearnings.

Guilty as Mark in a flower shop with a tank top to ruin! But can you blame me? These briefs were practically an appetizer—served hot, tight, and slightly unholy. Bon appétit to us both!

Thank YOU for hollering—I was just trying to survive Joss in HD and ended up writing a whole thirst thesis. Love you more than Mark loves inappropriate timing and tight white underwear!!

Girl, I’m at Chez Janou living my Coq au Joss fantasy—Marky Mark who? The only ‘vin’ I need is vampire thirst. Hope my dish comes with a side of boxer briefs and emotional damage!

Boxer Briefs and Battlefield Tactics: How Mark’s Undies Declared War on Tong’s Sanity (and Ours)

Let’s set the scene.
The lighting? Ethereal.
The mood? Tense.
The clothing? Minimal.
And there he is—Mark Jensen, vampire ex-bodyguard, walking like a Calvin Klein fever dream through gauzy curtains and potted plants, wearing nothing but a pair of white boxer briefs and a smirk so dangerous it should come with a warning label.

Now let’s break down this sacred fabric of temptation.

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1. The Color: White

There is no innocence here. Do not be fooled.
White underwear is a choice. It’s what you wear when you want to scream “purity” while broadcasting premium cable energy. It reflects light. It accentuates curves. It says, “Yes, I sparkle in the sun—but not because I’m a vampire. Because I’m the fantasy you’ve been repressing since episode one.”

White is not a color—it’s a spotlight.

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2. The Cut: Boxer Briefs

Boxer briefs are what happen when briefs hit the gym and read poetry.
They’re sensual but not aggressive.
Supportive, but not clingy.
Perfectly balanced, like Mark’s ability to look like both a boyfriend and a walking, brooding thirst trap.

They say, “I could protect you, carry you bridal-style, and then read you bedtime vampire lore… all without pants.”

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3. The Timing: Psychological Warfare

Tong just wanted to shower. That’s it. A little rinse, a little reflect.
And Mark?
Mark heard the water turn on and said: “Time for my villain origin story.”

He didn’t just change—he positioned. He angled his stance like a Renaissance statue updated for Pride Month. He walked forward with the menace of someone who knows he’s not knocking—he’s breaking in.

Tong saw him and instantly entered a Windows XP error screen. His soul fled. His knees buckled. His gay panic was so loud you could hear it in stereo.

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4. The Delivery: Emotional Striptease

Mark doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His boxer briefs do the talking.

They say:
• “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
• “Your heart rate? Irrelevant.”
• “This is the outfit I chose for synchronized bathing negotiations.”

When he suggests they shower at the same time, it’s not logistics. It’s flirtation geometry.
And when Tong says no? That’s not rejection. That’s delay tactics.

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5. The Symbolism: A Weapon of Mass Distraction

These briefs are not underwear. They are a narrative device.
They are character development stitched in cotton.
They are the physical manifestation of “I dare you to look away.”

In this moment, Mark is not just a man. He is a concept.
A theme.
A white-hot metaphor with thighs.

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Conclusion:

Mark’s boxer briefs are the plot.
They’re the antagonist, the romantic lead, the dramatic lighting cue, and the wardrobe department’s Oscar submission all in one.

Forget golden blood. This is the real supernatural force.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be recovering in a dark room lined with blackout curtains and emotionally supportive plants. Possibly rewatching that scene in 0.25x speed.

Thank you. And may your thirst always be this narratively justified.

Clutch your pearls and prepare your obituary, besties, because Episode 7 of My Golden Blood didn't just cross the line—it saw the line, laughed at it, then backflipped over it while winking. Here's your autopsy report of the moments that collectively murdered our sanity and sent our neighbors texting: "Are you okay in there?!"

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1. "You're not my bodyguard anymore."
Camp level: Titanic's door scene if Jack was an emotionally constipated vampire and Rose had abs you could grate cheese on.

Why it ENDED us: Tong delivered this line with such dramatic intensity you'd think he was breaking up with Mark AND firing him from a job that pays exclusively in lingering gazes. The background music swelled so hard it practically needed a cigarette afterward.

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2. The Rose Resurrection Ritual
Camp level: Necromancy, but make it floristry by way of Disney on a tax write-off budget.

Why we're still hyperventilating: Not since Beauty and the Beast has a rose been this plot-crucial. Mark really said "CPR for plants? I gotchu" and proceeded to turn horticulture into foreplay. Mother Nature watched this and immediately filed a restraining order.

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3. The Boxer Brief Ambush
Camp level: Olympic Gold in the "I Heard Bath Time and Chose Violence" category.

Why we needed medical attention: Mark stripped faster than my dignity disappears at an all-you-can-eat buffet. He really stood there in designer underwear with the confidence of a man who knows his abs have their own fan club and retirement plan. Tong's brain cells left the chat so quickly they created a sonic boom.

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4. "I want to eat... you."
Camp level: Dracula meets Gordon Ramsay's Hell's Kitchen with a sprinkle of "Sir, this is a Wendy's."

Why we ascended to another plane: Mark delivered this line with all the subtlety of a glitter cannon at a funeral. The sound editors had the AUDACITY to add that bass drop like we weren't already in cardiac arrest. Somewhere, a literature professor felt a disturbance in the force and couldn't explain why.

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5. Tong's Fruit-Slicing Seduction
Camp level: Biblical temptation if Adam had knife skills and Eve had commitment issues.

Why it's criminally unhinged: Tong sliced that apple with the precision of a surgeon and the sexual tension of a romance novel cover model. The way he said "only for you" made it clear he wasn't talking about the fruit. That apple had more chemistry with Mark than most couples have after 40 years of marriage.

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6. The Bunkbed Merger
Camp level: IKEA furniture assembly but it's actually a metaphor for dismantling heteronormativity.

Why we're filing a class-action lawsuit for emotional damages: Mark looked at those twin beds with such offense you'd think they personally insulted his ancestors. Then proceeded to rearrange furniture with the determination of someone whose vision board is exclusively screenshots from AO3. The beds surrendered immediately.

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7. Final Scene: Tong Tops, Then Mark Tops the Scene
Camp level: The climactic scene of a Victorian gothic romance novel that somehow got possessed by the spirit of a Calvin Klein commercial.

Why we've been rendered speechless (yet won't shut up about it): Tong finally channeled his inner dom energy only for Mark to say "that's cute" with his TEETH. That poor tank top didn't even get a chance to write its will. It perished so we could thrive. The sparkle filter activated with such intensity it probably caused power outages in three neighboring countries.

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Caption This Episode:
"Episode 7: Where consent is sexy, vampires are thirsty, furniture rearrangement is foreplay, and somewhere a tank top manufacturer just experienced an inexplicable surge in sales that economists will study for decades."

We aren't just not okay—we've established permanent residency in Cannot Deal Land with a vacation home in I Will Never Recover Villa. Send help. Or don't. We're happy here.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Let’s get one thing straight (pun aggressively not intended):
BL is not smut.
Well… not unless it wants to be, but that’s beside the point.

I’m here to declare, in full glittery, pearl-clutching glory, that what you’re witnessing in My Stubborn is not some cheap little fantasy cooked up for after-dark thrills. No, darling—this is queer storytelling. This is romantic chaos artfully dressed in button-down shirts. This is emotional warfare conducted with tight camera angles and aggressively intimate eye contact.

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Smut? No baby—this is a spiritual experience.

That garden scene? Oh, you mean the baptismal waters of Jun’s gay awakening? The one that ripped open the sky, rewired our protagonist’s entire concept of self, and probably gave those koi fish the first interesting afternoon they’ve ever had? That wasn’t “smut.” That was a Shakespearean shift in identity—just with more spit and fewer soliloquies.

And the stairwell kiss? Excuse me.
“Smut” doesn’t come with inner turmoil, two years of unresolved tension, and a camera zoom that felt more like a spiritual possession. That kiss wasn’t for arousal—it was for truth. It was Sorn saying, “I see you, and I hate how much I still want you.” It was Jun saying, “I see you, and I’m furious you left me in the emotional blender for TWO YEARS.”
That, my loves, is not porn.
That is plot. That is pain. That is theater.

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“But it’s so sexual!” Yes. And?

You know what’s actually offensive?
Watching a straight couple on TV kiss with all the passion of two cardboard boxes trying to check off a checklist—and no one bats an eye. But two men? One forehead touch and suddenly the pearl clutchers are tweeting “SMUT!” from their fainting couches.
Honey, if your only frame of reference for gay intimacy is filtered through discomfort, that’s a you problem. Not the show’s.

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BL is a mirror. And some people don’t like their reflection.

BL isn’t here to be palatable. It’s here to shake up the fantasy with uncomfortable truths, messy feelings, and yes, occasionally, face doodles that lead to public restroom confessions.
Call it exaggerated. Call it dramatic. But don’t you dare call it smut just because it makes you squirm in ways you don’t want to unpack.

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Final thoughts from your emotionally unwell but well-dressed narrator:

I came to My Stubborn for the unhinged drama, but I stayed for the truth bombs wrapped in flirtation and trauma. If you see nothing but “smut,” you’re missing the layers. The longing. The internalized fear. The chaotic love that deserves to be told.

So let me say this with the poise of a BL side character who always knows too much:

This isn’t smut. It’s storytelling—with more glitter, better lighting, and much gayer stakes.
And if that’s too much for you?

There’s always the censored version on YouTube.
Enjoy the emotional blandness. We’ll be over here—living.

I’m so sorry you’re dealing with that. Calling gay stories “smut” says way more about them than it ever will about you. Your identity, your stories, your love—they’re not dirty, they’re real. If someone can’t handle that, they can stick to their censored playlists and let the rest of us live in truth and sparkle. Keep shining, love. You don’t owe anyone an explanation—especially not the ones who can’t see past their own prejudice.

Little Pillow Princess and I were just talking about French cuisines earlier—and now these fandom names are giving me full cheese pull energy, like that dramatic stretch in opinion soup. Emotional? Yes. Melty? Absolutely. Deliciously uncalled for? Every time.

Velvet Line of Lust
Salivation Nation
The Kiss That Leaked
…

“Dribble of Fate” - justice of the drip!

The Spitcord of Destiny

Omg yes!! The Supernatural flashbacks were instant—Mark and Jensen?? That name combo is giving crossroads demon meets emotionally stunted older brother realness. All we need now is a black Chevy Impala and a classic rock montage while Mark fights the urge to kiss Tong (or drink him, or both). Honestly, no notes. Just vibes.