#Through the Lens Revelations

[opelman]

USAF F-35A Lightning II by David G. Schultz Via Flickr: Major Kristin "Beo" Wolfe

[ravencromwell]

@blindbibliophile

pushing daisies really was a modern retelling of orpheus and eurydice in which they knew they wouldnt make it out of the underworld so instead they simply built a life together on the stairs

[acciofictionalmen]

fallout in the snowfall ❆ part 1

james potter x female!reader

summary: when james kisses you on an adrenaline high, your friendship is in shambles as the true meaning of "just friends" becomes irreparably warped. you both desperately try to restore the platonic bond that you once shared, but at what cost...

warnings: strong language, sexual references

word count: 2.9k

series masterlist

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Music drowned out your senses, the beat thrumming through your body as intensely as the pounding of your heart. Hoarse from screaming, your throat tickled as you laughed with your friends, revelling in Gryffindor's success from the day's Quidditch match against Slytherin.

Lights flashed across the Gryffindor Common Room as the Fat Lady's portrait swung open, people whooping as James was carried inside, basking in the attention like a cat- like a lion in the sunlight. Everyone began chanting his name, you joining in with a laugh as he was hauled even higher on Sirius' shoulders, people reaching over to smack him on the back as he swayed precariously. His tousled hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flaming red from the thrill, glasses cracked in one lens and his eyes... they burnt with the aftermath of success, glowing with that glimmer only a decisive victory could bring. His eyes scanned the room as he craned his neck, looking, searching; until his gaze landed on yours.

Something seemed to crackle in the air between you, the intensity of his fiery eyes pulling your body forwards, as though you needed to be near him. The chatter of your friends slowly faded into the background as you paused, biting your lip uncertainly.

James, on the other hand, wasn't one to hesitate. Not when he had been younger - when if he had wanted something he took it without a second thought - and certainly not now. James had enjoyed the perks of a privileged upbringing, and there were certain aspects he wasn't ready to relinquish yet.

Tapping Sirius firmly on the shoulder, his best friend loosened his hold and James jumped down. His eyes never left yours. He strode forwards, pushing past people as they cheered and tried to clap him on the back, his expression glazed with determination. No-one was going to get in the way of what he wanted.

Everything seemed to slow as James reached you. The music died in your ears, the loud cheering gradually fading. Your mind was a whirlpool of emotions, unsure where this was going, but also ready. James' chest heaved with adrenaline as he neared, closing the already small distance between you. His eyes flashed dangerously as his tongue darted out to wet his pink lips. You looked up at him, doe eyes wide, yet simmering with longing that had been repressed for far too long.

James considered your uncertain expression as his hand dragged up and down your shoulder in what was supposed to be a reassuring manner. As your best friend, James had always been touchy, but this was different.

It drove you crazy.

"A few kisses won't ruin our friendship, love."

Looking up at him through your lashes, you smiled slyly; his need for you in that moment so palpable that your skin flushed beneath his gaze.

The look he was giving you. Of exasperation, of longing, of want. You knew your face mirrored his.

James grunted with the force of his lips colliding with yours. His hands flew to your waist as you met in a flurry of passion and lust and want as one of his hands snaked up your side and tugged at your hair, eliciting a gasp- he stole it away with another kiss, then another, and another. The music flooding your ears once more combined with the vibrant lights hot on your skin and James' lips on yours surged the intensity of the moment to new heights. Heights that you teetered precariously on, feeling free and unreachable but capable of crashing at any moment.

He broke away for a split second as you both gasped for air, eyes frantically searching the others, as though you needed confirmation that this was happening, before pulling you back into him as though your lips on his could offer more relief than oxygen ever could. You were his lifeline and right now, James felt more alive than he could ever recall.

The night blended together in a haze of drinks, lights, laughter and more stolen kisses, the memory simultaneously so clear yet vague that you could only be left to ponder (and regret) everything that had occurred the following morning, as you trailed down to the common room from the girl's dormitories, massaging your forehead in a futile attempt to relieve your hangover. You hadn't expected to find James, who apparently hadn't even managed to make it to bed, asleep on the crimson sofa.

The creaking of the stairs as you crept forwards caused him to stir in his sleep, sitting up groggily once he noticed you.

He blinked a few times, forcing the sleep away, and stood up suddenly.

Groaning, he sat back down.

"Hungover hit yet?" You smirked, sitting down next to him.

James' black hair was the messiest you'd seen in a while and his glasses still flaunted a thin crack.

Leaning over him you raised your wand, muttering 'Oculus Reparo' as the crack sealed itself.

His eyes stayed shamelessly on your lips the entire time. You hesitated, not instantly moving away.

It was the signal James had been waiting for. Before you could speak his hands snaked around your waist.

His fingers lifted your chin, his eyes half-lidded as he murmured, "One more won’t hurt." His lips brushed against your lips as he murmured against you, “Right?”

You nodded, breathless as he swept hair away from your face.             

So, he had remembered last night.

He leaned in, grazing his lips against yours again as though he was testing his own self-restraint, playing a dangerous game as he tested both of your boundaries. They didn't hold.

Within moments, James had lifted you onto his lap, kissing you with as much urgency as he had only a few hours ago. You returned the action, your hands tangling into his hair, determined to make the most of this kiss if it would be your last. James' hands brushed up and down your sides, sending sparks surging through your body.

You pulled away, eyes still closed as his forehead pressed against yours, "What is this, James, what was last night?" You breathed, scared to shatter the moment you hadn’t realised you’d wanted so desperately.

He groaned at the absence of your lips as his hands circled your lower back, "Friends kiss, love."

His eyes glinted with that familiar confidence beneath his glasses and you were unable to look away, that brief glimmer only enticing you more. His voice was rough as he spoke slowly, "Would you like me to stop, my best friend? My bestest girl?"

Your hands tightened in his hair at the pet name. His words should have thrown you off. They should have. But you had unknowingly craved this for so long, and this... maybe it worked. You could satisfy the part of you that craved him without the threat of losing your friendship.

"Don't stop."

The words triggered something in him, and James leant in.

──── ୨୧ ────

The kisses didn't stop.

Whenever you sat down with him at breakfast James greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, his hand lingering on your thigh throughout the meal.

He'd steal kisses from you after class, people conveniently crowded outside as he’d pull away, a smirk gracing those intoxicating lips.

Every time he kissed you sent shivers through your body- the feeling addictive. But soon, you began waiting for something. Waiting for the moment he'd pull away, his eyes searching yours, and ask for something more.

It hadn't taken long for the others to notice, but any ideas of the two of you together were quickly quenched by James' assertions that the two of you were the closest of friends- and nothing more.

He'd kiss you after quidditch practice when Gideon Prewett was getting on his nerves. Because he needed it, he always claimed. Because a kiss from his best friend was what he needed after he'd worked so hard and had to deal with irritating team mates. You were more than happy to oblige.

He'd kiss you when you'd hang out with the group, pulling you onto his lap when you all sat together by the black lake, laughing at the group’s jokes. This carried on for so long that it became integrated into your normal routine, the others long beyond questioning anymore.

But after the initial two weeks, it didn't feel right. It felt stagnant, and you began wondering if you’d be forever trapped between friendship and something more. By the third week, you felt empty.

You recounted this to Mary MacDonald, one of your closest friends. She listened patiently as you spilled every detail on the floor of the girl's dormitory, your legs crossed as the words tumbled out of your mouth.

She placed a hand on your wrist, causing your rambling to skid to a halt.

"How do you actually feel about all this, (Y/n)?" She questioned, waving her freshly painted pink nails through the air, trying to dry them before she did yours.

"I-" you frowned, absentmindedly brushing your fingertips over your lips. The ghost of James' lips temporarily invaded your thoughts, "I love it when he kisses me."

Mary's eyes glimmered with something you couldn't recognise, but she kept quiet, prompting you to continue.

"But it's not enough. It's not enough," the words began to pour out, and you couldn't stop them, "I almost feel greedy- I want more. When he kissed me for the first time something changed and I- I don’t know. I guess I thought things would be different. That they would’ve developed by now.”

Mary sat patiently, admiring her freshly painted nails as she gave you space to sort through your thoughts.

“I love his kisses, but all they do is remind me that they're not enough." You paused, Mary's brows furrowed as she watched you, "I want more." You whispered, your voice quiet, barely audible. The words merged with the comfortable silence between the two of you as she mulled over your confession.

Mary wasn't one to offer a meaningless response, and that was something you adored her for- she genuinely cared. Still pondering, she gently placed your left hand on her knee as she began to paint your nails in the pretty wine-red colour you'd selected earlier.

It was once she reached your ring finger that she finally spoke, "You deserve more, (Y/n), and I'll be damned if that makes you greedy."

She paused again, eyes crinkling as she focused on wiping some stray polish from your finger.

"It’s human to crave a proper relationship- not whatever James is doing. I don't think he's quite realised it, but he's taking advantage of you, (Y/n). He's giving you the bare minimum."

Her blunt words snapped your eyes up from your nails, your left hand done as you replaced it with your right.

"I don't want to stop being friends with him." You said, hesitantly.

"And you won't," Mary's eyes lit up, "All I'm saying is if that jerk wants to kiss you, he has to work for it." She insulted James with that level of affection shared by old friends, but there was an edge to her voice.

You laughed, but her words resonated within you, particularly with your level of self-respect. Entirely consumed by this change in dynamic with James, you’d unintentionally disregarded your dignity in the process. Allowed him to assume you'd always be there, lips puckered and eyes closed.

You shivered at the thought. The revelation sent a wave of bitterness through your body. You weren't angry at James, no, more so at yourself for putting up with this for so long.

Mary smirked, recognising the resolution in your eyes as she finally set down the nail varnish, screwing the lid on, "It’s about time James Potter had to actually work for something."

You held back a snort, eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Thank you, Mare." You gestured to your nails, but she caught the double meaning.

"Anything for my best friend." She stood quickly, cursing as she almost smudged one of her nails, "Dinner?"

Within minutes you’d entered the hall, arms linked with Mary’s as you marvelled at the newly put up Christmas decorations. Just over a month away from Christmas, they glowed brightly; snowflakes swirled down from the enchanted ceiling, fading into nothing before they could touch the people sat beneath. Wreaths hung above every fireplace, which crackled comfortingly... and the tree. At the opposite end of the hall stood the massive fir tree, one you could've sworn got bigger each year. Baubles shimmered against the glow of the candles, the tinsel and angel hair that had been carefully draped over the branches made it look as though the tree had been dunked in pure starlight. Magic never ceased to amaze you; there really was a charm for everything.

As you scoured the Gryffindor table in search of your friends, Lily happened to look up at the same time and waved you over. Your breath hitched, noticing there was a seat either next to her or next to James. Mary gave you a pointed look as she slid down into the seat next to the latter, leaving you to join Lily- opposite him instead. James immediately looked up as Mary sat down, his brow crinkling slightly as he turned to you. It was no secret he’d saved that seat for you, and an uncomfortable moment passed before the others resumed their conversation.

Having just returned from practice, James was dressed in mud-splattered quidditch gear, the word gryffindor stretched across his broad chest. His hair was that familiar mess, and you mused whether you could run your fingers through it without them getting stuck. He downed his full glass of pumpkin juice in one, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your fingers drummed steadily on your thigh as you slipped in and out of Sirius’ story, laughing occasionally, but unable to dedicate your focus when James was sat directly opposite.

Only your eyes were on Sirius as he wildly gestured with his hands, recounting the tale; your mind wasn’t on his words. James’ leg brushed yours under the table, a bid for your attention. You didn’t react, dragging your attention back to Sirius instead and joining in to laugh at something else he’d said. What exact you were laughing about, you weren’t sure.

It felt wrong, almost unnatural, not to be touching James in some way. In just three weeks your body had gotten so accustomed to his lingering touches, his sly brushes against your thighs, that you felt unsettled by the lack of them. You noticed James flexing his large hands, as though he too didn’t know what to do with them if they weren’t on you.

You exhaled with relief when the food came, snapping you out of your thoughts yet again- a welcome distraction. As you began to fill your plate with steaming piles of food, your eyes fell on Mary’s. She had been engaging with the rest of the group’s antics, but the knowing look in her eyes told you she’d been observing the both of you the whole time.

She gave you a smirk, flexing her right hand dramatically, just as James had done. You snorted, your hand instantly flying up to your mouth to stifle your laughter. The tension momentarily evaporated as you realised that nothing escaped your best friend’s notice. The others paused, looking confused, but Mary quickly waved them off after muttering something about an inside joke. You only giggled in response.

After a collection of mouth-watering meals you stood, exhausted and ready to sleep. Mary and Lily also got up, both ready to leave. You didn't kiss James on the cheek as you usually did, instead linking arms with your friends as you left the sparkling hall.

You weren't ignoring James. No- from now on you’d simply treat him as a friend, because in the past few weeks the meaning of the word had gotten so twisted between the two of you. You were determined to restore it, unwilling to settle for kisses that amounted to nothing.

You had had an hour to mull over Mary's words. James' behaviour was intentional- it wasn't as though he hadn't had every opportunity to turn your situation into something more. It was James who had constantly enforced the 'friend' idea the hmost, leading you to assume he wasn't interested in you the way you were him. And that was fine- but you'd show him what a true friend was. Challenge his claim that friendship involved his lips on yours.

James silently stared after you, Sirius snorting, "How've you fucked that one up, man?"

"There's nothing to fuck up." James rolled his shoulders nonchalantly, ignoring how they suddenly felt heavy.

"Sure." Sirius' eyes flashed knowingly, "And Pete didn't fuck up his charms test."

Peter had gotten a T (Troll) on his most recent charms test.

Remus rolled his eyes, shooting Peter an apologetic look as he stood from the table, "Well, I'll leave you all to it."

And so he did, leaving James entangled in thoughts almost as messy as his hair and filled with a desperation to know why you’d seemed so distant. He chalked it down to your having a bad day, certain that tomorrow you wouldn't be able to stay away from him again.

Oh, how wrong he was.

A/N

EEK!!!! i can't believe im about to press post.. i've been working on this series idea for a long while... truthfully most of my ideas get scrapped after a few weeks but this one really really stuck with me so i'm glad I didn't press delete on the word doc... i'm thinking this'll be about six-ish parts, so bear with me :,) this series will be christmas themed, so expect loads of snow and presents to come!

& if you'd like to be added to the taglist do lmk! i'd be honoured to add you ♡

and please feel free to share your thoughts, opinions, reactions, what you think will happen next... i love reading them allll

series masterlist here ❆

[ladyiristheenchantress]

Warding your eyes

This post is for my folks who currently use glasses, contacts, or other visual aid's!

What is Warding with your eyes?

This is a concept similar to taking on a witches name, however it has to do with your visual aids! They say that eye's are the windows to the soul, but what about people or entities or energies that are looking to disrupt our peace? Well this is a great ward to follow as a personal ward

I recently had this revelation when my glasses shattered in the sea after I slipped under the riptide and as I was grabbing my glasses under the water, a shell came and smashed them (I am ok, I am trained to handle that and am a strong swimmer). I ended up going to one of those minute labs to get new frames and lenses, but I realized something.

If eyes are a part of you that exposes a lot about your being, whether you believe in iridology, window theory, etc then why wouldn't you ward a possible weakness? Witches names are a name a witch takes on to act like a deflector, if someone hexes them using the wrong name then it doesn't touch down, so the idea of this spell is If someone attempts to harm you spiritually, you are now wearing 'different eye's' and can reflect the spell. All it takes is a bit of enchantment. We will be banking on the fact that glasses somewhat obstruct the eye (when you look at someone's eyes through glasses they can appear different, bigger, or smaller) but you can see them clearly.

The Spell

This spell is best done on a new moon, high tide, or on a Wednesday! all of these have correspondences of protection, deflection, etc. ingredients: - Glasses/eye aid - Cleaning solution - Cleaning cloth (If being done with contacts or other eye aids, adapt this to be the aids, whatever you use to clean them with, and IF NEEDED a drying apparatus) The Steps: 1. Set up your space how you choose to do so, set your aid down in front of you. Meditate over or reflect on what the glasses mean to you 2. Envision or create a chant that reflects the eye-dea (haha) of people/spirits/energies with bad intentions not being able to effect you, because they cant see the right person to harm because of the visual aid 3. Take your finger and stamp a sigil of warding either on the lens, contact case, or safe spot on the aid 4. Clean it off to 'rub it into' the device 5. Finish the spell how you choose to finish, and transition out of the ritual space I hope you all enjoyed! More content coming soon!

Tip Jar

[yaksha-lover]

cw: vil being depraved, suggestive/mildly explicit descriptions 🧎‍♂️

Vil has been surrounded by beautiful people his entire life: actors, models, artists. He’s let his gaze rake over them, felt his cheeks heat and a flush of desire take hold of his body. But even then, it was never about them. It was about him, about his own desires.

When he looks at you, Vil knows it isn’t about him. This thing he feels for you, it’s inevitable and external. You’re ordinary, but there’s something about you that he can’t quite place. Something that draws his eyes back to your form, average in every way, but riveting through the lens of his own gaze.

It’s perplexing and thrilling all at once; you’re so different, so real compared to the people he’s grown up around. You never hide any part of yourself, even the ones others find distasteful, refusing the mask most people cling to with their lives.

There’s some part of him, a disgusting, depraved part, which enjoys seeing the ugliness, the worst parts of you on display. He should turn away like the others, to take his eyes from you, instead of revelling in it like he does.

In both himself and others, Vil can’t help but hate anything but perfection; he finds it vile, revolting to notice the cracks and the faults in the mirage. But you’ve never been an illusory trick; there’s no shattering of a facade that’s never existed, no mask to be pulled off, no portrait that’s better than reality ever could be.

You’re so far from what he’d have described as ‘his type’ in the celebrity interviews he’s asked to do, laughing with the host and listing the attractive qualities of beauty, grace, discipline, and charm.

You’re none of those; neither conventionally beautiful nor charismatic. You don’t even try to better yourself, to become the best version of you. Maybe because you already are, and the world simply isn’t ready for it.

Because how could you, in all your messiness and vulnerability, be anything less than perfect.

Vil can’t decide if he should be nauseous at his strange tastes, or if he should feel utterly enlightened; is he the only one to appreciate true beauty, or the disgusting pervert getting off on your depravity?

As he looks down at you, flushed and panting beneath him, he thinks that he should feel appalled. Your look utterly unkempt: your hair tousled and thrown around wildly, your body twitching and positioned awkwardly, your face relaxed in a rather unflattering expression.

Instead of revulsion, a pang of desire stirs in his gut.

[theoppositeofprofound]

You’ve got to read through to Nona, Nona is where the love starts to congeal into its final form (because the POV character is just a young woman who loves everyone so much and also the titanic soul of a dead [SPOILERS] shoved into an anemic nineteen year old.)

This. This feels like a central theme of TLT that goes underrated (and one of the reasons that Alecto probably isn’t going to be about defeating God). You cannot prioritize both revenge and healing. When it comes time to choose you need to pick anabolism. You have to choose to live.

John wasn’t a Bad Guy all along, he was a furious, brilliant man who saw a horrible injustice wrought and did his best to stop it. Under other circumstances, he’s the kind of guy who’d work himself to the bone to cure cancer or stop global warming. Unfortunately he also had a vengeful streak a mile wide and when it came down to it he quite literally chose Eat the Rich over Save the Poor. His villainous meltdown happened ten thousand years ago and now he’s just having a sad little self destructive spiral, slowly collapsing like an old star. He’s the villain but not the main obstacle.

The main obstacle is that the Earth is trapped in a fully articulated body, the solar system is undead, the path to the afterlife is clogged. It’s an environmentalist plot, the solution is going to be fixing the environment! Prioritizing that, instead of punishing the pathetic whinging instigator of the apocalypse is, I suspect, going to be one of the main goals and conflicts of AtN. Because as easy as it is to punch God, that’ll only solve one of your problems (the problem is that God is not currently being punched).

[austinbutlerslovers]

New Fetish

Label Mature 18+

Summary Joining Austin at his latest premiere, you find yourself awestruck by him—so much so that it’s almost impossible to voice your thoughts. But Austin has a way of luring the words from you, reveling in the way you admire him and ends up wanting to hear your praises all night long.

❤️‍🔥 Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Austin in heeled boots fetish• praise kink• edging• gratification from fetish •the outfit stays on• lap sitting •P in V• nipple play • multiple orgasms •creampie  🔗Master List

📖 Proodreader @purejasmine 💭 Inspiration @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler 💕

New Fetish

The premiere is a dazzling event, the kind of high-glamour spectacle that creates an intoxicating energy. Austin steps onto the red carpet, his commanding presence immediately drawing every lens and gaze in the vicinity.

He looks breathtaking: the ribbed designer undershirt clinging perfectly to his toned frame, slacks tailored to perfection, and that long coat flowing elegantly to the ground. He looks almost otherworldly, like he was born to rule the night.

You stand on the sidelines, barely able to keep your composure. His piercing blue eyes scan the crowd, sharp and striking, locking onto cameras with a practiced intensity that sends a flutter through your chest.

The styled waves of his hair add a polished edge to his look, effortlessly complementing the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. His subtle but deliberate movements—adjusting the coat, angling his body for the perfect shot—seem calculated to destroy anyone watching.

As he turns, the movement causes his coat to shift, exposing more of his toned chest in the ribbed undershirt. The fabric clings to the curves of his muscles, the faint silver chain resting just above his neckline, glinting faintly in the lights.

You try to focus on something else—anything else—but your gaze is drawn back like a magnet. Austin strikes another pose, his coat pulling open as he turns again, the slight shift revealing another tantalizing glimpse of his chest and collarbone. You bite your lip, a dangerous need beginning in your core. He looks like sin incarnate, and worse.. he knows it.

Later that evening, at the lavish hotel where the afterparty winds down, the atmosphere radiates exclusivity. The bar, with its sleek black marble countertops and gold accents, overlooks the dazzling London skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. The intimate gathering is an exclusive event reserved for the cast, crew, and select special guests.

Austin stands at the bar, deep in conversation with Timothée Chalamet, their shared presence drawing every stray glance in the room. Without his coat, Austin looks even better—his Gucci ribbed designer undershirt clinging to his chest, stretched tightly around his toned shoulders.

Every subtle shift of his muscles as he gestures or lifts his glass to his lips is maddening, and you can’t help but notice how his high-waisted slacks hug his figure, accentuating his waist in a way that could only be described as slutty.

You try to focus on the expansive view, or the low scattered conversations around you, but your eyes betray you every single time, and as if on cue Austin glances over at you mid-conversation, his sharp gaze catching you in the act.

Your cheeks burn as you try to look away, but it’s too late. His lips curve into a faint smile, and he says something to Timothée before slinging his coat over his shoulder and heading your way.

Every step he takes is commanding, his presence owning the room effortlessly. He joins you as you pretend to admire the sweeping view of London through the massive windows. 

You can feel his attention entirely on you, his closeness making it impossible to focus as you catch the faintest hint of his cologne—a rich, intoxicating blend that makes your pulse race. 

He tilts his head slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto yours as you turn to him, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You’ve been quiet all night,” he reveals, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a teasing edge. His smirk lingers, brimming with playful amusement, but there’s a softness in his eyes that only you would notice. He knows exactly what he’s doing—and worse, he knows how much he affects you.

Your throat tightens, as you try to find your voice. “I’ve just been… taking it all in,” you manage, though it sounds unconvincing even to you.

He moves closer, his eyes studying your face savoring every expression. “Taking it all in?” he repeats, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips. “Is that what you call staring at me?”

Your face burns, the blush rising fast. “I-I wasn’t staring,” you stammer.

He lets out a low hum, his voice dropping to a velvety tone. “You’re not very good at hiding it.” He reveals coming in closer until you have to tilt your head up to meet his piercing gaze.

“I felt your eyes on me all night,” he confirms,his hand brushing lightly against your cheek.

You draw in a shaky breath, your heart pounding as you admire him. “You just… you just look so incredible tonight, Austin,” you confess, the words tumbling out barely above a whisper, but the sincerity is unmistakable.

His hand moves to your waist, pulling you possessively closer. “I love it when you talk like that,” he praises, his voice soft and tinged with affection as his piercing gaze holds yours. “Like I’m the only thing on your mind.”

“Because you are,” you say without thinking, the honesty in your voice makes his head tilt slightly, a playful grin tugging at his lips as his hand trails up your side.

“That’s exactly what I like to hear,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “When you say things like that…” His thumb grazes your lower lip, the touch making your pulse race “It makes me want to ruin you, in the worst way.”

He tilts your chin with his fingers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. His mouth warm and firm, the perfect blend of gentleness and command, moving against your lips with a teasing slowness that leaves you breathless. When he leans back, there’s a playful pull, his touch still lingering against your jawline.

“I want to hear every dirty thought in that pretty little head,” he whispers, his voice low and intoxicating, his words brushing against your lips like a promise.

“And I want to hear them now—in our hotel suite,” he confirms, his tone carrying a quiet authority that leaves no room for hesitation, his presence is overwhelming and impossible to resist.

You draw in a shaky breath, nodding, unable to form words as your heart pounds even harder from his closeness and the weight of his words.

His grin widens as he gestures toward the exit with a tilt of his chin. With his jacket effortlessly slung over his shoulder and his hand firmly on your waist, he guides you to the doors with a steady, possessive ease.

The elevator ride is silent at first, the ascent amplifying the charged tension between you. He leans back casually against the wall, his piercing gaze fixed on you, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. The cool blue lights of the elevator bathes you both, making the sharp lines of his face appear even more striking.

You stand closer, and he pulls you into him, his hand sliding to the curve of your back as his mouth crashes against yours. His kiss is consuming, firm yet teasing, leaving you breathless as his thumb gently strokes your waist.

You cling to him on your tip-toes, your hands clutching his shoulders as you kiss him back, your pulse racing. He’s impossibly beautiful like this, his features softened just enough by the intimacy, yet his control never falters. The way he holds you, commanding yet tender, makes your heart pound as the elevator opens on your floor.

He breaks the kiss, his gaze locking onto yours as he takes your hand. Without a word, he leads you out of the elevator, his movements confident his grip firm as he guides you down the hall toward your shared room.

As the door to your hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the room’s opulence fades into the background.

The soft lighting illuminates the sleek furnishings, but your focus is entirely on Austin.

He tosses his coat effortlessly over a nearby chair, his eyes softening as he reaches for your hand.

His fingers lace with yours, his touch warm, as he leads you gently across the room.

When he reaches the plush armchair positioned perfectly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, he pulls you closer resting his hands lightly on your waist.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver through you.

“I want to see to see all of you ” he says, his voice heavy with intent as his fingers trail down your back, finding the zipper of your dress.

Slowly, he begins to slide it down, his movements unhurried. The dress piles at your feet as you step out of it, now only in a delicate lingerie set and heels.

He leans back slightly, his eyes sweeping over you, his lips parting just enough to betray his awe as his gaze travels slowly, lingering on the delicate lace framing your breasts. Then his eyes lower to the curve of your hips accentuated by the soft lines of your panties tracing your skin.

“Take them off,” he orders, his voice low and steady as you follow his command.

Your hands move to the waistband of your panties, sliding them down slowly as his eyes track your every movement. The lace slips to the floor, leaving your lower half completely exposed under his watchful eyes. The way he bites his lip as he takes you in sends a thrill through you, his gaze heavy with unspoken desire.

He leans forward, his hands brushing over your the curve breasts before moving to the clasp of your bra. His touch is careful and unhurried as he unclasps it with practiced ease. He slips the straps down your shoulders his lips curling into a faint smirk as the lace drops, leaving you naked in only your heels.

The London skyline glitters behind him, a stunning backdrop to his sharp designer outfit and piercing blue eyes.

He lowers himself casually, sitting back on the plush arm chair. His long legs spread slightly as he rests one ankle over the opposite knee, exuding effortless dominance.

Your gaze drifts down, catching on his boots, the sleek, polished leather with a heeled edge adding to his commanding presence.

The subtle lift of his ankle, shows the heel with an elegance that is both striking and undeniably masculine, a perfect blend of poise and power that captivates you completely.

He notices your fascination, his sharp eyes catching the way your focus lingers. A knowing grin spreads across his lips “Do you like them?” he asks, his smooth tone making your pulse quicken as you nod.

“Come here,” he says softly, his voice low but laced with authority.

You immediately step closer, your heart pounding in your chest. His gaze never leaves yours, as he leans forward slightly.

He reaches for your hand, guiding you down until you straddle his heeled boot, the leather pressing against you in the most maddening way.

“Show me how much you like them” he says, his voice heavy with intent.

Your cheeks burn from his request, but the desire in his eyes makes you move without hesitation, slowly rocking against the ankle of his boot, the friction of the leather sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

“Good girl,” he encourages , watching you intently. You place your hands on his thighs and his hands move to the armrests, making no attempt to touch you.

His eyes instead flick to where your body moves against his heeled boot, his lips curling into a faint smile as he leans back slightly, watching you glide against the smooth leather with unrelenting focus. “That’s it —work for it,” he urges, his voice teasing and commanding all at once.

A soft moan escapes your lips as your movements become more desperate feeling the pressure builds against your clit.

His eyes watch every shift of your body as you revel in the maddening friction the thrill sending a rush of heat through your core.

The way he sits, calm and in control, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk, only heightens your shameless pleasure, the weight of his attention making you burn with desire and exhilaration.

Every sound you make, every subtle movement, is a silent exchange—he enjoys this—enjoys seeing you like this, so undone so willing, surrendering completely for him.

“Come for me” he requests, his voice deceptively soft, laced with wicked intent. His gaze is locked onto yours, his hands remaining on the armrests, giving you no relief.

You whimper, your hips grinding harder against the smooth leather of his boot, desperate for release.

He shifts his ankle, the movement deliberate, the slick leather catching your clit perfectly. A jolt of pleasure surges through you, pushing you over the brink, and you gasp, trembling under the pressure.

The tension inside you snaps then, a wave of pleasure crashing over you as you cry out, your body riding uncontrollably against the now slicked leather of his boot. His gaze remains fixed on you, possessive and filled with pride, as if every moment of your surrender is exactly what he wants.

You slump forward, breathless and trembling, and he catches your chin, lifting your face to meet his gaze.

The atmosphere fills with raw tension as he leans back in his chair, his eyes locked on you, still straddling his heeled boot.

He shifts slightly, one hand moving to the zipper of his slacks. The sound cuts through the quiet room, impossibly loud in the tension-filled air. His piercing gaze never wavers as he frees his cock, thick and hard standing proudly in his lap.

A soft gasp escapes your lips at the sheer size of him.

“Look at it,” he commands, his voice low and authoritative, each word heavy with intent. “I want to hear every filthy thought in that beautiful head of yours.”

His cock is stunningly perfect, thick and hard, the head flushed a deep, tantalizing shade of pink. The veins trace along his shaft, emphasizing the raw, masculine beauty of a pretty cock, each detail almost too much to take in, the sheer size of it making your pulse quicken as your thighs clench instinctively.

“You’re… you’re perfect,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of nervousness and desire. “So big, so—”

“Don’t stop,” he interrupts, uncrossing his legs making you rest on your knees as his fingers weave through your hair. His grip is steady and commanding as he guides your face to his cock.

You’re practically panting, your words tumbling out between shallow breaths. “You’re so gorgeous. So fucking beautiful. I can’t believe you’re real.”

His lips curl into a wicked grin, his hand gripping your hair with a possessiveness that makes you weak. “Good girl,” he rasps, his tone rough and approving. “Show me how much you want it.”

He presses your face down gently, your lips grazing the heated tip of his cock before slowly taking him all the way in to your mouth. He groans softly, the sound low and raw, reverberating through your entire body making your heart race.

“Just like that,” he encourages, his voice strained but still in control, each word sending a thrill down your spine. His free hand trails along your jaw, his fingers brushing your skin with surprising tenderness in contrast to the intensity in which he guides your head up and down on his cock.

“You’re —…doing so well for me,” he praises, his voice needy and deep, spurring you on as your pace quickens on his cock gliding in and out of your mouth.

He groans again, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his head tilts back, his jaw tight. “So good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with awe and restraint.

The vibration of your moans against him send a shudder through his body as his hand tangles in your hair tigher.

He pulls you off slowly, his cock hard and slick, the evidence of his arousal making your core clench with anticipation. His chest rises and falls as he bites his lip, his muscles taut with control. His piercing gaze finds yours again, the command in his eyes unmistakable.

“Climb on top of me,” he demands, his voice low and ragged, a primal need laced in his tone.

You obey, your knees on either side of his hips as you straddle his lap, your hands resting on his shoulders for balance.

His head dips forward slightly, his lip caught between his teeth as his hands grip your thighs and he lines himself up. With a deliberate push, he thrusts inside your slickness as he guides you down on him.

You moan as his cock spreads you wide, and his head falls his back with a commanding ease as his hands pull you down onto him. He pushes into you inch by inch until your bodies are fully pressed together.

The sensation is intoxicating, the sharp edge of pain dissolving into an overwhelming pleasure that takes your breath away.

“You feel that?” he pants, his voice rough and dripping with desire as he nudges the tip of his cock to the deepest part of you

“Im so hard for you.” He breathes his hands trailing up your sides slowly, almost reverently. “Tell me,” he pants, his voice strained with pleasure. “…-What you’ve been thinking about me all night. I want to hear every word.”

“Y-you’re incredible,” you stammer, your voice trembling as his grip on your waist tightens, urging you to move. “So gorgeous, so perfect, I—”

“Go on,” he urges his hands guiding your movements up and down, making you feel every inch of him. “I want to hear it all. Every thought, every feeling.” He pants.

“You’re everything,” you gasp, your head tipping back as the sensation consumes you. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Austin. I can’t get enough.”

His hand slides up your back, his fingers pressing between your shoulder blades as he pulls you closer, his lips grazing your neck. “Say your mine ,” he breathes his voice possessive.

“I’m yours,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders as your body trembles.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice low and rough. His lips trail along the swell of your breasts before closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak.

The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, a soft cry escaping your lips as the sensation sends shockwaves through your body.

He sucks harder, his tongue swirling in deliberate, teasing motions that make your thighs tremble. The way his hips meet yours, driving his cock deeper with each thrust, only intensifying the overwhelming pleasure.

Your body reacts instinctively, clenching tightly around him as his teeth graze lightly against your nipple, sending you spiraling over the edge. A loud, unrestrained moan escapes your lips as your orgasm crashes through you, your walls fluttering around his cock with uncontrollable force.

He groans against your breast, the vibration of his voice only heightening the sensation, his hips pressing harder as he rides out your climax, never breaking the perfect rhythm that keeps you trembling in his arms.

His head falls back, as he begins to climax his lips parting as his chest heaves with labored breaths.

His flushed face and soft breaths are a picture of raw ecstasy, every strained gasp highlighting the intensity of his pleasure.

As his release overtakes him, he groans low and raw, the sound reverberating through your entire body.

You feel the throbbing of his cock deep inside you as it pulses, his length twitching as hot streams spill into you, the heat and rhythm sending shivers up your spine.

The sight of him utterly undone, consumed by pleasure pushes you over the edge all over again.

A cry escapes your lips as your body clenches around him, trembling with a third release that leaves you breathless.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him, the flush of his cheeks, the way his hands grip your waist, holding you tightly he could never get enough of you.

You love seeing him like this—vulnerable in pleasure, the raw intensity of his climax a testament to how deeply he needs you. The shared ecstasy lingers, leaving both of you panting and utterly consumed with each other.

You rest against him, your hands wrapped around his shoulder as he pants against your neck, his breaths warm and uneven. Your bodies remain locked together as the city lights glitter behind you, casting a soft glow over the room.

His lips brush against your collarbone, soft and lingering, as he murmurs, “You’re everything I’ll ever need.”

A smile spreads across your face, warmth blooming in your chest as you press a gentle kiss to the top of his head, your fingers threading through his hair as you whisper, “And you’re everything I’ll ever want.”

👠 END 👠

🔗 Master List

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[indigovigilance]

A Nightingale Sang in 1941

This is my inaugural meta (yay!) Eventually I will learn how to add gifs and whatnot to make this more interesting but today, I give you a wall of text.

I need to give credit where credit is due to three existing metas that I’m drawing upon heavily here:

A speculative continuation of the 1941 story, which includes an almost-kiss while “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” plays on the gramophone,

A behavioral analysis of Aziraphale during the S2E6 finale (will find ref later if possible)

A meta-analysis of the way in which “coffee” is used as a symbolic equivalent for liberty and freedom of choice, a running theme of this show (will find ref later if possible)

I’m going to expand upon meta #2 and #3 and explain why I think there is are very compelling reasons to believe that #1 will be canonized.

At the end of S1E6, an instrumental version of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” plays diegetically, but the lyrical version plays non-diegetically over the credits (we hear it but the protagonists don’t). So we the audience could plausibly say “that’s their song,” but as of the close of S1, we have no reason to believe that they know that it’s their song. Even Aziraphale’s S1E3 (1967) suggestion that they dine at the Ritz could be a reference that only he gets, or just a fancy restaurant suggestion.

So when I was watching S2E6 and Crowley said “no nightingales,” I was jarred. What does that even mean? We know it has something to do with dining at the Ritz, but what does it mean to them? The reference only works if they know it’s their song. But we’ve only ever seen them hear it together after the averted apocalypse; if this is the direct reference that Crowley is making, it leaves our 1967 reference contextless and twisting in the wind.

If we assume that there was a romantic story beat in 1941, wherein “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” (which, incidentally, was written in 1939 and saw the height of its popularity at the end of 1940, so timeline-wise it’s spot-on) became their song, then a lot of events get renewed interpretations through this lens, in a way that makes this story much more cohesive and the “no nightingales” comment even more soul-shattering than it already was.

Let’s presume that immediately after this became their song and just as they were discovering their romantic potential, they were forced back into hiding. Forever after, references to the song serve as a macro for “I’d like to pick up where we left off that night.”

The 1967 suggestion of “dining at the Ritz” now becomes a directly romantic suggestion. It also gives better context for “you go too fast for me.”

Actually going to the Ritz in 2019 is not simply a celebration or even a callback to 1967, it’s a callback to their almost-romance of 1941.

When Crowley says “no nightingales” in 2023, this isn’t to say “we’re not going to eat together at the Ritz anymore.” It’s saying that the romance that began that night, the precious, fragile romance, is over.

I’ll give you a moment to dry your eyes before we move on to metas #2 and #3.

In light that this is what has been going on - they know they want a romantic relationship but have gotten so used to hiding and denying it that they are more comfortable keeping the status quo static and quo-y then trying to achieve their ideal - a lot of S2 behavior can get a fresh view.

Crowley’s reaction to Nina isn’t a realization that he’s in love - he knew that already. You can only ask someone to run away with you so many times before you are forced to admit some things to yourself. No, he’s realizing that trying to hide it (which was justified by survival), hasn’t been working, but despite failing at being stealth nothing bad has happened. He’s realizing that it may finally be safe to show it.

Crowley’s confession, then, is not a revelation. It’s making the subtext text. He’s not telling Aziraphale anything he didn’t already know. He’s saying it now because he thinks he’s safe to do so. Pin in that.

Lots of people have lots of theories about Aziraphale’s motivations in the S2 finale, which can more or less be divided into 4 camps: the genuinely held belief, the coffee theory, the lie theory, and the mutual trick theory (some version of the body-switching at the end of S1). Let me start by saying that I love all the fans and all their theories and I find their analyses to be insightful. The genuinely held belief theory, while I believe it to be erroneous, has been incredibly conducive to so many wonderful conversations and I love being in a community that has those conversations. But I’m going to explain why I think the lie theory finds the most support in canon.

Re-watch the finale (when you feel like you can) from 35:18 to 36:19 and then from 40:45 to the end, paying very close attention to Aziraphale’s words and his eyes. Michael Sheen is telling us a LOT with his eyes, and in the back half of the finale scene, with pacing.

For 60 seconds of footage, this setup is doing a lot of work. If Neil Gaiman wasn’t doing enough to beat us over the head with how evil the Metatron is, that glare at Crowley at the end with the non-diegetic ominous horns should convey the message. But again, focusing on Aziraphale. He initially refuses to talk to the Metatron; he’s made his position quite clear. There is no hint of regret or wavering; this is not someone who’s aching to return to the fold. The Metatron ignores his refusal and functionally forces him to accept a “cup of coffee.” The coffee isn’t spiked, but it is a metaphor. It is symbolic of choice. The Metatron is going to force Aziraphale to make a choice. Meta #3 does a great job of exploring the idea that a choice between anything and death is never really a choice. Hang onto that thought.

Notice I had you start up again 3 seconds before “The Conversation.” That’s because it’s important to note where the Metatron is right now. He is across the street, staring straight in through those giant windows to where our protagonists are about to have The Conversation. He is watching.

When Aziraphale returns, Crowley begins his “let me talk” riff. Aziraphale ought to be interested in what Crowley has to say, since the preamble is pretty compelling. You’ll notice that Aziraphale quickly turns to the window and back, through which he (but not we) can see the Metatron standing there, watching them. Aziraphale is then doing his best to get Crowley to STFU without raising the suspicion of the Metatron, eventually having to cut him off.

Because unfortunately, Crowley’s entire impetus for speaking up now is that it’s safe to do so. Only Aziraphale knows that they are in very real danger (or at least, Crowley is, but I’ll come back to that).

You might take something from the fact that he’s shaking his head while talking about “incredibly good news,” and seems to self-censor his criticism of Metatron (or more specifically, he takes ownership of any criticism of the Metatron, censoring out Crowley’s role in that, with the emphasis on I in “I might have misjudged him”).

Notice in the flashback that he begins the conversation reasonably relaxed. The Metatron also says a series of things about him that not only are false, but everyone, including the Metatron and Crowley, know are false: Aziraphale is not a leader, he’s a defector; he’s not honest, he lies all the time, in fact this entire season revolved around his one huge lie of hiding Gabriel. Not only does the justification not make sense coming from Metatron, but it shouldn’t make sense that Aziraphale would accept these reasons and it shouldn’t make sense to Crowley either. So is Aziraphale including these details in his recounting to Crowley so that he will get suspicious and figure out the jig? Maybe. Let’s continue.

Immediately upon being offered the job of Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale says “but I don’t want to go back to Heaven.” This is direct evidence against the genuinely held belief theory. If returning to Heaven and making a difference was a genuine motivation, we would have gotten a different response at this moment. But then we get something more.

“Where would I get my coffee?”

This is a beautiful response for a number of reasons; coffee should be trivial compared to the opportunity to be a Supreme Archangel, so it serves to highlight just how little interest Aziraphale has in returning. Taken at face value, it’s the Aziraphale equivalent of “not even at gunpoint.” But remember that coffee is a metaphor for liberty in this universe and this season. So what Aziraphale just said, in the language of Neil Gaiman metaphors, is:

I don’t want to go back to Heaven, I would rather have free will.

What does the Metatron do next?

He brings up Crowley.

Watch Aziraphale’s eyes before and after the mention of Crowley. He goes from confused to eye-flicking panic in the space of two syllables. Aziraphale already understands that his “no” is not being accepted, and that bringing Crowley into it can only possibly serve as a threat.

So the coffee, the choice, is a false choice. No one ever orders death. The Metatron has forced Aziraphale into a situation that looks an awful lot like a choice (it comes in a blue cup, after all) but it isn’t.

We definitely have some reliable narrator problems here. I’m going to presume for purposes of analysis that these cut-outs are accurate but incomplete, and that a more explicit threat about what would happen to Crowley if Aziraphale did not return to Heaven was made.

If we assume that Aziraphale has been made aware of a threat and is trying to hide that from Crowley, the rest of this scene reads very differently. Aziraphale cannot say, “you are in danger but you will be safe if you swear your allegiance to Heaven” or “I have to go, no matter what, and the only way we can be together is if you come with me,” but nonetheless he now has to convince Crowley to do the one thing he ought to know Crowley definitely doesn’t want to do all through subtext. Which we’ve spent an entire season establishing that they can’t communicate well when they are allowed to use their words. Disastrously, this is not a magic trick that Aziraphale can make work when it counts. Their failure to practice good communication means that, right now, when it counts most, they are not going to pull it off.

We see that Aziraphale is very hopeful that Crowley will pick up on his cues and play along. Obviously, he doesn’t.

If the whole riff about Hell being bad guys and Heaven being the side of truth and light is taken as genuine, it discards a massive amount of character development that we’ve witnessed in Job, Edinburgh, etc. (again, to all the genuine belief subscribers, I think it’s a compelling argument but it simply doesn’t account for the evidence). So if it’s not genuine, why say it? Again, to alert Crowley that something is Off, because Crowley should know that Aziraphale doesn’t actually believe that. They saved humanity from Heaven and Hell. They hid Gabriel from Heaven and Hell. Crowley knows that Aziraphale knows that Heaven and Hell are just two sides of the same coin. Notice again that Aziraphale glances out the window while he’s talking up Heaven; he knows the Metatron is watching, he can’t not defend the position of Heaven. I think it’s also worth noting that Aziraphale forcefully glances and gestures off to Crowley’s left (away from the window) when talking about Hell, and then turns his head to Crowley’s right (towards the window) to try to get him to realize that a representative of Heaven is literally standing right over there, just look out the window please dumbass!

When Crowley is asking Aziraphale if he said no, and we see the back of Aziraphale’s head, again we can see him turn his head to glance out the window. This is also when he changes strategies, and admits that Heaven could use a little reform. Because now there’s a problem almost as big as getting caught, which is that he won’t be able to get Crowley to go with him.

Which unfortunately makes the next part of this so much more heartbreaking. Because when Crowley begins his speech about being a team, Aziraphale wants to hear it. He can’t bring himself to shut down Crowley again, even though it could get them both in massive trouble. Notice that he glances out the window again during this, and the look of panic on his face. He begins to shake his head when Crowley mentions that Heaven and Hell are toxic; this can be taken a lot of ways but I’ll argue for the interpretation that he’s trying to get Crowley to STFU and stop saying shit that could get him destroyed.

After Crowley puts on his sunglasses we are in the “back half” and Sheen is doing a lot with phrasing here, specifically pregnant pauses.

“Come with me… to Heaven!”

“We can be together… as angels!”

Based on the pacing decision I am thoroughly convinced that the first half of each of these statements is intended to be the message to Crowley and the second half is always a qualifying statement to satisfy the Metatron.

Unfortunately, these pregnant pauses are completely backfiring in their effect on Crowley. The sentiment gives him hope and the qualifying statement crushes it again immediately. He is being taken on a horrible emotional rollercoaster with these declarations which are only further amping up his instinct to run away.

The only truly genuine, unaldulterated statement I think we get from Aziraphale is

“I need you!”

When it becomes clear to Aziraphale that there’s been an irreparable breakdown of communication between them and the subtext is not getting across, he says:

“I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.”

He means this literally. Crowley has not understood that Aziraphale is offering him protection from whatever threat the Metatron has made.

Which makes this part extra-devastating and also absolutely in keeping with a major running theme of this season.

“I understand. I think I understand a whole lot better than you do.”

Your understanding and my understanding are different understandings.

Crowley views the offer to return to Heaven through the lens of his trauma. He understands what life in Heaven would be like. But he doesn’t understand that Aziraphale is offering him protection.

But Aziraphale just heard Crowley say that he understood everything, and he’s still going to leave. There might be a little suspense of disbelief here to believe that Aziraphale really interpreted the statement this way, but we know that Aziraphale isn’t always the brightest battery-operated candle in the drawer. So under the assumption that Crowley did understand him and is still rejecting the offer, rejecting him—

“Well, then there’s nothing more to say.”

Please pay very close attention to Aziraphale’s body language for the next part. He’s active, agitated, turning side to side, arms swinging. This is a very fidgety angel.

“No nightingales.”

Aziraphale is now completely still. He’s feeling that feeling. You know it. The one where your entire body is getting sucked into the pit of your stomach. The aching paralysis.

This is their song, the one that began their romance in 1941, the secret code for all other attempts at flirtation. Crowley has walked out on him before, Aziraphale has been stubborn and obstinate before. But they always came back together, sometimes with an apology dance or other rituals that belonged solely to them.

But now the song is over.

By saying this, Crowley has broken up with Aziraphale. We can see in Aziraphale’s sudden transition from fidgety to paralysis that he has understood it this way.

Then he turns away from the window so that the Metatron won’t see him cry.

The kiss was heart-wrenching already. But we’re not done with this analysis.

During the kiss, Aziraphale has a choice to make between two very compelling bad choices. This is the Job dilemma. But worse.

If he doesn’t kiss Crowley back, he will let Crowley think that he doesn’t love him. He will have missed out on this (maybe/probably their first kiss?) and regret it forever.

If he does kiss Crowley back, in full view of the Metatron, they are in deep trouble.

He seems to do his best to split the difference. I would even go so far to say that the awkward arm waving is Aziraphale acting for the Metatron’s benefit, to try to portray that he doesn’t want this even though he absolutely does (just not like this). The anguish when they break the kiss is absolutely real, and the first thing he does is glance out the window. Through all this he has remained painfully aware of their spectator.

He wants to say I love you. He mouths it. He breathes it.

But the Metatron is watching.

He can’t tell Crowley I love you. So he has to say the only other thing that has always unequivocally meant “I love you” when he said it to Crowley. He has to hope that Crowley understands him now, even though he never has before.

Spoiler alert: Crowley doesn’t.

My forgiveness and your forgiveness are not the same forgiveness.

One more point against the genuine belief fans (I love you): if the offer to let Crowley back in is what changed his mind, then Crowley declining removes that incentive. Aziraphale should/would have consequently retreated to his last stated position of “I don’t want to go back to Heaven, where would I get my Crowley—I mean, coffee?” [post-publication nod to @theonevoice for a great little meta] It simply doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.

I think a lot of fans were already making these assumptions about the use of the nightingale song so this meta may not feel revelatory, however, it isn’t canon (yet), and I’m sure I’ll find company that agree that canonization of this connection would strengthen a lot of these story points, as evidenced by how it is already assumed by many fans.

If you made it to the end - omg thank you! Please leave a note and tell me your thoughts!

Bonus: somebody already made the song connection here

~~~

if you liked this, you may also like:

Book of Life and what it means for Crowley

The Erasure of Human!Metatron

Baraqiel and Azazel

~~~

Recommended related (lie theory) metas by other people:

making the subtext text by @theonevoice

Aziraphale's Decision Matrix by @yowlthinks

Nothing Lasts Forever: META by @phoen1xr0se

[keehomania]

nevertheless (알고있지만) – jeon jungkook (전정국)

✧.* 18+

attachment was a curious thing. it began subtly, weaving its tendrils through the fabric of your life without notice, like the first soft blush of dawn on a still, sleepy horizon. at first, it seemed innocuous, a delicate thread that merely tugged gently at the edges of your existence, a whisper of a presence that was easily overlooked.

yet, in its essence, attachment was a powerful force, beautiful and treacherous. it painted the world in vivid hues, each moment tinged with a significance that it otherwise wouldn't have possessed. the simplest actions—a smile, a touch, a shared silence—became imbued with profound meaning. your heart swelled, enraptured by the beauty of connection, and your soul reveled in the comfort of knowing and being known.

as the days passed, those gentle threads of attachment intertwined, forming an intricate tapestry. each shared experience, each memory, added a new thread, strengthening the bond and deepening the sense of unity. it was a masterpiece of human emotion, a testament to the power of connection that filled your heart with warmth and light. the world felt richer, more vibrant, as if seen through a lens that sharpened every detail and amplified every sensation. but attachment, for all its beauty, carried a darker undertone. like a vine creeping up the side of a grand old mansion, it began to strangle, its grip tightening imperceptibly. what was once a source of joy and comfort transformed into a source of anxiety and fear. the delicate balance between freedom and dependence tipped, and your heart, once light and free, grew heavy with the weight of expectation and longing.

In this duality lay the true peril of attachment. It was a slow, insidious poison, sweet in its initial taste but deadly as it coursed through your veins. The same connection that brought life and color could, in an instant, become a noose, choking the very essence of the self. Your mind became consumed with thoughts of the other, every moment apart a silent torment, every slight perceived as a dagger to the heart.

you loved attachment. you loved love. the depth of your emotions was a wellspring of inspiration, each feeling a stroke of color, a line in a sketch, a form in a block of clay. you embraced your emotions, delving into their depths because they breathed life into your art. sculpting and painting were your lifelines, your way of interpreting the world and expressing the inexpressible. you found beauty in every raw edge, every shade of shadow and light, every curve and angle that made up the diverse tapestry of art. art was your sanctuary, a realm where diversity reigned supreme. each piece, whether a painting or a sculpture, told a unique story, resonated with a distinct voice. you loved the freedom it granted, the way it allowed you to channel your deepest feelings into something tangible, something that could be seen and touched. the fluidity of art mirrored the fluidity of your emotions, capturing the fleeting, the ephemeral, and the eternal in one breathtaking sweep.

what you didn't love, was attending your boyfriend's opening art show to show your support, only to find yourself standing in front of what he deemed his masterpiece. the centerpiece of the entire exhibit was a sculpture of you, rendered in painstaking detail, nude, in a scandalous position. the marble gleamed under the gallery lights, every curve and line of your body exposed for the world to see. jackson saw it as a pinnacle of his artistic achievement, a celebration of your form and your intimacy. he looked at it with pride, his eyes shining with the fervor of creation. but to you, it was a betrayal, a public humiliation. every whisper, every gaze, felt like a thousand needles piercing your skin, stripping away your dignity layer by layer. the room seemed to close in on you, the walls pressing inward as the weight of judgment and exposure crushed your spirit.

you couldn't breathe. the air was thick, suffocating, filled with the murmurs of the onlookers and the indifferent hum of the gallery. your chest tightened, panic rising as your eyes darted around for an escape. you felt the sting of tears, hot and unforgiving, blurring your vision. without thinking, you turned and ran, the murmurs growing louder, more accusing, as you fled the gallery. you ran until your legs burned, until your breath came in ragged gasps, until the noise and the lights of the gallery were far behind you. you stumbled onto a set of stairs, collapsing onto them, your strength spent. the world around you faded into a blur, and you buried your face in your hands, the sobs wracking your body.

the cold stone of the steps pressed against your skin, grounding you in the midst of your turmoil. you cried for the trust that had been broken, for the exposure you hadn't asked for, for the art that had turned against you. you had loved attachment, had loved love, had embraced every emotion because it allowed you to create. but in that moment, it felt like those very emotions were tearing you apart, leaving you raw and vulnerable, exposed to the harsh judgment of the world.

your tears flowed freely, each one a testament to the pain and the betrayal you felt. the love you had cherished, the attachment you had valued, seemed like cruel mockeries, twisting the knife deeper into your heart. you had poured your soul into your art, into your relationship, only to have it thrown back at you in the most brutal of ways. and so you cried, the steps becoming your sanctuary, the darkness of the night offering a cold, indifferent comfort as you wept for the love and the attachment that had led you to this moment of utter despair.

jackson trailed behind you, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the cold night air. when he found you on the steps, crumpled and broken, he paused, his silhouette stark against the dim streetlights. for a moment, he simply watched, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of you crying, your body wracked with sobs. the indifference in his gaze was chilling, a sharp contrast to the tenderness you had once believed existed between you.

“what the fuck are you doing?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “causing a scene like that in the middle of my show?” you looked up, your face streaked with tears, your eyes red and swollen from crying. “you humiliated me,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “you’ve shit all over my reputation.”

his eyes flashed with anger and disdain. “you have no idea what art is,” he spat. “you’re clueless. that sculpture was a masterpiece, a celebration of you, and you just made a fool of yourself and me.” his words struck you like physical blows, each one harder than the last. you struggled to find your voice, to make him understand the depth of your hurt. “it wasn’t art,” you whispered. “it was a betrayal. you exposed me to everyone, without my consent, without even thinking about how i would feel.”

he scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. “you’re overreacting. you always do. that piece was about beauty, about vulnerability. you’re just too blind to see it.”

with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you alone on the steps, your tears flowing freely once more. the echo of his footsteps faded into the night, leaving a void where his presence had been. you felt as if the ground had opened up beneath you, swallowing you in a chasm of despair and betrayal. you knew what art was. art was your lifeblood, your passion, your way of making sense of the world. you understood its power, its ability to evoke emotions and provoke thought. nevertheless, in that moment, you realized you had forgotten what love was. love wasn’t supposed to feel like that. it wasn’t supposed to leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable, abandoned and broken.

the steps were cold and unforgiving beneath you, a cruel reminder of the harsh reality you found yourself in. the night pressed in around you, its silence a stark contrast to the turmoil inside your heart. you had loved him, had believed in the connection you shared, but now it felt like a cruel joke, a painful illusion. you sat there, your face buried in your hands, trying to piece together the fragments of your shattered heart. the art you had loved, the emotions you had cherished, all seemed tainted now, twisted by the betrayal you had experienced. you had thought you understood love, had believed in its beauty and its power, but now it felt like a distant memory, something you couldn’t quite grasp.

and so you cried, the tears falling silently as you tried to make sense of the pain, the betrayal, the loss. you cried for the love that had turned into a weapon, for the art that had been twisted into something cruel. you cried for the trust that had been broken, and for the heart that had been shattered. in the quiet of the night, you felt the weight of your emotions, their depth and their intensity. you had loved deeply, had felt every emotion with a fervor that fueled your art. but in that moment, on those cold steps, you felt the sharp sting of love’s betrayal, and the emptiness it left behind.

the night wore on, the stars glittering coldly above, indifferent to your pain. and as you sat there, alone and broken, you realized that while you understood art, you had forgotten what love truly was. it wasn’t the grand gestures or the passionate declarations. it was the quiet moments of understanding, the gentle touch of reassurance, the unspoken bond that held two hearts together. you had forgotten that love was supposed to heal, not hurt. it was supposed to uplift, not tear down. and in that moment, you vowed to remember, to never let anyone make you forget again. the tears continued to fall, but beneath them, a resolve began to form, a determination to reclaim the love and the art that were rightfully yours, to find the strength to rise from the ashes of your heartbreak and create anew.

the club was a throbbing pulse of music and light, a sanctuary for those seeking to drown their sorrows or celebrate fleeting moments of joy. you found yourself there, the need to escape the pain and humiliation driving you to its neon embrace. the air was thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and anticipation, each beat of the music resonating through your body like a heartbeat. you made your way to the bar, ordering a drink to numb the ache in your chest. the liquid was a fiery solace, burning down your throat and spreading warmth through your veins. one drink turned into another, and another, as you tried to drink the night away, to forget the betrayal, the hurt, the sculpture that had stripped you bare in more ways than one.

but as the air grew tighter and the room spun slightly with the haze of alcohol, you felt the need for a moment of clarity, of fresh air. you stepped outside, the cool night air a contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the club. reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a box of cigarettes, your fingers fumbling as you searched for your lighter. It was gone, lost in the chaos of the night.

“fuck,” you muttered quietly, frustration boiling over. as you looked up, you saw a man standing nearby, a smile playing on his lips as he flicked his lighter open. the small flame danced in the darkness, casting a warm glow on his face. “need a light?” he asked, his voice smooth and warm, like a balm to your frayed nerves.

you nodded, a grateful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “yeah, thanks.” he stepped closer, the flame catching the tip of your cigarette. you inhaled deeply, the smoke curling into your lungs and bringing a strange sense of calm. as you exhaled, he cracked a joke, something about fate bringing a cigarette and a lighter together. you laughed, the sound surprising you with its lightness.

he lit his own cigarette, taking a drag as he turned slightly, giving you a glimpse of the tattoo on the back of his neck—a butterfly, delicate and intricate, its wings poised as if ready to take flight. “that’s a beautiful tattoo,” you said, your eyes tracing the lines of the butterfly. he glanced back at you, a faint smile touching his lips. “thanks. i like butterflies. got a few of them at home.”

“they’re beautiful,” you admitted, the honesty in your voice surprising even you. “especially monarch butterflies. there’s something about them that’s just mesmerizing.” he didn’t respond immediately, instead reaching into his pocket and pulling out a marker. taking your hand gently, he began to draw, the marker’s tip gliding over your skin. when he finished, he held up your wrist, showing you the butterfly he had drawn there—a monarch, its wings spread wide in a silent declaration of beauty and freedom.

“now you have a butterfly of your own,” he said, his voice soft but carrying an undercurrent of warmth. “to remind you of their beauty.”

you looked at the butterfly on your wrist, a smile forming on your lips. it was a small gesture, but it held a world of meaning, a moment of connection that pierced through the haze of pain and alcohol. “thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the city’s distant hum. he nodded, a silent smile on his face, before turning and walking back into the club, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the butterfly on your wrist. the night seemed a little less dark, the weight of your emotions a little lighter.

as you stood there, the cigarette burning slowly between your fingers, you felt a glimmer of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, beauty could still be found. the butterfly was a symbol, a promise that you could find your way back to the love and the art that had always been your sanctuary. you took another drag of your cigarette, the smoke swirling around you like a protective veil. the club’s music thumped in the background, a distant reminder of the chaos you had escaped. but in this moment, with the butterfly on your wrist and the memory of a stranger’s kindness, you felt a small but significant shift within you.

the next day, you found solace in the familiar embrace of your studio. the room was filled with the quiet hum of creativity, the soft scraping of tools against clay, the muted whispers of students deep in their work. your hands moved deftly over the surface of your sculpture, the tactile sensation of the material grounding you, offering a brief respite from the emotional turmoil that still lingered from the night before. your fingers traced the curves and lines, each motion a silent meditation, an attempt to channel the chaos inside you into something tangible, something beautiful. the sculpture began to take shape, a reflection of your innermost thoughts and feelings, an expression of the vulnerability and strength that intertwined within you.

as you lost yourself in the rhythm of your work, the studio door creaked open, and your friend poked her head in. jihyo was a vibrant presence, her energy infectious, and her smile always managing to brighten the darkest of days. “hey, you,” she called, waving you over. “let's step out for a smoke. you look like you need a break.”

you hesitated, your hands still covered in clay, but her insistence was hard to resist. with a sigh, you wiped your hands and followed her out, the studio door closing softly behind you. the fresh air was a welcome change, and the courtyard was quiet, a peaceful oasis amidst the bustling campus. jihyo handed you a cigarette, and you lit it, the familiar act bringing a semblance of calm. she leaned against the wall, her eyes narrowing as she studied you. “alright, spill it. what’s bugging you?”

you took a drag of your cigarette, the smoke curling around you. “jackson and i broke up,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. her eyes widened in surprise. “what? when? what happened?”

you recounted the events of the previous night, the betrayal and humiliation still raw in your mind. as you spoke, her expression shifted from shock to anger.

“he did what?” she exclaimed, her voice rising. “that sick son of a bitch, how could he think that was okay?” you shrugged, the weight of it all pressing down on you. “he called it art. i called it betrayal. we saw things differently.”

jihyo shook her head, her anger palpable. “you deserve so much better than that. he had no right to expose you like that.” as she spoke, you caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the man from the previous night. he was walking by, his posture relaxed, but his eyes met yours, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. the recognition in his gaze mirrored your own, a silent acknowledgment of the shared moment you had experienced.

he seemed as shocked as you were, but he recovered quickly, a smile tugging at his lips. you couldn’t help but smile back, the memory of his kindness a small comfort in the midst of your turmoil. “hey, jihyo,” you said, nudging her gently and nodding in his direction. “do you know who that is?”

she followed your gaze, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of him. “oh, that’s jeon jungkook. he works in the building department. total slut, though. you should keep your distance.” her words were blunt, her tone dismissive, but you couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity. jungkook glanced back at you once more before continuing on his way, the smile still lingering on his face. you watched him go, the memory of his smile and the butterfly he had drawn on your wrist vivid in your mind.

you nodded absently, still watching him from a distance. “yeah, sure. i’ll keep that in mind.” as the two of you finished your cigarettes and headed back to the studio, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was different from the way jihyo described him. there was a gentleness in his eyes, a quiet kindness that intrigued you. you didn’t know what the future held, but for now, the memory of his smile and the butterfly on your wrist gave you a small glimmer of hope, a reminder that beauty and kindness could still be found, even in the most unexpected places.

back in the studio, you lost yourself once more in the clay, the rhythm of your movements a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. each touch, each stroke of your tools, was an act of creation, a way to channel the tumult of emotions into something tangible. the world outside the studio faded away, leaving only the quiet hum of creativity and the comforting solidity of your sculpture.

the creak of the door barely registered in your focused state. it wasn’t until you sensed a presence directly in front of you that you looked up, your hands pausing mid-motion. there he was, jeon jungkook, the man from the night before, sitting casually on a stool, his eyes bright with curiosity and amusement. he smiled, a warm, easy smile that seemed to light up the room. “you work with such intensity,” he remarked, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. “it’s really impressive.”

“thanks,” you replied, your mind flashing back to jihyo’s warning about him. you tried to keep your expression neutral, though his unexpected presence had thrown you off balance.

his gaze drifted to your wrist, where the butterfly he had drawn still lingered. “the butterfly is still there,” he noted with a hint of satisfaction. you looked down at the delicate sketch, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, seems like she likes it there.”

“she does,” he agreed, a playful glint in his eye. “but i think she’d like a drink more. would you wanna grab one with me?” for a moment, you hesitated, jihyo’s words echoing in your mind: “total slut, though. you should keep your distance.” but there was something about him, something that intrigued you. his easy confidence, his unexpected kindness from the night before—curiosity got the better of you.

“sure,” you said, nodding. “i'd like that.” his smile widened, and he stood, offering his hand to help you up. his touch was warm, steadying you as you wiped the clay from your hands. the studio felt different now, charged with a new energy, as you left with him, the door closing softly behind you.

as you and him left walked, the conversation continued to flow effortlessly between you. the city lights cast a warm glow on the streets, and the night air was crisp, a perfect backdrop for the unexpected connection forming between you. “so, why have i never seen you around before?” jungkook asked, his hands casually tucked into his pockets as you walked side by side.

you shrugged, a small smile playing on your lips. “i’m usually in the sculpting department. it’s a bit tucked away, not many people venture there unless they have a reason to.” his eyes lit up with interest. “sculpting, huh? that’s pretty cool. i’ve always wanted to try it, but my parents insisted on something more practical. hence, the building department.”

you glanced at him, curiosity piqued. “you should chase your own freedom,” you said earnestly. “do what makes you happy.” he chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. “all i chase is freedom. it’s a problem, really. but it’s why i resonate with butterflies so much. they’re the ultimate symbol of freedom and transformation.” you walked in comfortable silence for a moment, contemplating his words. jungkook’s outlook on life was refreshing, a stark contrast to the rigid expectations that had been imposed on you by others.

as you approached the bar, the lively atmosphere enveloped you. jungkook led you to a section of the room dedicated to dart throwing. the area was bustling with energy, the sound of laughter and friendly competition filling the air. “ever played darts before?” he asked, picking up a dart and spinning it expertly between his fingers. you shook your head, feeling a bit out of your element. “no, i’ve never tried it.”

he grinned, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “well, it’s time you learned.” he turned to the dartboard, aiming with practiced ease and throwing the dart. It hit the center perfectly, a bullseye. “show-off,” you teased, impressed by his skill. he laughed, handing you a dart. “come on, give it a shot. i’ll help you.”

you took the dart, feeling a bit unsure. jungkook moved behind you, his presence close and comforting. he placed one arm gently around your waist, guiding your hand with the other. the warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine. “just relax,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “focus on the target.”

with his guidance, you raised your arm and threw the dart. it flew straight, hitting the middle of the board. you turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. there was a shared moment of triumph and connection, your heart fluttering at the intensity of his gaze. “see? you’ve got it,” he said softly, a proud smile lighting up his face.

you couldn’t help but smile back, the feeling of accomplishment mingling with a growing sense of attraction. for the rest of the evening, you played a few more rounds, each throw bringing you closer, both physically and emotionally. the drinks flowed, the conversation deepened, and laughter punctuated the night. as the night drew to a close, he insisted on walking you home. the streets were quieter now, the city settling into a peaceful rhythm. when you reached your doorstep, he turned to face you, his expression tender.

“i had a great time tonight,” he said, his voice sincere. “thank you for joining me.”

“me too,” you replied, feeling a warmth spread through you. “i’m glad i came.” he stepped closer, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. he leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead. the simple gesture was filled with warmth and affection, sending a rush of emotions through you.

“good night,” he whispered, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away. you watched him walk off into the night, your heart fluttering in your chest. the evening had been unexpected, a whirlwind of emotions and connections that left you feeling both exhilarated and introspective. as you turned to enter your home, you couldn’t help but smile, the memory of his kiss still warm on your skin.

the morning sun filtered through the trees as you walked to your campus with jihyo. the campus was beginning to stir with activity, the hustle of students preparing for the day ahead. the air was filled with the familiar sounds of footsteps, chatter, and the distant hum of city life. jihyo made sure to get a headstart, indulging in her morning vape, the sweet aroma curling around you as you walked side by side. she passed the vape to you, and you took a slow drag, savoring the fleeting tranquility before the day's demands took over. you exhaled, the vapor mingling with the crisp morning air.

as you continued your walk, you recounted the events of the previous night, your voice animated as you described jungkook’s unexpected kindness and the enjoyable evening you had shared. she listened intently, though her expression remained skeptical, her brows furrowing in concern. “and then,” you finished, handing the vape back to her, “he walked me home and gave me a kiss on the forehead. it was really sweet.”

she took a long drag, her eyes narrowing slightly. “it sounds like you had a nice time, but—” she exhaled a cloud of vapor, “—you’re playing with fire, you know that?” you raised an eyebrow, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your voice. “come on, ji. you’re being way too judgmental. he's not like that, he's different.”

she gave you a skeptical look, shaking her head. “i’m just saying, be careful. you don’t know him that well yet.”

you were about to respond when you both froze mid-step. your gaze followed jihyo’s, and you saw him up ahead on the sidewalk. your heart skipped a beat, but this time, he wasn’t alone. he was walking with another girl, his arm draped casually around her shoulders. they seemed at ease with each other, sharing an intimate, comfortable closeness. jihyo glanced at you, her expression a mixture of sympathy and concern. “well,” she said softly, “i guess i wasn’t wrong.”

you stood there, feeling the weight of her words. the sight of jungkook with someone else was a jarring contrast to the warmth you had felt the previous night. it was as if the bubble of the evening’s enchantment had burst, leaving you to confront a reality that you had momentarily ignored.

the girl beside jungkook looked at him with a smile, and he responded with a tender gaze. it was a simple, yet intimate exchange that spoke volumes. the contrast between last night’s connection and this morning’s reality was stark, and you felt a pang of disappointment. jihyo’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice comforting. “i'm sorry, i didn’t mean to rub it in. i just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

you nodded, feeling a lump in your throat. “i know. it’s just, i thought there was something real there. maybe i was wrong.” jihyo sighed, taking another drag from her vape. “you weren’t wrong to feel what you felt, just be cautious. sometimes people aren’t as straightforward as they seem.”

you watched as jungkook and the girl walked further down the street, their figures eventually disappearing from view. the sight had left you feeling unsettled, a mix of emotions swirling inside you. the confidence you had felt the night before now seemed fragile, overshadowed by the uncertainty of this new revelation.

as you and jihyo resumed your walk, the campus loomed ahead, its familiar buildings a reminder of the routine and responsibilities awaiting you. the conversation shifted to other topics, but the weight of the morning’s encounter lingered, a reminder that even fleeting connections could carry unexpected complexities. you couldn’t help but reflect on his words about freedom and butterflies, wondering how they fit into this new, unsettling reality. the morning had started with promise but had given way to a reality that was less clear-cut, leaving you to navigate the delicate balance between hope and caution.

the studio was a sanctuary of focused energy and creative chaos. you found solace in the rhythm of your hands working the clay, shaping it with deliberate precision. each stroke was a meditative practice, allowing you to channel your thoughts and emotions into the art before you. jihyo, her boyfriend, and his sister had settled nearby. minho was absorbed in his own project, while jihyo and minyoung chatted softly, their voices a comforting background hum. the three of them had a natural camaraderie that brought a sense of ease to the studio. minyoung’s laughter rang out occasionally, a bright and cheerful sound that contrasted with the solemnity of your own concentration.

as you sculpted, your thoughts drifted back to jungkook. the image of him walking with another girl played over in your mind, like a record stuck on repeat. the warmth of last night seemed distant now, replaced by the chill of reality. you tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the form taking shape in your hands. minyoung’s voice broke through your reverie. “hey, we’re planning to head over to ji’s place tonight for a little get-together. we’re gonna have some drinks and hang out with a few friends from campus. you should come.”

you looked up, momentarily distracted from your work. “that sounds fun,” you said, though your voice betrayed a hint of reluctance. the idea of socializing was appealing, but the thought of seeing jungkook again—especially in a group setting—left you feeling unsettled. jihyo noticed your hesitation and gave you a reassuring smile. “come on, it’ll be good for you. you’ve had a rough couple of days. a change of scenery might help you feel better.”

uou nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah, i guess you’re right. i’ll come.” minyoung’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “great! it’ll be nice to hang out and unwind. we’re all looking forward to it.”

as the conversation shifted back to other topics, you tried to immerse yourself in the rhythm of sculpting once more. the tactile sensation of the clay beneath your fingers was grounding, a small comfort amidst the whirlwind of emotions. despite your efforts, your mind kept returning to Jungkook. the casual intimacy you had witnessed, the way he had interacted with the girl—every detail seemed to replay itself in your thoughts. jihyo and minho were absorbed in their conversation with minyoung, their voices a blend of excitement and lightheartedness. Occasionally, jihyo would glance over at you, her expression a mix of concern and encouragement. her presence was a reminder of the friendship and support you had, even when things felt uncertain.

the minutes ticked by as you worked, the sculpting process a meditative balm for your frayed nerves. each detail you added to your piece was a small victory, a way to reclaim a sense of control amidst the emotional turbulence. when the end of the class approached, you felt a mixture of relief and anticipation. the prospect of the evening’s gathering offered a potential escape from the weight of your thoughts, a chance to immerse yourself in the company of friends and let the worries of the past few days drift away.

jihyo and minho packed up their things, and you followed suit, feeling a sense of camaraderie as you prepared to leave the studio. minyoung chatted animatedly about the evening’s plans, her enthusiasm infectious despite the lingering doubts in your mind. as you walked out of the studio and headed toward the campus exit, jihyo fell into step beside you. her presence was comforting, a reminder of the support you had. “remember,” she said softly, “tonight’s about relaxing and having a good time. don’t let your worries overshadow it.”

you nodded, taking a deep breath as you stepped into the vibrant energy of the campus. the evening ahead held the promise of distraction and connection, a chance to shift your focus and enjoy the company of friends. as you walked alongside jihyo and minho, you tried to embrace the hope that tonight might bring a welcome reprieve from the storm of emotions you had been navigating. the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the campus as you made your way to her place. with each step, you hoped for a sense of relief and a chance to momentarily escape the complexities of your thoughts.

the evening's promise of relief and distraction dissolved like smoke as you stepped into jihyo’s house. the warmth and laughter that greeted you were abruptly overshadowed by the sight of jungkook among the group of people already there. the room was buzzing with energy, the clinking of bottles and the murmur of conversation filling the air.

jihyo’s cheerful greeting faltered as her gaze locked onto jungkook. she snapped her neck to minho, a look of surprise and irritation crossing her face. “i didn’t know you’d invited jungkook too,” she said, her voice carrying a sharp edge. minho raised his hands defensively, a sheepish grin on his face. “i had no idea there was tension. i thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

you stood there, frozen in the doorway, feeling a chill seep into the warmth of the room. jungkook’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was a silent acknowledgment of the situation. his smile faltered slightly when he noticed your lack of reciprocation, the tension between you palpable.

jihyo guided you into the room, her demeanor shifting to one of concern. whe led you to a circle on the floor where the others were already settling in. minho produced bottles of soju, his enthusiasm for the evening evident as he set them down and suggested starting a drinking game. the game began with a lively energy. the group’s laughter and teasing filled the space, but you found it difficult to engage. as the rounds progressed, the questions and challenges became increasingly daring. mina, one of the other girls, challenged jihyo to either take her top off or drink. just as she was about to comply, minho interjected, suggesting she down an entire bottle instead. the room erupted in laughter, a sound that felt distant and hollow to you.

jungkook’s gaze remained fixed on you, his eyes searching for a reaction. you met his gaze briefly, your own expression unyielding. the game continued around you, the atmosphere growing more frenetic and less comfortable.

jihyo’s eyes sparkled with a new idea as she turned to him, her voice carrying a playful tone. “jungkook, your turn. kiss the prettiest girl in the room or take a drink.” the challenge seemed to electrify the room. his eyes flickered to you once more, his expression a mix of resolve and anticipation. he reached for the bottle of soju, his fingers brushing its neck, before setting it down with a decisive motion. without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

the room erupted in cheers, the sound washing over you in a wave of unwanted attention. jungkook pulled away, his smile radiant and expectant, but you remained unmoved. your eyes were cool, indifferent. the kiss, meant to be playful or provocative, felt hollow and forced. the jubilation of the room contrasted sharply with your own feelings. you took a swig from the soju bottle, the liquid burning as it went down. the alcohol did little to numb the sting of the evening’s events. with a heavy sigh, you excused yourself from the circle and walked toward the door.

as you stepped outside, the cool night air greeted you with a sharp, refreshing clarity. the sky above was dotted with stars, a serene contrast to the chaos you had just left behind. you fumbled with your cigarette box, fingers trembling slightly as you retrieved a cigarette. with a practiced motion, you lit it and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around you in a calming haze. the solitude of the outdoor space provided a temporary refuge from the din inside. uou leaned against the wall, the cigarette between your fingers a small anchor in the storm of your thoughts. the kiss from jungkook had left you unsettled, and the evening’s veneer of camaraderie had revealed a deeper undercurrent of discomfort and disconnection.

as you stood there, lost in thought, the distant sounds of laughter and music from the party inside seemed faint and distant. the cool breeze carried away the heat of the moment, leaving you with a sense of clarity and resolve. you had come seeking relief, but instead had confronted a reality that was as complex and unpredictable as ever. the cigarette burned down slowly, the embers glowing softly in the night. you finished it with a deep, contemplative drag, savoring the quiet before re-entering the fray of the evening. with a final exhale, you flicked the spent cigarette away and prepared to face whatever the rest of the night might hold.

the night air had a crisp bite to it, a contrast to the clamor of the party inside. you were about to step back into the house, hoping to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, when a shadow fell across your path. you looked up, only to find jungkook standing there, his presence as sudden as it was unexpected.

he leaned down slightly, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. his smile was disarming, and his voice carried a playful tone as he spoke. “why’ve you been so cold to me?” he asked, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

you scoffed, the earlier tension bubbling back to the surface. “why don’t you ask your friend from this morning?” you shot back, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

his laughter was soft and warm, cutting through the chill of the night. “soel? oh, she’s just a friend. nothing more,” he said, dismissing your concern with a wave of his hand. his words caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily stunned and silent. the embarrassment of your earlier jealousy washed over you like a tide, coloring your cheeks with a faint blush. he seemed to sense your discomfort and offered a reassuring smile. “don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice gentle. “jealousy looks good on you, by the way.”

your heart skipped a beat at his comment, a flush of heat spreading across your face. the candidness of his words, combined with the intensity of his gaze, made it difficult to maintain your composure. flustered, you looked away, struggling to regain your equilibrium. before you could fully gather yourself, his presence at your side felt oddly comforting. he matched your pace as you turned back toward the house, trailing behind you with a casual, easy stride. the sound of the party inside grew louder as you approached the door, the energy of the gathering spilling out into the hallway.

the night’s revelry had left you intoxicated and unsteady on your feet. the laughter and music from downstairs seemed to blend into a distant hum as you made your way up to jihyo’s room. the stairwell wobbled slightly under your steps, each ascent feeling like an effort as you navigated the dizzying effects of the evening’s drinks. when you finally reached her room, you stumbled through the door and collapsed onto her bed. the room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a gentle light across the space. the bed felt like a comforting refuge as you sank into its embrace, your head spinning pleasantly from the alcohol.

as you rested, the door creaked open, and you heard the shuffling of footsteps approaching. your hazy vision slowly made out jungkook’s figure as he stumbled into the room, equally inebriated but with a purposeful gait. he looked around, his eyes finally landing on you with a mix of concern and amusement.

“what are you doing here?” you managed to ask, your voice a bit slurred. the question hung in the air, mingling with the scent of alcohol and the faint scent of perfume. his smile was lopsided, his gaze soft as he settled down on the bed beside you. “i came to check on you,” he said, his voice carrying a soothing warmth that contrasted with the cool night air.

your heart fluttered at his words, a sensation that felt both thrilling and disorienting. as he sat next to you, his presence was comforting and reassuring, an anchor amidst the swirl of emotions you were feeling. he looked at you with a gentle smile, his eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance.

“you’re just as pretty drunk as you are sober,” he said, his tone affectionate and teasing. the compliment made you blush deeper, and you instinctively raised your hands to cover your face. “my makeup must be a mess,” you mumbled, feeling a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability. jungkook shook his head with a soft chuckle, his movements deliberate and careful. “makeup is just art, and you can't mess up art,” he said, his voice tender as he leaned in closer. his face was inches from yours, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. his fingers gently traced the lines of your face, his touch light as he began to wipe away the smudges of makeup from under your eyes.

the intimacy of the moment seemed to stretch and contract, a space filled with a growing anticipation. jungkook’s gaze held yours, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that matched the softness of his touch. the distance between you closed, the world outside the room fading into insignificance.

when his lips finally met yours, the kiss was hot and heavy, a potent mix of desire and need. it was a kiss that spoke volumes, expressing the unspoken feelings and the intoxicated passion that had been simmering beneath the surface. his lips moved against yours with an intensity that made your heart race, the kiss deepening with every passing second.

as the kiss deepened, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve into a blur. the music from downstairs, the laughter, the people—it all became a distant echo compared to the closeness of his embrace. the kiss was a shared moment of escape, a brief interlude where nothing else mattered but the connection between you and him. “if we continue,” he murmured, his hot breath grazing your lips. “i won't be able to stop myself.”

his eyes searched yours for consent, and even though you were tipsy, you knew exactly what you were doing. with a nod, you let yourself indulge in it, the anticipation building with every step. the room was dimly lit, with the occasional flicker from the candle casting shadows on the walls. the smell of the candle, something sweet and exotic, filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of his cologne. jungkook closed the door behind you, and in that instant, the outside world was forgotten.

once on the bed, your bodies became a tangled mess of limbs and passion. his hands were everywhere, tracing the lines of your body with a hunger that was almost desperate. you felt his tattoo flutter against your neck as he kissed along your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. you pulled at his shirt, eager to feel his bare skin against yours. the fabric gave way, revealing his toned abs and the tattoo that was inked into the flesh at the base of his neck—a delicate monarch, its wings unfurling in an intricate dance.

his mouth found yours again, and the kiss grew more urgent. your hands fumbled with the buttons of his pants, and he groaned when you finally slipped your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around his hard length. he reciprocated, tugging at the hem of your dress, eager to explore what lay beneath. as the fabric was pushed aside, his eyes widened at the sight of your lacy underwear. “fuck,” he murmured, his eyes darkening with desire. “so fucking dirty.”

his words were a heady mix of praise and demand, sending a rush of heat to your core. your heart pounded in your chest as he pulled the dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your bra and panties. the coolness of the room hit your skin, making your nipples pebble with excitement. his eyes roamed over you, and you felt exposed, but in the best way possible. his hands followed the path of his gaze, cupping your tits and gently rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. a soft moan escaped your lips, and he took it as an invitation to lean in and suck one into his mouth. the sensation was electric, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

his hands moved down to the waistband of your underwear, and with a quick motion, he slid them down your legs. you felt a moment of vulnerability, but it was quickly overshadowed by the desire coursing through your veins. jungkook kissed along your stomach, making his way down to the apex of your thighs. his tongue flicked out, teasing your clit, and you gripped the bed sheets tightly. “oh, god,” you breathed, your voice a desperate whisper.

his eyes never left yours as he positioned himself over you, his own pants discarded on the floor. he reached into the nightstand and pulled out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth before rolling it on. even in the dim light, you could see the intensity in his gaze, the raw need that mirrored your own. “are you sure?” he asked, his voice gruff with lust.

you nodded, and it was all he yearned for as he entered you. the feeling was overwhelming, a perfect mix of pleasure and pain that had you gasping. he paused, giving you a moment to adjust before he began to move. his thrusts were deep and slow at first, his eyes never leaving yours as he whispered filthy words in your ear, urging you to let go.

you did, moaning his name as you wrapped your legs around his waist. your hands dug into his back, and you could feel the tension in his muscles as he moved. your bodies fit together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces that had been searching for their match. the bed rocked gently under you, the rhythmic sound mixing with your ragged breaths and the slap of skin on skin.

you lost track of time as you both chased the high of climax. his dirty talk grew more intense, and your responses grew louder. it was a dance of dominance and submission, each of you pushing the other closer to the edge. when you finally reached it, your body convulsed around him, and you called out his name like a prayer. jungkook followed shortly after, his dick twitching as if it was his first time.

the morning light filtered through the curtains with a muted glow, casting a soft, hazy light across jihyo’s room. you stirred from sleep, the warmth of the bed a stark contrast to the chill of the previous night. as you slowly regained consciousness, your eyes fell upon the scene beside you. jungkook laid there, his presence so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. the shocking realization hit you as you took in the sight of him naked beside you.

panic surged through you as fragmented memories of the night before flickered in your mind. the kiss, the heat, the intensity—all of it came crashing back. the vividness of those moments left you feeling both disoriented and mortified. with trembling hands, you scrambled to gather your clothes, hastily dressing as you tried to make sense of the chaos.

in a frantic rush, you stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, your heart pounding in your chest. the house was still quiet, save for the soft murmurs of the early morning. wgen you reached the bottom, you were met with jihyo’s intense gaze. her expression was a mixture of concern and exasperation, a look that made you feel like you were about to face her wrath. “i could strangle you right now,” she said, her voice sharp and laced with an underlying tension. the threat in her words was softened only by the lack of her morning smoke, a ritual she hadn’t yet indulged in. you stood there, feeling a knot of fear tighten in your stomach. the scolding began, a tirade of reprimands that blended into a blur of guilt and embarrassment.

the weight of your actions pressed heavily upon you, and though you tried to focus on her words, your mind was elsewhere. the guilt of the night before, the uncertainty of what you had done, and the unanticipated consequences all swirled together in a disorienting mix. during class, her scolding continued, her frustration evident. you sat there, trying to stay composed as the minutes ticked by. the lecture on art and technique seemed distant, a backdrop to the internal turmoil you were experiencing. it was only when a familiar face appeared that you were jolted from your reverie.

the girl who had been with jungkook the previous morning walked in and took a seat with you and jihyo. she greeted you with a polite smile, and as she settled in, she mentioned needing help with her sculpture. you gave her your notes, watching her as she began to work with the clay, your mind still reeling from the events of the night. as she sculpted, your gaze inadvertently fell to her wrist. there, clearly visible, was a drawing of a monarch butterfly.

the sight of it sent a jolt through you, your stomach twisting in a sickening churn. the connection hit you like a physical blow, and the room seemed to spin around you. you were frozen, unable to tear your eyes away from the drawing that mirrored the one jungkook had drawn on you. unable to stay any longer, you excused yourself, the rush of emotions and physical discomfort becoming too overwhelming to ignore. you hurried to the bathroom, the need to escape the situation pressing heavily on you. once inside, you leaned over the sink and, overwhelmed by a combination of betrayal, hangover, and emotional turmoil, you began to vomit. each heave felt like it was ripping something deeper inside of you, the physical pain amplifying the emotional distress.

as you clung to the sink, the cool porcelain against your forehead offering a small comfort, you were consumed by a storm of conflicting feelings. the events of the night had left their mark, and now, the stark reality of the situation was unfolding with cruel clarity. as you stepped out of the bathroom, the heaviness in your chest felt almost tangible. the earlier discomfort was still fresh, and you were hoping for a moment of peace. instead, the moment you emerged, you heard a voice calling for you. you turned, only to see jungkook walking towards you with a grin that seemed far too bright given the situation.

“running out without a goodbye kiss? that’s pure evil,” he said, his tone light and teasing. but as you met his gaze, you saw no trace of irony or humor—just a genuine, unfaltering smile that made your stomach churn once again.

you forced yourself to look him in the eyes, trying to steady your emotions. “i just talked to soel,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “she has a butterfly tattoo on her wrist. the same one you drew on me.”

jungkook’s smile didn’t falter. Instead, he seemed unfazed by your revelation. “oh, that? i draw that on all my friends,” he said nonchalantly. “why does it bug you?”

the casualness of his response left you reeling. you stared at him, feeling a cold wave of betrayal wash over you. “is that what i am to you? just a friend?” his reaction was almost mechanical. “yeah,” he said, shrugging slightly. “is that an issue for you?”

the simple, matter-of-fact way he spoke was like a punch to the gut. you were stunned, the weight of his words crashing down on you like a tidal wave. the realization that you had misinterpreted his intentions, that your emotions had been tangled in a misunderstanding, left you feeling hollow. without another word, you turned away, your heart racing and your mind clouded with a storm of betrayal and shock. you walked briskly, your steps echoing with a sense of finality as you left jungkook behind. the turmoil inside you was a jumbled mess, each step away from him only amplifying the confusion and hurt.

the campus was bustling with the usual midday energy as you joined jihyo, minho, and minyoung for lunch. you sat down at the table with them, the usual chatter and laughter around you feeling like a distant echo. as they talked animatedly about their day, you remained silent, the weight of the morning’s events heavy on your shoulders.

minho finally broke through the silence, noticing the way you said nothing. “what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone gentle but concerned. the question was like a dam breaking. you tried to hold back the tears, but the effort proved futile. they spilled over, each drop a mix of frustration, sadness, and disappointment. the raw emotion that had been building up inside you was finally released, and you found yourself unable to stop the flood.

through your tears, you recounted the events of the night before—the drunken mistake, the disheartening conversation with jungkook, and the sting of betrayal. your voice trembled with each word, the hurt and confusion palpable as you shared your story.

as you spoke, you could see the shock and horror on their faces. minho’s eyes widened with disbelief, and minyoung’s expression turned to one of sympathy. but it was jihyo’s reaction that truly struck you. her face darkened with anger, and her eyes blazed with a fierce resolve. “might actually fucking kill him,” she said with a steely determination, her words delivered in a low, dangerous tone. the promise was almost soothing in its intensity, a sign of her fierce loyalty and anger on your behalf.

you shook your head, feeling a fresh wave of guilt wash over you. “no, don’t,” you managed to say between sobs. “it’s my fault. i was too trusting. i should have seen it coming.”

her expression softened as she reached out to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “don’t blame yourself,” she said firmly. “you didn’t do anything wrong. he’s the one who failed you. focus on yourself and your work. you deserve better than this.” but despite her reassurances, you found it difficult to shift your focus. jungkook’s smile, the way he had looked at you, the crushing realization of his indifference—all of it was still vividly etched in your mind. the pain of the betrayal felt like a persistent ache, a constant reminder of your misplaced trust and the emotional turmoil it had caused.

as lunch continued, you struggled to engage in the conversation. your mind kept drifting back to him, replaying the moments and words that had shattered your sense of stability. the comfort of jihyo’s words was overshadowed by the persistent sting of your own emotions. the rest of the afternoon passed in a blur, the echoes of your thoughts louder than any external noise. the distraction of the campus environment did little to ease your turmoil, and the weight of your feelings continued to anchor you in a state of unresolved pain.

in the solitude of the studio, the air was heavy with the smell of clay and the faint traces of your exhaustion. the sculpture in front of you was nearly complete, a painstakingly crafted representation of a woman’s head—her expression a haunting blend of serenity and despair. the piece symbolized a submission to love that consumed and overwhelmed. her eyes were hollowed out, the sockets deep and dark, conveying an intense and tragic devotion. the gouged-out eyes were not merely a detail; they were the very essence of her surrender, the ultimate sacrifice for the one she loved.

your hands trembled slightly as you made the final adjustments, the weight of your own emotions interwoven with the piece. you took a step back to admire your work, your heart heavy with the sense of completion mingled with the burden of what it represented. the sculpture was a mirror to your own turbulent feelings, capturing the essence of devotion and its potential for destruction.

the quiet of the studio was suddenly disrupted by a voice behind you. “where are her eyes?” jungkook asked, his tone inquisitive yet casual. you stiffened, momentarily frozen by the intrusion. your gaze remained fixed on the sculpture, trying to compose yourself. “she gouged her eyes out,” you said softly, your voice carrying the weight of the sculpture’s meaning. “simply because her lover wanted her to. she would do anything for him.”

jungkook’s footsteps approached, and you felt him come closer, his presence a palpable force in the room. he stood behind you, his gaze fixed on the sculpture as he admired your work. “it’s a beautiful piece,” he said, his voice sincere but carrying an undercurrent of something else.

you kept your back to him, your attention focused on the sculpture, trying to ignore the effect his presence had on you. but then, you felt him press closer, his body nearly touching your back. he leaned in, his breath warm and tickling your ear as he gently pushed aside your hair. “are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice a low whisper. you struggled to maintain your composure, the tension between you palpable. “i have no reason to be,” you replied, though your voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

you felt him smirk against your skin, the touch of his lips sending shivers down your spine. his kisses, light and teasing, trailed down your neck, each touch intensifying your internal conflict. “we shouldn’t be doing this,” you murmured, your voice wavering. his breath was hot against your ear as he replied, “that’s what makes it so fun.”

your resistance wavered as he continued to kiss your neck, the pleasure mingling with your sense of guilt and confusion. You knew it was wrong, yet the allure of the moment was powerful. finally, you turned around to face him, the decision made despite your inner turmoil. you allowed him to kiss you, the contact both electrifying and disorienting.

the kiss was intense, a clash of emotions and desires that left you breathless. jungkook’s touch was both familiar and foreign, a reminder of the complications that had arisen between you. as you surrendered to the kiss, the studio’s quiet solitude seemed to collapse around you, leaving only the swirling mixture of passion and regret. in the midst of the embrace, the sculpture remained a silent witness, its hollow eyes a stark reminder of the emotional sacrifice and the consuming nature of love. the art piece and the reality of your feelings intertwined, creating a poignant reflection of the complicated interplay between desire and devotion.

his hands found their way to your waist, his grip firm as he pulled you closer to him. you felt his arousal pressing against you, and despite your inner reservations, your body responded instinctively. the attraction was undeniable, a magnetic force that seemed to have a will of its own. his kiss grew deeper, more demanding, as his hands began to explore your body. your own hands roamed over his chest, feeling the muscles tighten beneath your touch. the fabric of your clothes felt like a barrier to the connection you both craved, and without a word, jungkook began to remove them. the anticipation grew as each layer fell away, revealing your skin to the cool studio air.

you found yourself bent over the sculpting table, jungkook’s hands tracing your spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. he whispered dirty words into your ear, his voice thick with desire, and you felt your knees wobble. the reality of the situation washed over you—the illicitness of it, the raw need you felt for each other—and you realized that this was what you had been craving, despite the guilt.

his fingers dipped lower, finding the wetness between your legs, and you gasped into his mouth. jungkook’s touch grew more insistent, and the sculpture beneath your palms seemed to pulse with the rhythm of your heart. you were no longer the artist—you were the art, being shaped and molded by his desires.

his hand slid away, and you heard the sound of his belt buckle. your heart raced as he positioned himself behind you, the tip of his erection teasing your entrance. “are you sure?” you managed to ask, the tremor in your voice betraying your nerves. “do you want me?” he replied, his voice a challenge. your body answered for you, arching back, begging for him to fill you. and with one powerful thrust, he did.

the sensation was overwhelming—his bare skin against yours, the heat of his body surrounding you. his grip tightened on your hips as he began to move, the rhythm punctuated by your moans and the slap of skin against skin. the intensity grew with each stroke, the pleasure a wildfire that consumed every rational thought. you could feel his breath on your neck, his voice a gruff whisper of praise and desire. your eyes closed, and the sculpture, the studio, the world outside—it all faded away, leaving only the two of you and the primal dance of your bodies.

his thrusts grew harder, deeper, as he claimed you from behind. the sculpture was forgotten, a symbol of a love that was now a tangible reality in the form of this explosive union. you reached back, your hand finding the base of his cock, and you felt his body tense with pleasure. the air was thick with passion, the scent of sex and clay a heady mix that intoxicated you both. jungkook’s movements grew erratic, and you knew he was close. with one final, powerful push, he reached his climax, his warmth filling you as he groaned your name.

you collapsed onto the table, spent and trembling, as jungkook leaned over you, his breath ragged. for a moment, there was only silence, the two of you trying to find your bearings in the aftermath of the storm.

but the quiet was broken by the sudden sound of the studio door opening, and you both froze. your eyes widened with panic, and jungkook’s grip on you tightened. “we can’t get caught,” you whispered, your heart racing with fear and excitement. he smirked, his eyes dark with mischief. “we won’t,” he assured you, his voice low and seductive. “not until we’re finished, anyway.” the tension grew as the footsteps grew louder, and jungkook began to move again, slower this time, his strokes long and deliberate. the game of hiding in plain sight was thrilling, a dangerous edge to the passion that had overtaken you both.

the newcomer to the studio called out a greeting, and his hand covered your mouth, muffling any sound you might make. you bit down on your lip, stifling a moan, as he continued to fuck you with an urgent need that seemed to defy the danger of being discovered. your heart hammered in your chest, the thrill of the forbidden mixing with the fear of being caught.

his movements grew more deliberate, his hips grinding into yours with a silent rhythm that matched the beat of your racing pulse. you could feel the eyes of the sculpture on you, the hollow sockets seeming to judge you even as you writhed in pleasure beneath his touch. the footsteps grew closer, and his grip tightened. he leaned in, his teeth grazing your ear as he whispered, “be quiet, baby. come for me.” the words sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you did as he asked, your orgasm building like a crescendo.

just as the person entered the room, you reached the peak, your body convulsing around jungkook’s cock. he groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your neck, and you clamped down on his hand to keep from crying out. the wave of pleasure washed over you, leaving you trembling and exposed. his strokes grew shallower, his cock still hard and pulsing inside you. the footsteps stopped just outside the partition that separated the main studio from your makeshift private corner. the tension was unbearable, a tight coil of excitement and fear that made every nerve ending in your body feel alive.

his eyes locked with yours, and you saw the challenge in them. you knew he was enjoying this as much as he enjoyed the sex itself—the risk, the danger, the thrill of the secret. your breathing was ragged, your body still quaking from the orgasm that had torn through you, and yet you remained silent, waiting. the person in the room spoke, their voice muffled by the wall of clay that separated you. jungkook’s thrusts grew more gentle now, almost tender, as he slowly pulled out of you. you felt the warmth of his seed inside you, a stark reminder of what had just happened.

you both waited, your breaths syncing as the footsteps grew fainter, moving away from your hiding spot. once the room was empty again, jungkook leaned down to kiss you, his lips brushing yours with a softness that seemed at odds with the ferocity of your encounter. “see?” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “no one will ever know our little secret.”

you pushed him away gently, sitting up and adjusting your clothes. your mind was racing, a whirlwind of emotions—shame, exhilaration, fear of being found out. but there was also something else, a dark satisfaction that seemed to hum in the air.

the sculpture loomed before you, the woman’s expression now a reflection of your own complex feelings. jungkook pulled on his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours. “we can’t do this again,” you said, the finality in your voice unmistakable. but as he zipped up his pants, the smug smile on his face told you that he didn’t believe you. and deep down, neither did you. the line had been crossed, and the taste of the forbidden was too sweet to ignore.

his eyes held a promise of more to come, and despite yourself, you felt your body respond. the next chapter of this illicit story was already being written, the plot thickening with every shared glance and stolen touch. and you knew that no matter how much you tried to resist, you would be drawn back into the tumultuous dance of desire and deceit that was your relationship with him.

as jungkook stepped out of the studio, his silhouette fading into the dim light of the hallway, you were left alone with the echo of his departure. you hastily pulled your clothes back on, your hands trembling uncontrollably. each movement was a struggle against the storm of emotions raging inside you.

the studio, once a sanctuary of creation, now felt like a cage closing in around you. the quiet was oppressive, amplifying the shattering of your composure. you fought to hold back the tears, but the effort proved futile. they began to fall, each drop a release of the turmoil you had been trying to suppress. you sank to the floor, your body trembling with the force of your sobs. the statue stood before you, its eyeless gaze a haunting reflection of your own despair. the sculpture, a representation of sacrifice and devotion, seemed to mock you now. its hollow eyes, gouged out as a symbol of surrender, mirrored the emptiness and heartbreak you felt inside.

unable to bear the sight, you were overcome by a furious, anguished energy. the intensity of your emotions erupted uncontrollably. you launched yourself at the statue, your hands and feet flailing as you knocked it over. the crash of clay against the floor was loud, a jarring sound that matched the violence of your grief. you kicked at the broken pieces, the fragments scattering across the studio floor. the destruction was cathartic yet devastating, a physical manifestation of the chaos within you. as the statue lay shattered, the pieces symbolized the fragmented state of your heart. each kick was a release, each broken shard a representation of your pain.

exhausted and overwhelmed, you slid down against the wall, the tears still flowing freely. the destruction of the sculpture had not lessened the weight of your sorrow. instead, it left you staring at the remnants, the once-beautiful work now reduced to a broken mess. you continued to cry, your body wracked with sobs as you gazed at the ruined statue. the eyeless gaze of the sculpture, now in fragments, seemed to reach out to you in a final, tragic understanding. the intense emotion of the piece was mirrored in your own shattered state. the studio, with its scattered pieces and your anguished cries, was a poignant testament to the overwhelming pain and anger you felt.

the contrast between the beauty of the sculpture and the violence of its destruction spoke to the raw intensity of your emotions. the studio, once a space of artistic expression, had become a stage for your most profound heartache. as you wept, the remnants of the statue lay around you, a somber reminder of the intricate connection between art, love, and the devastating effects of betrayal. in the end, as your sobs quieted and you sat amidst the broken pieces, the sight of the ruined sculpture served as a haunting reflection of your own emotional wreckage. the tears continued to fall, mingling with the clay fragments, a final, tragic testament to the depth of your despair.

as you gathered your belongings, the weight of the night’s events clung heavily to your shoulders. the studio, once a place of solace and creativity, now felt like a space of ruin and disillusionment. your hands moved mechanically, shoving your scattered materials into your bag. each motion was devoid of purpose, driven by a numbing emptiness rather than intent.

the soft sounds of your packing were abruptly interrupted by distant noises—low grunts and muffled groans—emanating from the studio down the hall. the sounds were raw and unsettling, a contrast to the quiet destruction you had left behind. your curiosity and dread compelled you to investigate, despite the turmoil within you.

you approached the door to the neighboring studio, its glass panel offering a distorted view into the dimly lit room. peering through, your heart sank as you recognized the scene unfolding inside. jungkook was there, engaged with a girl you couldn’t identify. the sight of them, entwined in an intimate and brutal display, was a dagger to your already fragile heart.

the cold reality of the moment was a sharp contrast to the warmth you had briefly experienced with him. you were paralyzed, unable to tear your gaze away from the scene before you. each grunt and moan was a reminder of your own vulnerability and the painful contrast between the connection you had felt and the stark betrayal unfolding before you. the sight of him with another, the passion and disregard apparent in their movements, left you feeling hollow. you had no tears left to shed; the emotional reservoir had been drained dry by the night's turmoil. the image of their bodies, entwined and fervent, was seared into your mind—a brutal symbol of your own sense of abandonment and betrayal.

turning away from the glass, you felt an eerie emptiness consume you. the world seemed to blur as you walked down the hallway, your steps heavy and unsteady. your mind was a void, a blank slate where thoughts and emotions once swirled with intensity. the encounter had left you drained, each step echoing with the weight of your disillusionment.

the cold air of the hallway seemed to press against you, a stark reminder of the isolation you felt. as you made your way home, the world around you was a distant haze. the vibrant life of the campus and the remnants of your art—the shattered statue, the chaotic emotions—faded into the background, leaving only the crushing emptiness of your thoughts. each step felt like a journey through fog, the clarity of the night’s events slipping away with each movement. the betrayal, the emotional wreckage, and the raw intensity of the moments you had witnessed had left you numb. you walked forward, but within, you remained frozen—trapped in the silence of your own heartache.

the sun rose reluctantly on the campus the next day, its light casting a dull glow through the classroom windows. you stumbled into your class, exhausted and hollow-eyed from a night spent in sleepless turmoil. the world outside felt distant, its vibrancy lost to you as you trudged through the motions of daily life. your movements were mechanical as you took your place among the scattered students. the studio, once a sanctuary of creativity, now felt foreign and unwelcoming. the empty canvas in front of you was a glaring testament to your lack of inspiration. the urge to sculpt, to create, was absent, replaced by a void of emotional fatigue and despair.

jihyo tried her best to offer comfort. her words were gentle, her presence a constant reassurance in the face of your turmoil. despite her efforts, the pain within you remained insurmountable. her attempts to console you seemed to fall short of reaching the deep chasm of your heartache. the betrayal and the haunting images from the previous night left you adrift, unable to focus or find solace.

the professor’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts, announcing a new student would be joining the class. you barely registered his words, your mind elsewhere, wandering through the fog of your sleepless night. it wasn’t until you heard the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of surprise among your peers that you looked up.

your heart skipped a beat as you locked eyes with the new student. it was jackson. the same jackson who had once been a part of your world, now standing before you with a familiar, if unwelcome, presence. the shock of seeing him in this context, amid your already tumultuous emotions, was almost too much to bear. he met your gaze with an expression that was a mixture of apprehension and resolve. the smile he once wore with ease now seemed strained, an acknowledgment of the shared past that had ended in such distressing terms. the air in the room felt charged, the atmosphere thick with an unspoken tension. his arrival was a jarring reminder of old wounds, reopened with his unexpected reappearance.

you forced yourself to focus, trying to ignore the way your heart raced and the way your mind spun with fragmented memories of him. the professor introduced jackson, guiding him to a seat, and the room’s atmosphere shifted. the familiar face was a painful reminder of a time when things had been different, when trust and affection had colored your world.

jihyo, noticing the way your gaze lingered on him, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. you offered her a weak smile, her concern evident in her eyes. yet, despite her support, the emotional storm inside you remained uncalm. you felt as though you were caught in the eye of a hurricane, where the calm was an illusion masking the chaos within.

as jackson settled into his new spot, you couldn't help but feel a pang of anxiety. the familiarity of his presence, combined with the unresolved issues from your past, created a sense of disquiet. you tried to refocus on your work, but the blank canvas before you was a stark reminder of the numbness that had consumed your creativity. the rest of the class droned on, his presence a silent but heavy weight in the room. every glance in his direction felt like a step back into a storm you had barely escaped. your hands remained idle, the sculpting tools untouched as you struggled to regain some semblance of normalcy.

the day dragged on, each minute a reminder of the fractured pieces of your recent past. as the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the class, you gathered your things with a sense of resignation. the encounter with him had been a jarring disruption, but it was also a harsh reminder that the echoes of past relationships often resurface when least expected. you walked out of the classroom, your mind still clouded with the weight of your emotions. the campus, with its usual bustle of activity, felt distant and surreal. the familiar paths and faces seemed altered, as though you were navigating through a dream that had turned unsettlingly real.

the day seemed to drag endlessly as you walked out of the classroom, feeling the heavy weight of jackson’s unexpected reappearance. the campus, once a place of refuge and creativity, now felt like a labyrinth of memories and unresolved emotions. you walked with a purpose, desperate to escape the lingering sense of disquiet that his presence had stirred within you.

as you moved through the crowded hallways, lost in your thoughts, a voice called out to you, breaking through the fog of your mind. you turned slowly, your heart skipping a beat as you saw hin standing a few steps away. his expression was earnest, eyes filled with a mix of regret and hope. for a moment, you felt paralyzed, caught between the urge to flee and the reluctant desire to hear him out.

jackson took a hesitant step towards you, his hand reaching out to gently grasp your wrist. the touch was light, almost pleading, and you could feel the warmth of his skin through your thin sleeve. his eyes were filled with an apologetic softness that seemed to convey a depth of remorse you hadn’t anticipated. “what are you doing here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. you struggled to keep your emotions in check, the memory of the sculpture and the pain it had caused still fresh in your mind.

his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before he looked up again, his eyes meeting yours with a sincere gravity. “i wanted to focus solely on my work,” he said, his voice laced with an honesty that was both surprising and unsettling. “it’s been difficult since you left. i lost my muse.”

the words struck you with a sharp edge, stirring a storm of conflicting emotions within you. the image of the sculpture, the public humiliation, and the way he had dismissed your feelings—all of it came rushing back. you remembered the pain and betrayal that had clouded your heart.

“you don’t get to just come back and pretend like everything’s fine,” you said, your voice trembling. “you can’t erase what you did.”

his face fell, and he took a deep breath before speaking. “i know,” he said quietly. “and I’m sorry. i had the sculpture removed. i understand that nothing will ever be the same. i just wanted to let you know that, if nothing else, i’d like to be your friend.”

his words were both unexpected and profound, offering a semblance of closure that you hadn’t anticipated. the notion of friendship, after everything that had transpired, felt both distant and comforting. you stood there, absorbing the gravity of his apology and the genuine regret that seemed to hang in the air between you. for a moment, the chaos inside you quieted, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. his offer of friendship was an olive branch, a gesture that acknowledged the hurt while striving for something different. yet, the wound was still fresh, and the idea of moving past it was daunting.

“i need time,” you said finally, your voice steady but tinged with a quiet resolve. “i can’t just pick up where we left off.” he nodded, his expression a blend of understanding and sadness. “i know,” he replied softly. “take all the time you need. i just wanted you to know i’m here if you ever want to talk.” with a final, lingering look, he turned and began to walk away. each step seemed to echo with the weight of the past and the uncertain promise of the future. you watched him go, your mind awash with a storm of emotions—anger, relief, and a bittersweet sense of closure. as you stood there alone in the corridor, the bustling noise of the campus seemed distant, as if you were enveloped in a cocoon of introspection. the conversation with jackson had stirred up old wounds, but had also offered a glimmer of resolution.

lunch on campus was always a comforting routine. the sun was high, casting dappled shadows through the leafy canopy above. you, jihyo, and minho had claimed your usual spot at a worn wooden table, the comforting hum of student chatter surrounding you. jihyo animatedly recounted her latest project, while minho nodded, occasionally chiming in with his dry wit. you were halfway through a bite of your sandwich when you saw him—jackson. he passed by with his characteristic easy grace, a slight smile playing on his lips as his eyes met yours. respectfully, he sat on a separate bench a few feet away, not wanting to intrude.

jihyo's eyes narrowed, her conversation with minho faltering as she followed your gaze. “why is he here?” she muttered, her voice barely audible but dripping with disdain. you stood up, your decision made in an instant. as you approached him, his smile faded slightly, replaced with a look of concern.

“is everything okay?” he asked, his voice soft, yet tinged with uncertainty. “come sit with us,” you replied, your tone gentle yet firm.

“are you sure?” his hesitation was palpable.

you nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. with a grateful nod, he followed you back to the table. minho raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, but it was jihyo's reaction that was most striking. her eyes widened, and she sat back, crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

“jackson, this is minho,” you introduced, and he gave a polite nod. “and this is jihyo.” jackson extended his hand to her, but she simply stared him down, her gaze icy. “she may have forgotten what you did, but i sure haven’t,” she said, her voice like steel.

he withdrew his hand slowly, nodding in acknowledgment. “i understand,” he replied softly. you placed a comforting hand on jihyo’s arm. “he came for a fresh start,” you explained, your voice calm and steady. “he even got the sculpture taken down.” jihyo’s skeptical glance lingered on him, but she didn’t press further. the tension in the air was almost tangible, but his presence gradually began to feel less intrusive.

he smiled at you, a look of genuine gratitude and perhaps a hint of hope in his eyes. you smiled back, feeling a sense of warmth and relief. the past might not be easily forgotten, but in that moment, it felt like a step towards something better, something new. as the conversation slowly resumed, you couldn’t help but feel that this lunch, under the sunlit canopy, marked the beginning of a significant change—a moment of reconciliation and new beginnings.

unbeknownst to you, a familiar figure stood in the background, having noticed your whole ordeal. jungkook, leaning casually against a nearby tree, had been chatting with his friends, their laughter mingling with the warm air. but his attention had been subtly drawn to you the moment jackson appeared. his dark eyes followed every movement, every gesture you made. the way you approached jackson with a calm demeanor, the soft reassurance in your voice, and the unyielding kindness in your eyes—it all piqued his curiosity. his friends were engrossed in a lively debate about the upcoming exhibition, but he found himself only half-listening, his mind occupied with the scene unfolding at your table.

he watched as you led jackson back, noticed the tension between him and jihyo, and observed the way you mediated with such grace. jungkook brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, trying to focus back on his friends' conversation. yet, the feeling tugging at his heartstrings was undeniable, a peculiar mix of curiosity and something he couldn’t quite identify.

the laughter of his friends brought him back to the present moment, and he forced a smile, joining in their conversation. but his eyes betrayed him, darting back to you occasionally. he noted the genuine smile you exchanged with jackson, a smile that seemed to light up your entire being. he couldn’t put his finger on it. was it admiration? perhaps a touch of jealousy? he shook his head, trying to dismiss the thoughts. after all, he had no reason to feel this way. you were just another girl, albeit a talented one, whose work he respected. yet, there was something in the way you handled the situation that stirred something deep within him.

back in the studio, the familiar scent of clay and the quiet hum of creativity enveloped you. the light filtering through the tall windows cast an ethereal glow on your workspace, illuminating the clay sculpture taking shape beneath your deft fingers. you shuddered, recalling the tumultuous scene you had caused, the emotional outburst that had led you to destroy your previous work of art.

determined to push back any thoughts of jungkook, you focused entirely on the clay before you. each movement was elegant, deliberate, as your hands moved with a grace born from years of practice. your mind, however, raced with a whirlwind of emotions—freedom, butterflies, liberty, independence. the sculpture was coming to life beneath your touch: an extended hand, its fingers gently curved, and a string of butterflies, delicate and intricate, laid one on top of the other. they seemed to be chasing the freedom they so desperately desired. yet, as you worked, their wings began to wither, the fragile clay starting to crumble under your touch. they had flown for so long, yearning for independence, before finally finding solace in the palm of a hand. it was a poignant realization—that the only thing they needed more than freedom was the touch of love.

you were so absorbed in your work that you barely noticed when jackson entered the studio. he said nothing, simply standing and watching you. his presence was quiet, respectful, and he observed as you caressed the butterflies, shaping each one with meticulous care. “it’s a beautiful piece,” he finally said, his voice soft, breaking the silence.

startled, you looked up, your eyes meeting his. you hadn’t realized he was there, so engrossed in your work. “jackson,” you breathed, your hands stilling. “i didn’t see you come in.”

he offered a gentle smile, stepping closer to the sculpture. “i didn’t want to disturb you. you looked so focused.” you glanced back at the sculpture, the extended hand and the fragile butterflies. “they’re chasing freedom,” you explained, your voice thoughtful. “but their wings are falling apart. they’ve been flying for so long, seeking independence, but they realize that what they need more than freedom is love.”

jackson studied the piece for a moment, nodding slowly. “you have a way of seeing the world, of expressing it through your art. i was wrong. you know art better than anyone.” his words were sincere, and they touched you deeply. you smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. as he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, a tender gesture, it struck you—you knew art, its nuances, its depth. nevertheless, you didn't know love. that was a realm you had yet to truly understand.

the studio felt different now, not just a place of creation, but a space where emotions, complex and raw, intertwined with every sculpted form. and in that moment, with jackson's reassuring presence and the delicate clay butterflies, you realized there was more to learn, more to feel, beyond the confines of your art.

his eyes, warm and curious, met yours. “what has you so fascinated with butterflies?” he asked, his voice soft yet probing. you paused, your mind inevitably drifting back to jungkook. the memory of the monarch tattoo on the back of his neck was vivid, a symbol of his own desperate need to chase freedom. the thought made your blood run cold, a shiver running down your spine. you forced a smile, trying to push the unsettling thoughts away. “i admire them,” you said, your voice steady but distant. “they chase their own freedom, rather than love.”

his gaze softened, understanding flickering in his eyes. “everyone deserves love more than anything,” he replied gently. you said nothing, the words lingering in the air between you. the silence was filled with unspoken emotions, a depth of feeling that you couldn’t quite articulate. “especially you,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

the moment felt fragile, delicate like the butterflies you sculpted. before you could respond, the door to the studio swung open, and jihyo walked in, her presence breaking the intimate silence.

“hey, you two,” she called out, her tone light and cheerful. “the group's going out for drinks. you’re both welcome to join.” you hesitated, the weight of the day’s emotions still heavy on your shoulders. the idea of socializing felt overwhelming, but before you could decline, jackson spoke up.

“you deserve a break,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a reassuring smile. “come on, it’ll be fun.” with a sigh, you nodded, feeling a mix of reluctance and gratitude. his encouragement gave you the push you needed. the prospect of stepping out of the studio, even for a short while, seemed like a small reprieve.

as you gathered your things, the studio’s comforting hum faded into the background. you cast one last look at your sculpture, the extended hand and the fragile butterflies, and felt a renewed sense of purpose. perhaps, amidst the chaos and the quest for freedom, there was room for love too. walking out with jackson and jihyo, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting, a subtle change in the air. the evening stretched ahead of you, filled with possibilities, and for the first time in a while, you felt a glimmer of hope.

the walk to the bar was filled with a mixture of anticipation and unease. the streets were bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, casting long shadows that danced with each step you took. jihyo walked ahead, her laughter echoing down the empty street, while jackson stayed close by your side. as you approached the entrance of the bar, a sudden chill washed over you, sending a shiver down your spine. you couldn't quite place the feeling, but it was a foreboding sense that something was about to happen. the moment you walked in, the dim lighting and the low hum of chatter enveloped you. But it was the pair of dark eyes that you locked with immediately that sent a jolt through your entire being.

it was him, it always seemed to be him. he was sitting at a table with a few friends, his posture relaxed but his gaze intense. your body tensed involuntarily, and jackson, ever perceptive, noticed immediately. he placed a comforting arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “ease up,” he whispered in your ear, his voice calm and reassuring. “i’ve got your back.”

you finally broke the gaze, nodding at jackson, and made your way to a table as far from jungkook as possible. jackson's arm remained draped around you, a steadying presence in the storm of emotions brewing inside you. the two of you indulged in drinks, jackson leaning in close to whisper in your ear. “just so you know,” he said with a playful grin, “i’m a lightweight.” you laughed, the tension easing slightly. “i know,” you whispered back, your smile widening.

despite your attempts to ignore him, you could feel jungkook’s eyes on you the entire time. he downed his drink, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he watched you with jackson. you could almost feel the intensity of his thoughts, wondering who jackson was and why you were with him. minho’s voice broke through the haze of tension. “how about a round of darts?” he suggested, his tone light and carefree.

your mind immediately flashed back to playing darts with jungkook, the way he had stood behind you, guiding your hand, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered instructions. the memory was sharp and painful, and you shook your head. “no, thank you,” you replied politely, trying to keep your voice steady. jackson noticed the flicker of emotion in your eyes. “i’ll play for you,” he offered, a confident smile on his lips.

you nodded, grateful for his support. jackson stood up, heading over to the dartboard, and jungkook’s eyes narrowed. his fuse had blown, the thin veneer of calm shattering. “i’ll play against you,” he announced, his voice low and challenging.

the room went quiet, the tension palpable. your face went pale, and you glanced at jackson, who scoffed, clearly unfazed by his challenge. “fine,” he said coolly. “let’s play.”

the game began, and the atmosphere was thick with tension. each throw of the dart was accompanied by backhanded remarks, the words sharp and biting. “nice throw,” jungkook commented, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “didn’t know you had it in you.” jackson smirked, his eyes never leaving the dartboard. “you’d be surprised what i can do,” he replied smoothly. “unlike some people, i don’t need to show off.”

jungkook’s eyes flashed with anger. “careful,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “you might bite off more than you can chew.” jackson shrugged, his expression unfazed. “i think i’ll manage,” he said, his voice steady. the game continued, each round more intense than the last. finally, with a final, precise throw, jackson won. he turned to you, a triumphant smile on his face, and you couldn’t help but hug him congratulatory. his embrace was warm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the cold glare jungkook sent your way.

his gaze never left the two of you, his eyes dark and stormy. the tension in the air was almost suffocating, but in jackson’s arms, you felt a sense of safety and support. the night was far from over, but for now, you allowed yourself to bask in the moment, grateful for the small victories amidst the chaos.

the tension inside the bar had become suffocating, a palpable force that seemed to press down on you. excusing yourself, you made your way to the door, needing a moment of solitude to clear your mind. as you stood up, jackson placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, his lips warm and reassuring. “hurry back,” he said softly, his eyes full of warmth. but you didn’t miss the way jungkook’s gaze hardened, his jaw clenching as he watched the small exchange.

you stepped outside, the cool night air a welcome relief. reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a cigarette, the flick of the lighter breaking the stillness. as you took the first drag, the smoke curled around you, its familiar scent grounding you in the moment. your peace was short-lived, however. a voice broke through the quiet, low and unmistakable.

“is that your boyfriend?” you didn’t turn around. instead, you scoffed, exhaling a plume of smoke. “he’s my ex-boyfriend.”

jungkook’s tone was unreadable as he remarked, “you two seem close.” you took another drag, the cigarette glowing softly in the darkness. “we have history,” you replied. “we might even make up at some point.”

he laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “don’t even think about it,” he said, his voice hardening. finally, you turned to face him, anger flaring in your chest. “what does it have to do with you?”

he took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. “the sight of you with another man makes me unreasonably angry,” he confessed, his voice low and intense. you were silent, your heart pounding as he stepped even closer. his presence was overwhelming, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. without breaking eye contact, he reached out, taking the cigarette from your hand. he brought it to his lips, taking a slow puff, a small smile playing on his lips.

“mind your own business,” you said, your voice shaking slightly. “we’re nothing but friends, according to you.” he took another puff before leaning in, his gaze never wavering. in a swift motion, he pulled you in for a kiss. for a moment, you kissed him back, lost in the familiar warmth and intensity. but reality snapped back, and you pushed him away, anger and confusion swirling inside you.

“i have no interest in playing your games anymore,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. he was taken aback, his expression one of surprise and hurt, but he stayed silent. you stepped back, your eyes meeting his one last time. “stick to your usual players,” you told him, your voice laced with finality.

turning on your heel, you walked back into the bar, leaving jungkook standing alone in the night. the door closed behind you, the noise and warmth of the bar enveloping you once more. jackson looked up as you returned, concern flickering in his eyes, but you gave him a reassuring smile, trying to push the encounter from your mind. as you rejoined the group, the weight of the moment lingered, a heavy reminder of the complicated web of emotions you were entangled in. the night carried on, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

the night blurred as you indulged in the haze of alcohol, the edges of your reality softening with each drink. jungkook had returned to the bar, his presence a sharp contrast to the numbness that enveloped you. he made a deliberate effort to ignore you and jackson, his attention directed toward the girl beside him. she was a stranger to him, her name unimportant as she pressed kisses to his neck and traced her fingers along his collarbone.

you hadn't planned on drinking as much as you did. but when you caught a glimpse of the butterfly on the girl's wrist, the sight stung like a needle, memories of jungkook's monarch tattoo flooding back, memories of your own cherished drawing flooding back. you stared at the bottom of your glass, realizing you had lost count of how many times it had been filled and emptied.

jihyo noticed first, her eyes filled with sympathy as she took the glass from your hand, ignoring your feeble protests. jackson, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation, leaned in close. “you've had too much,” he murmured, his voice gentle yet firm. you wanted to argue, to push away his words, but the truth of them settled heavily on your shoulders. you felt too relaxed, your movements sluggish and your thoughts muddled. jackson announced to the group that he was taking you home, his tone leaving no room for debate.

that was when jungkook's attention was drawn back to you. he watched, his eyes darkening with an emotion he couldn't name, as jackson helped you to your feet. jungkook's heart twisted painfully as he saw the way you clung to him, your fingers gripping his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. he wanted to intervene, to take you in his arms and carry you home himself, but the weight of his own pride held him back. all he could do was watch as jackson guided you out of the bar, the girl's touch losing its allure entirely.

the walk home was a stumbling journey, your words slurring together in a drunken rant about what an asshole jungkook was. jackson did his best to console you, his voice soothing even as a pang of jealousy tightened in his chest. the sight of you in pain, tears glistening in your eyes, was almost more than he could bear.

when you finally reached your front door, he paused, his hands gentle as he steadied you. “seeing you cry was one of the worst experiences of my life,” he confessed, his voice low and earnest. “any man who makes you cry doesn't deserve you.” you looked at him, the sincerity in his eyes cutting through the fog of alcohol. he leaned in, pressing a final kiss to your cheek, the touch tender and bittersweet. “take care of yourself,” he whispered before turning to leave, the weight of his unspoken feelings lingering in the air.

you watched him go, your heart heavy with the tumult of emotions swirling inside you. the night was quiet now, the world around you still as you stood on your doorstep, the echo of jackson's words ringing in your ears. inside, the emptiness of your home seemed to mirror the void in your heart. you stumbled to your room, collapsing onto your bed, your mind replaying the events of the night. the taste of jungkook's kiss still lingered on your lips, a reminder of the complicated web of feelings you couldn't untangle. as sleep finally claimed you, your dreams were a tangled mess of memories and emotions, a reflection of the chaos that had become your reality.

the next day dawned with a dreary sky, the clouds heavy and swollen with impending rain. the rhythmic patter of raindrops against your window was a somber lullaby, pulling you from the clutches of a restless sleep. you groaned, the pounding in your head a relentless reminder of the previous night's excesses. forcing yourself out of bed, you prepared for the day, each movement deliberate and slow, as if the weight of your thoughts had seeped into your very bones.

the campus was a blur of umbrellas and hurried footsteps, the rain a persistent curtain that blurred the edges of your vision. you pulled your jacket tighter, shivering as the cold droplets kissed your skin. as you made your way to your morning class, a voice called out, stopping you in your tracks. “wait! could you come with me to the office?”

you turned to see one of the teachers, her expression unreadable. nervousness clawed at your insides, but you nodded, falling into step beside her. the walk to the office felt interminable, the walls closing in as a sense of dread pooled in your stomach. once inside, she gestured for you to sit, her demeanor serious. you complied, the anxiety almost unbearable as you waited for her to speak.

“the school’s program sends ten students from different departments every year to japan,” she began, her voice measured. “they spend a year at our sister art academy to strengthen their future as artists.” you nodded, your heart pounding. “i’m aware.”

she leaned forward, her eyes intense. “your sculptures have caught the eyes of many. you’re the top candidate. would you be interested?” the words hung in the air, your mind reeling. excitement surged through you, momentarily banishing the remnants of your hangover. “yes, absolutely!”

a smile ghosted across her lips. “you’ll need to create one more simple piece, something that speaks to you. can you do that?” you nodded, your thoughts already racing. “yes, i’m on it.”

“good. finish and present it as soon as possible.” you left the office, the rain still falling in relentless sheets. the excitement that had bubbled within you was quickly overshadowed by a gnawing hesitation. the reality of what the opportunity meant settled in, heavy and unyielding. you would be leaving everything behind—your friends, your school, and jungkook.

the thought of leaving him sent a fresh wave of uncertainty crashing over you. despite everything, despite the confusion and the pain, he was a part of your world. the idea of being an ocean away from him was almost too much to bear. you found yourself wandering aimlessly, the rain soaking through your clothes, each step feeling heavier than the last. your mind was a tempest, torn between the excitement of a new adventure and the fear of the unknown. the prospect of creating another sculpture loomed before you, a task that now felt monumental under the weight of your emotions.

the memory of your last piece resurfaced, the butterflies chasing freedom only to realize they needed love. the irony wasn’t lost on you. as you trudged through the rain, you realized that this new piece had to encapsulate everything you felt—the excitement, the fear, the longing, and the love. you headed back to the studio, the familiar scent of clay and plaster a strange comfort. as you began to work, the world outside faded away. your hands moved almost of their own accord, shaping and molding, each touch a cathartic release of the turmoil within. the rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, a melancholic soundtrack to your efforts.

hours passed in a blur, your focus unbroken despite the emotional storm raging inside you. the sculpture began to take shape, a raw, unfiltered expression of your heart. it was a simple piece, yet it spoke volumes—a delicate balance of freedom and love, the very essence of your struggle. by the time you stepped back to admire your work, exhaustion had settled into your bones, but there was a sense of accomplishment too. the piece was a part of you, a fragment of your soul made tangible.

as you stepped into the bustling café where you had arranged to meet jihyo and jackson, the atmosphere was charged with the soft hum of conversations and clinking coffee cups. the light rain that had persisted throughout the day drummed gently against the café’s windows, adding a soothing rhythm to the scene. you were greeted by their warm smiles as you took your seat, the weight of the day’s revelation still heavy on your shoulders.

jackson leaned forward, his eyes alight with genuine enthusiasm. “you know, this opportunity is amazing. your talent has always been evident, and this chance in japan is well-deserved. i’m so proud of you.” jihyo nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting the same pride and encouragement. “you’ve worked so hard. this is the kind of break you need to truly shine. i know you’re feeling hesitant, but remember how much you’ve accomplished. this is your chance to take it to the next level.”

you smiled weakly, your excitement mingling with apprehension. “i definitely plan to take it. it’s just, everything’s happening so fast, and i’m not sure how to let go of everything I’m leaving behind.”

jackson reached across the table, placing a comforting hand on yours. “your art is the best thing about you. it’s not just a part of you; it’s a reflection of who you are. anyone who gets to experience it, anyone who gets to know you through your art, is incredibly fortunate. you’re meant for great things.”

“thank you,” you said softly, feeling a wave of gratitude mixed with unease. it was then that you noticed a familiar figure through the café’s window. your heart skipped a beat as you saw jungkook sitting outside, his presence an unexpected jolt to your already fraught emotions. your breath caught in your throat as you observed him with another girl, who sat comfortably in his lap. they were sharing an intimate kiss, the tenderness of the moment starkly contrasting with the chaos swirling inside you.

the sight was a knife to your heart, the image of their closeness slicing through your resolve. you felt the world around you narrow, the laughter and chatter of the café fading into a distant hum. every beat of your heart seemed to echo with the impact of what you were witnessing. the gentle curve of jungkook’s smile, the way he held her—it was a brutal reminder of what you were losing. struggling to maintain composure, you excused yourself with a shaky voice. “i think i need some air. i’ll walk home.”

without waiting for their response, you stood abruptly, the café’s warmth feeling stifling against the cold storm brewing inside you. you pushed through the door, the crisp rain and cool air a sharp contrast to the suffocating emotions that had taken hold. each step felt heavy, the rain drumming against your skin a harsh, unrelenting reminder of the turmoil within.

as you walked, the image of jungkook and the girl replayed in your mind, a relentless echo that seemed to drown out all other thoughts. your heart felt like it was being pulled in a hundred directions at once—toward the excitement of your new opportunity and the painful reality of what you might be leaving behind. the rain continued to fall, mingling with the tears that slipped down your cheeks, unnoticed. the world around you seemed to blur, your thoughts a chaotic whirl of feelings and memories. the prospect of the future was overshadowed by the haunting present, and the weight of your choices seemed almost unbearable. you trudged along, the journey home a silent testament to the internal struggle you faced. the thought of him and his effortless connection with someone else was a harsh reminder of the emotional complexity you had to navigate, and the path ahead felt uncertain and fraught with both hope and heartache.

the rain fell in heavy, unrelenting sheets as you walked home, each step a painful reminder of the emotional weight you carried. the sky was a somber gray, the clouds a reflection of the storm raging inside you. your body felt frail, your legs weak, as if the very essence of your being was being drained away. the weight of what you had seen, the raw pain of feeling worthless, clung to you with an almost tangible heaviness. jungkook had meant the world to you, yet now it seemed that even that precious world was slipping through your fingers, leaving nothing but a hollow ache.

you trudged along the empty streets, the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the pavement blending with the chaotic rhythm of your thoughts. the cold rain soaked through your clothes, chilling you to the bone, but it barely registered against the emotional frost that had settled over your heart.

suddenly, you heard your name being called out. the voice was distant, but unmistakable. you recognized it instantly. it was him. you kept walking, trying to push the sound away, as if ignoring it could somehow make it disappear. but then, you heard it again, more urgent, cutting through the rain-soaked night. your steps faltered, and you turned around, your heart sinking as you saw him running towards you, his figure becoming clearer with each stride.

jungkook was drenched, the rain pouring down his face, mingling with the anguish that seemed to be etched into his features. his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. he reached you, breathless and soaked to the skin, but his presence was like a burning beacon in the storm.

“don’t go,” he said, his voice breaking through the relentless roar of the rain. you stared at him, confusion mingling with the pain in your chest. “what are you talking about?”

“i heard about japan,” he continued, his voice raw and pleading. “don’t go. please.”

the words struck you like a blow, but you fought to keep your composure. “i have no reason to stay,” you replied, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain firm. to your surprise, jungkook took your hands into his, his grip warm and desperate. “i need you here,” he said, his eyes filled with a pleading intensity. “i need you to stay.”

the tears that you had been holding back began to well up, blurring your vision. you pulled your hands away from his grasp, your voice cracking as you spoke. “i need to be as far away from you as possible. i like you too much, jungkook. i care for you, but i can’t give you the freedom you want. i need to chase my own freedom.”

you turned away, but his grip was swift and unyielding. he grabbed your arm, pulling you back, his fingers digging in with a desperation that matched your own inner turmoil. you could hear the ragged breaths escaping from his lips as he clung to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “please, just stay. don’t go.” you tried to pull away, but he held on, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close until your back was pressed against his chest. his embrace was both comforting and agonizing, a paradox of warmth and sorrow. you could feel his heartbeat against your back, a rhythmic reminder of the pain that was being shared between you.

he whispered into your ear, his voice trembling with emotion. “i need you. please don’t leave me.”

the tears streamed down your face uncontrollably as you remained silent, the weight of the decision pressing heavily upon you. his pleas were a bittersweet melody that tore at your heart, the pain of leaving him and the freedom you sought intertwining into a tormenting dance. with a final, wrenching sob, you pulled your arm away, turning to face him one last time. his face was a picture of heartache, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he watched you, his expression a mixture of longing and devastation. the sight of him, so vulnerable and broken, was almost too much to bear.

you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you turned away once more. the rain seemed to pour harder, as if the heavens were weeping for the love you were leaving behind. you walked away, each step feeling like an eternity, the pain of leaving jungkook and the promise of your future battling within your heart. the finality of your decision was a heavy burden, but you knew that you had to forge ahead, even as the sorrow of what you were leaving behind threatened to consume you.

the night had been a long, dark tunnel through which you stumbled, your steps muffled by the weight of your sorrow. the rain had pattered relentlessly against your window, a haunting lullaby that matched the rhythm of your tearful sobs. you had cried yourself to sleep, each tear a silent testament to the heartache that coursed through you, mingling with the cold emptiness of the night. the warmth of your bed was of little comfort, overshadowed by the turmoil that roiled within your chest.

as dawn broke, its pale light filtered through your curtains, casting a somber glow over the room. the sun’s early rays were a stark contrast to the storm inside you. you rose, your movements slow and weary, the exhaustion from the previous night clinging to you like a second skin. with a heavy heart and leaden steps, you prepared yourself for the day ahead—the day of your presentation.

the studio was quiet, save for the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. you walked to your piece, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. the sculpture you had created—a delicate representation of butterflies and an outstretched hand—stood in the center of the room, bathed in the cold light of morning. the clay had been shaped with painstaking care, each butterfly a testament to your emotions, each wing a silent echo of your heartache.

you gazed at the sculpture, your breath catching in your throat. the butterflies, which had once been a symbol of your freedom, now seemed to mock your sorrow. their fragile wings, once vibrant and hopeful, were now a muted reflection of your internal struggle. the hand beneath them was extended as if in an eternal gesture of solace, yet it seemed to grasp at something forever out of reach. the piece was a paradox—a representation of the freedom you yearned for, coupled with the love you were leaving behind.

your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your teacher’s voice, cutting through the silence like a lifeline. “everyone's waiting,” she said, her tone gentle yet firm. the words jolted you into action, and with one final, reluctant glance at your sculpture, you lifted it with trembling hands. the weight of the piece felt like an anchor, dragging you toward the theatre room where your presentation awaited.

as you entered the room, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. the space was filled with an array of faces—jihyo and jackson, their supportive expressions a stark contrast to the tension that gripped you; the professors from japan, their keen eyes scanning you with a mixture of curiosity and evaluation; and jungkook, who sat among them, his presence a palpable ache in your chest. he looked worn, his face haggard as if the night had been a battleground of its own. when the room fell silent, you began your presentation, your voice wavering as you started to speak. your gaze frequently flickered to your piece, but it was jungkook’s eyes that held you captive. the connection between you was electric, a silent conversation that spoke louder than words.

you began to explain your sculpture in intricate detail, your words a poignant reflection of the emotions you had poured into it. “the butterflies,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion, “represent the pursuit of freedom. they chase after an elusive goal, their wings a delicate dance of hope and struggle. eventually, after chasing freedom for so long, their wings began to wither. fall apart. they become weak, as they search for solace from the hand that awaits them,” each phrase you uttered felt like a resonating dagger piercing through jungkook’s heart, each description a painful reminder of what you were leaving behind.

the room’s ambient noise faded into a background hum as your focus remained solely on jungkook. the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe, and despite the precision of your words, you could not hide the tears that brimmed in your eyes. the sculpture, which you had hoped would be a beacon of your artistic achievement, was overshadowed by the rawness of your feelings. as you concluded, your voice cracked with emotion. “all they’ve ever known was freedom,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper, “nevertheless, all they ever needed was love.”

the professors responded with polite applause, their approval a distant echo to the tumultuous storm of your emotions. Your heart was focused solely on the sight of jungkook, whose eyes were fixed on the sculpture with an expression of profound sadness. a single tear slid down his cheek, tracing a path that seemed to embody all the words left unsaid between you.

he turned abruptly, his face a canvas of heartbreak, and you watched as he walked away, your eyes following the path of his butterfly tattoo. the symbol, so intricately tied to your shared history, seemed to pulse with a haunting resonance. it was as if the butterfly was an echo of the love and freedom you both had chased, now left fluttering in the storm of your separation. the finality of his departure was a bitter pill, and as you stood there, the weight of the moment pressed heavily upon you. the sculpture, the presentation, and the love you were leaving behind melded into a poignant tableau of loss and longing.

the presentation room, once filled with the fervor of evaluation, gradually settled into a subdued murmur as the professors gathered their thoughts. their voices, though hushed, carried an air of reverence. one of them, an elderly man with a sharp gaze softened by years of experience, approached you with a warm smile. “your work is extraordinary,” he said, his voice rich with genuine admiration. “the way you’ve captured the essence of freedom and love through your sculpture is nothing short of brilliant.”

another professor, a woman with a commanding presence and a graceful poise, nodded in agreement. “indeed,” she added, her eyes sparkling with approval. “your piece speaks volumes. the subtlety and depth of emotion conveyed through your butterflies and the extended hand reflect an understanding of art that goes beyond technique. it’s a rare gift.”

you stood there, feeling their praise wash over you like a gentle tide. despite their words, a hollow emptiness lingered within you, a void that seemed impervious to their accolades. they continued, “we are pleased to inform you that the academy in japan has reviewed your work and welcomes your arrival as soon as tonight.”

the words were a formal acknowledgment of what you had anticipated, but they did little to stir excitement within you. you simply nodded, your face an impassive mask that concealed the whirlwind of emotions brewing beneath. your teacher, who had been a silent witness to the exchange, gave you a supportive pat on the shoulder, her eyes reflecting a mixture of pride and empathy.

as you prepared to leave, jihyo and jackson were by your side, enveloping you in heartfelt congratulations. “you did it!” jihyo exclaimed, her voice a mixture of joy and sadness. “this is such a great opportunity for you.” jackson joined in, his embrace firm and reassuring. “we’re so proud of you,” he said, his voice heavy with sincerity. “this is your chance to shine, to make your mark on the world.” yet, amidst their praises and supportive words, you felt a profound emptiness. the accolades, the approval, even the opportunity felt distant, overshadowed by the weight of your own emotional turmoil.

just as you were about to leave to pack, jackson’s voice stopped you in your tracks. “wait,” he called softly. you turned to face him, curiosity mingled with trepidation in your eyes.

he took a deep breath, his expression a blend of melancholy and resolve. “i knew it would never be me,” he began, his voice steady yet laden with unspoken emotion. “when i saw your work, and when i saw jungkook’s tattoo, i understood that this was something i could never be a part of.” his words were an acknowledgment of the deep-seated truths that had been woven into the fabric of your shared experiences.

his gaze softened as he pulled a sleek black box from his pocket. “i have something for you,” he said, holding it out with a tender gesture. “jungkook asked me to give this to you.” with a final, gentle kiss to your forehead, he wished you a safe journey, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and resignation. “i’ll always be waiting for you,” he said softly.

you accepted the box, feeling the weight of it in your hand. as you turned to leave, the heaviness of your heart seemed to magnify with every step. the box felt like a tangible piece of the emotions you were grappling with, a silent witness to the complexity of your feelings. once you were home, the task of packing your bags seemed almost secondary to the allure of the box. you set your belongings aside, your gaze fixed on the small, unassuming container. the anticipation was almost unbearable as you slowly opened it.

inside, nestled in a bed of soft black velvet, lay a silver necklace. the pendant was an exquisite butterfly, its delicate wings capturing the light with a subtle sheen. the craftsmanship was impeccable, every detail of the butterfly’s form rendered with a delicate precision that took your breath away. your hands trembled as you lifted the necklace, the weight of it feeling like a physical manifestation of the emotions you had been suppressing. with a mixture of reverence and sorrow, you clasped the necklace around your neck. the cold metal brushed against your skin, and you could feel the butterfly resting over your heart.

as you fastened the clasp, the floodgates opened, and the sobs that had been building up erupted uncontrollably. the tears streamed down your face, each one a reflection of the anguish and longing that had been bottled up inside. the necklace, a symbol of love and departure, seemed to echo the pain of leaving behind the things and people you cherished.

you sank onto your bed, the weight of the necklace a bittersweet reminder of jungkook's affection and the heartbreak that had marked your journey. the room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a space where your emotions were laid bare, each tear a testament to the complexity of your farewell. the necklace glistened softly in the dim light, a silent witness to your sorrow and the new chapter that awaited you. as you lay there, the tears slowly subsiding, the butterfly pendant against your skin felt like a fragile promise—a delicate symbol of the freedom you sought and the love you had to leave behind.

the airport buzzed with the ceaseless motion of travelers, each with their own stories of departure and arrival, but for you, it felt like the world had stopped. every step toward the gate was weighted with the gravity of what you were leaving behind. the butterfly pendant lay cold against your chest, a stark reminder of the connection you still felt to jungkook, its delicate form pressed close to your heart.

the evening was draped in a shroud of melancholy, the terminal lights casting a pale glow over the bustling scene. you walked through the throngs of people, each stride a battle against the urge to turn back, to run away from the decision that tore at your soul. the departure board loomed ahead, and you searched for your gate, the numbers and letters blurring together through the haze of your emotions.

when you finally reached your gate, your heart sank. the moment had come, and the reality of your departure hit you with a force that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. the weight of your chest was unbearable, the ache of leaving everything behind more than you had anticipated. your mind swirled with thoughts of jungkook, the memories of your time together interwoven with the pain of parting. just as you were about to resign yourself to the inevitable, you heard your name being called. it was a voice you would recognize anywhere, even amidst the cacophony of the airport. you turned slowly, your breath catching in your throat. there he was, running toward you with an urgency that mirrored the turmoil in your heart.

you stood frozen, unable to move as jungkook reached you, his breath ragged from the sprint. his eyes, filled with a mix of desperation and love, locked onto yours. “don’t leave,” he pleaded, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotions. the tears were quick to follow, faster than your words could form, streaming down your cheeks in a torrent of unspoken pain. he continued, his voice trembling. “i don’t just need you,” he said, his hands trembling as he reached out to cup your face with a gentleness that broke your heart. “i love you. i can’t bear the thought of you being so far from me.”

the background noise of the airport faded into nothingness as you sobbed, your vision blurred by the flood of tears. his touch was a balm to your aching heart, his words a lifeline in the storm of your emotions. he repeated himself, his voice steadying with conviction. “i love you.” in that moment, the world around you ceased to exist. it was just the two of you, standing at the precipice of a decision that would alter the course of your lives. you allowed yourself to melt into his embrace, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold metal of the necklace against your skin.

“i love you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible through the sobs that wracked your body. the admission was a release, a catharsis of the emotions you had held back for so long. you clung to him, feeling the strength of his love envelop you, grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in ages. but even as you surrendered to the moment, a small voice in the back of your mind whispered the harsh truth. you knew it wasn’t love, not in the way that was meant to last. it was a tempest of passion and pain, a connection born from the shared scars of your pasts and the unspoken longing that had drawn you together.

as you stood there, entwined in each other’s arms, you knew that this love, however flawed and fleeting, was all you had ever wanted. it was the reason your heart ached, the reason your soul soared, and as you buried your face in his shoulder, you made a silent promise to cherish this love for as long as it lasted, no matter how brief or bittersweet. no, it wasn't love. nevertheless, you were in love with him.

✧.*

a/n: if there's one thing i'm gonna do it's add jackson wang as a random side character...this was inspired by my favorite horror kdrama aka nevertheless

[shybluebirdninja]

Control Room

Summary: Bucky’s voice is in your ear, instructing you while the camera rolls; every move is his to command.

Pairings           : Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier) x Female Reader

Note                 : sex tape, masturbation, domination

The low hum of the camera filled the dimly lit room, casting a soft glow over the tangled sheets that lay beneath you. Bucky's voice came through the earpiece, smooth and commanding, wrapping around you like a warm blanket, igniting a fire deep within.

“Alright, doll, you ready for this?” His tone was low, a dangerous mix of anticipation and raw lust that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. There was something about the way he said doll that made your heart race. Bucky had that effect on you—like he could light you up from across the room, making every nerve sing with desire. “Let’s do it.”

“Good.” He chuckled softly, the sound like a rumble of thunder in the distance. “Now, let’s start slow. I want you to tease the camera for me. Show me what you’ve got.”

You shifted, letting the soft sheets slide against your skin, exposing your body to the lens. The way Bucky watched you felt like a thousand eyes on you at once, but it was only his. You could feel the heat radiating from him, even through the earpiece, and you could practically see the way his dark blue eyes would be glimmering with desire.

“Show me that pretty face of yours, babe,” he urged, the gravel in his voice sending another wave of heat through your core. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan as you arched your back slightly, lifting your chest for the camera.

“That’s it, just like that. You look so good when you’re trying to please me,” he growled, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breath. It was music to your ears, knowing that you could bring him to the edge with just a look.

“Now, touch yourself for me,” he commanded, and it was less of a request and more of a demand. You couldn’t help but obey, feeling every bit the submissive under his watchful gaze. Your fingers trailed slowly down your body, teasingly lingering at your thighs before moving to your center, where the heat pooled, begging for release.

“Fuck, just like that. Keep going, don’t stop,” he said, his voice thick with lust, each word dripping with need. You let out a soft moan, closing your eyes for a moment, reveling in the sensation and the sound of his voice.

As your fingers moved with purpose, you could feel his eyes on you—every touch was amplified, every moment stretched out, suffocating with anticipation. “Bucky…” you breathed, not sure if you were begging or pleading.

“Keep it up, baby. I want you to feel every second of this. I’m right here, watching you, and I won’t take my eyes off you.”

You could hear the way his breath quickened, matching the rhythm of your fingers. It pushed you further, igniting something primal inside you, fueling the fire that was building. You knew he was waiting, just a heartbeat away from the edge, ready to take you where he wanted.

“Now, get on your knees,” he ordered, the authority in his voice sending a thrill down your spine. You obeyed without hesitation, moving smoothly to position yourself, the cool air brushing against your heated skin. “Good girl. Now, look up at the camera while you play.”

Your heart raced as you complied, the sight of your flushed cheeks reflected in the lens pushing you to the brink. You could hear the low growl from him, and it sent electric shocks of pleasure coursing through your body. “Damn, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Bucky…” you whined, desperate for more, for him. “I need you.”

“I know, babe. Just hang tight for me. We’re just getting started.”

With that, he instructed you to switch positions, wanting to take full advantage of the two hours you had set aside for this. “Let’s see you ride that pillow. I want to watch you grind.”

As you shifted again, a wave of confidence surged through you. You positioned yourself over the pillow, feeling the plushness beneath you, imagining it was Bucky’s body instead. You moved slowly at first, teasingly, just like he liked it, but the growing need inside you pushed you to pick up the pace.

“Yeah, just like that. Feel that pressure building? I want you to let go when I tell you to.”

His voice was a tether, holding you close while pulling you deeper into that spiral of desire. You could almost feel his hands gripping your hips, guiding you along, but all you had was the pillow and the sweet promise of his words.

“Now, faster,” he commanded, and you obeyed, the sounds of skin against fabric filling the room. You felt your body respond, heat pooling and building as you chased that sweet release, and Bucky’s breath quickened in your ear.

“Almost there, babe. I can feel you getting close. Just a little more, don’t stop.”

The tension in the air thickened, coiling tighter around you as you desperately chased the edge. “Bucky! I can’t hold on much longer!”

“Then don’t. Let go for me. Now.”

You obeyed, crashing over the precipice he’d crafted with his words and that commanding presence of his. Pleasure shot through you like fireworks, your body quaking in delight as Bucky’s voice drummed in your ear, urging you on, coaxing every ounce of ecstasy from you.

“Good girl,” he praised, and you could hear the satisfaction in his tone. “That’s it. You did so well.”

As your body calmed, you leaned back against the pillows, panting, heart racing. Bucky’s next command was already on the horizon, and you could feel your anticipation building once more.

“Alright, baby, let’s switch it up. Now, I want you to lay back, and I’m going to take control.”

With that, the room filled with a new wave of heat, and you knew the next hour would be even more intense, just as he wanted. The camera rolled, capturing every second of Bucky's relentless hunger for you.

[headlinxr]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 ─── 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠-𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

SYNOPSIS  !  Sung-hoon is a renowned photographer who has managed to capture the essence of his models in a unique way, but his talent becomes his worst enemy. The moment he meets you, a young model whose beauty embodies his perfect vision of aesthetics, something dark ignites within him. What begins as an artistic fascination quickly transforms into a morbid obsession.

GENRE. non idol! au, f!reader, stalker x victim, obsession.

WARNINGS. stalking, Sung-hoon is weird, slight Stockholm syndrome.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

[justwinginglife]

If you're comfortable with it, is it okay for me to request for Mean!Hoshina? Who finds it cute and endearing to tease and annoy glasses-wearing!(name). Lightly pulling on her hair; pinching certain parts of her body; and hiding/stealing her glasses and leaving handprints on them(some more subtle and unnoticable than others because there's something about having a piece of him in every sight she sees). I was also thinking maybe nsfw at the end where Hoshina steals her glasses and the built up tension between them leads to his cum smeared her glasses.

Once again, thank you for this delicious idea. If I don't find my own glasses covered in Hoshina's cum at some point, I will demand a refund. I also changed up the request a bit, hope you don't mind. And if yall couldn't tell by the request, this will be NSFW so proceed at your own caution.

The Biggest Tease

Soshiro Hoshina was the biggest damn tease you'd ever met and sometimes you didn't know if he hated you or if he loved you, but you did know one thing- the man was fucking obsessed with you.

He made it his own personal mission to track you down everyday just to pick on you and though you wanted to be annoyed at him, you couldn't help but feel smug at just how much time he was devoting to you. He could do anything he wanted and what he wanted was anything to do with you. It was quite the ego boost if you were honest with yourself.

At first, he'd just tease you verbally. He'd call you four eyes and you'd call him shit for brains because he couldn't come up with a single original insult. But he wasn't trying to insult you. He wanted your attention. He wanted you to punch his arm, roll your eyes at him, slice through his defenses with some witty remark. Everything about you was enticing to him. From the way you played with your hair, to the way you scrunched up your nose, to the way you pushed up your glasses. He could never get enough of you. He was addicted.

Eventually, his growing desire to be near you translated into physical touch. When you'd twirl the ends of your hair, he'd steal a strand from in between your fingers and tug on it gently, reveling in how soft it was. When you’d stretch your arms, he’d pinch your vulnerable sides, and then smirk when you’d yelp. When you’d take your glasses off to clean them, he’d swipe them from your hands, chills running down his spine as his fingers brushed yours, then he’d give the lenses a good lick, and call it “clean,” before handing it back to you smugly. 

When he found out that it was one of your biggest pet peeves having anything dirtying your glasses, he went out of his way to smear them any chance he could. Instead of saying hi, every morning he would strut up to you, poke your lenses, and then cheerfully skip away, as if he didn’t just commit a heinous crime in your eyes. 

As irritating as his persistence was, you could no longer imagine a life where he wasn’t cozied up next to you, using your shoulder as a pillow on the transport, or snagging a fork straight out of your mouth so he could use it too, or even just testing the limits of how close you would allow him to get to you, smudging your lenses with the tip of his nose. You’d made the mistake of telling him once that every time you looked through your glasses and saw a mark on the lens, you thought of him, and now he’d got it in his head that he needed to keep smudging them to remind you of his presence, as if he wasn’t already constantly by your side, trying to rile you up. 

And he did rile you up. 

At first, you tried to ignore him. Tried not to give him the time of day, tried not to give him the satisfaction of your attention. But then your playful, devilish side got the better of you, and suddenly you were paying more attention to him than ever before, trying to figure out what pushed his buttons, trying to figure out what ticked him off. So you’d ruffle his hair after he’d just brushed it, you’d unzip his jacket after he just put it on, you’d untie his laces after he just slipped into his shoes. 

Before you knew it, you’d danced your way into a gray area in your relationship with him, doing things like nipping at his neck when he was trying to concentrate on paperwork, then squeezing his thigh as he struggled to keep his boner at bay. You’d whisper seductive things in his ear and then prance off like you hadn’t said a word. Hoshina was starting to think you invented blue balls. 

So today, when you noticed he was lingering by the locker rooms longer than he usually did after work, you figured he was probably going to take a shower before heading home tonight, and you had the genius idea to sneak into the locker room, steal his clothes, and stash them away elsewhere. When he came out of the shower, you planned to be sitting smugly on the bench waiting for him; maybe you’d even make him beg on his knees for his clothes back. But your plans backfired when his figure emerged from the steamed up shower, water dripping down his rippling muscles, hair sloppy and sexy, with a sly smirk plastered across his face as he leaned against a nearby wall, eying you up and down. 

“Well this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think I’d have an audience while I showered. You wouldn’t happen to know where my clothes went, would you?” He teased, knowing full well that you were completely distracted by the sight of his physique and… something else. 

Your eyes had trailed their way down his chiseled chest, down his toned abs, down to the ever-growing erection in between his legs. It seemed to stiffen even more with every second you stared at it, like it was pleased at your attention, like it was standing at the ready. 

You gulped and gripped the bench tight. 

He grinned devilishly, before pulling himself off the wall and slinking his way towards you. “Nothing to say, love? Aren’t you usually so full of quick remarks?” He stroked himself as he walked and it was like your eyes had been commanded to watch, because you suddenly found it extremely difficult to look away. 

“Shit,” was all you managed to whisper before you found him right in front of you, his cock mere inches away from your mouth. 

He bent down to murmur in your ear, “Now, what were all those naughty things you were saying to me the other day? Shall we revisit some of them?”

You flushed bright red, and he pulled away to admire his handiwork, pinching at your colored cheeks. “Adorable, really. I bet those cheeks would look even better stuffed with my cock, yeah?”

You unintentionally licked your lips at the thought and he groaned. 

But one groan was enough, the sound like music to your ears. You wanted to know what other sounds you could pry from his lips. His gorgeous lips. 

So, without a second thought, your hand reached out to yank his cock towards you and suddenly it was hitting the back of your throat before either of you had time to fully process what was going on. 

His cocky demeanor vanished, melting away into your mouth as you sucked the smug right out of him. You had teased him endless amounts of times before, but he never imagined you'd actually follow through with any of it. He wasn't sure he was prepared for your onslaught. When you sucked harder and a whimper escaped him, it only spurred you on further. His fingers dug into your shoulder as you continued to choke him down. The tiled walls of the locker room echoed with the sounds of his moans and the sloppy, wet noises of his cock fucking your throat, and he thought the lewdness of it all might overwhelm him. He was practically dizzy with desire.

Meanwhile, you thought you’d just been trying to get him back for his arrogance, trying to shut him up, trying to make him squirm for you, but when his precum started to seep into your mouth, you knew you were sucking him dry for your own enjoyment. You hadn't realized just how badly you’d wanted to taste him and now that the physical evidence of his attraction to you was shuddering in your mouth, drizzling with pleasure, you couldn’t stop tasting him. 

Your mouth suctioned around his cock, his bulging veins carving delicious indents into the walls of your mouth as you swallowed down more of his erection. For a brief moment, you wondered if you could be selfish enough to command him to relocate his boner into your cunt. If he felt this good in your throat, you could only imagine the insurmountable pleasure he’d fuck into your pussy. You groaned as your slick began to dampen your underwear and you pulled away from him, trying to get ahold of yourself, trying to remember that you were teasing him, that you were in control.

“F-fuck, d-don’t s-stop, w-why’d you…” His fingers pierced your flesh as he attempted to steady himself against your shoulder, but his cock was aching, and he needed relief. He grabbed ahold of it, just to stop the quivering, just to ground himself, but the sensation of his hand wrapping around his overloaded erection sent waves of pleasure pulsing through him and a flood of his hot, white cum burst from his tip, splashing all over your face and coating your lenses with a thick layer. 

You blinked and slowly tugged your glasses off your face. Even half blind, you could see that he was embarrassed. Hoshina, the man who always went out of his way to dirty your lenses, was now ashamed that he’d dirtied them in the dirtiest way possible. You smirked at the thought. Maybe you could tease him some more. You ran a digit down your cheek, collecting his cum on the tip, before seductively licking it off the end of your finger. You heard him swallow.

“Oh, what a shame. Looks like I’m all dirty now. If only there was some way to get cleaned up.” You stripped bare and then grabbed his hand, leading him into one of the showers.

He was stunned but he followed behind you anyway. 

“Now be a good boy and save some of that dirty, dirty cum of yours for my cunt, yeah?”

His eyes widened in surprise, but his cock was eager to take you up on the offer, hardening again on the spot.

You turned on the shower and began making out with him underneath the showerhead, tangling your hands in his hair as you let the warm water rinse the cum from your body. 

Amidst the passion and the heat, he somehow found his voice again.

“You’re such a goddamn tease.” He growled against your neck, nipping and sucking at it. Then he hoisted you up and wrapped your legs around his waist before pressing you up against the shower wall. 

“Ah, so he does remember how to talk.” You teased as you licked at his collarbone.

His eyes darkened, a bottomless hunger emerging inside him. “Laugh while you can. It’s my turn, love, and by the time I’m finished with you, you won’t remember how to walk.” 

“Ooh, promises, promises, Hoshina.”

He silenced any further retorts with a sharp thrust up your dripping cunt.

You yelped and he smirked.

“Oh, I always make good on my promises, baby. And I promise, I'll make good on this one all damn night.”

[nipuni]

My dad died yesterday, he was 63

I would like to share a little about him and our story if anyone wants to read, this is not a happy story

My parents divorced when I was three and I went to live with my mom so I saw my dad's life in snapshots, once a week at first and then once a year when he moved abroad and I would spend the summers with him. Every time I would catch up with him he would have a different partner or apartment.

My time with him was always fun, he was laid back, adventurous and open, he would let me do all kinds of crazy stuff while my mom was the strict one. He was a genius to me, he taught me how to program my own games when I was nine, he would make me take computers and appliances apart and reassemble them to teach me how they worked, he made me love science, the outdoors and travelling. He was great at teaching and cooking and driving. He worked on tours for famous musicians as a sound tech, he made 3D films for museums and theme parks when it was all very new, he was a photographer, a programmer, electrician, mechanic, artist and could play many instruments and write poetry!!

The first crack between us was when there was a huge split between my mom's side of the family and his over money and a lot of ugly truths stared coming to light. I realized that when it came to money he was willing to put himself before me and the fights between him and my mom were awful. But in the end once the dust settled we both pretended it never happened.

One weekend I went to visit him and realized his current girlfriend would stick around at last and she had a daughter almost my age!! I now had a little sister and I loved it.

A year later the country fell apart and he fled abroad along with them and even though I missed them I would visit for months at a time every year. I saw him start his life over, he started his own company and I was so proud of him!!

Everything was great for eight years, until one day he told me that my step mom and sister left him and he would sell everything and come back to the country. This was the last time I would ever hear of them, they vanished, I mourned my step sister for years. This was also when his life fell apart.

At 17 adulthood came with a lot of revelations. My mom told me that my dad had been an addict since he was very young, before I was born, my whole life, cocaine and alcohol amongst other things, and everyone around him had been putting up with it and helping him but couldn't take it anymore. He had cheated on her when they had me and had cheated on my step mom too. He would lie to get what he wanted and trusting him was getting increasingly harder.

All of my memories of him were now seen through a different lens. I felt betrayed. I could now tell every time he had been high, and knew where the money he asked of me when to, I was aware of every little lie. I was angry and frustrated at him for the pain he caused my mom and everyone around him. And for squandering the potential I knew he had, for always making the wrong decisions, one mistake after another. And I hated feeling this way the most.

After he came back to the country alone he could never recover, he would relapse, overdose, refuse rehab or any medical help. He would escape psychiatrics facilities and hospitals in the middle of the night, he was a menace!! lmao.

Our relationship was still good despite all this, different but still standing, he had always been my friend even if he wasn't the best at being a dad or partner, I would always scold him and tell him of different job opportunities I came up with for him to try out but now there was this distance between us. I became the parent of the relationship in a way and he didn't like being told what to do. I saw him spiral and I was scared for him.

I've always heard all these stories about addicts finding purpose and fighting for their loved ones, so every time he would jokingly talk to me about how high he was and seemed to enjoy it despite my warnings and pleading it made me feel like I was not enough of a reason to get better, as self centered as it may be I was a teen and I felt powerless to stop him, insignificant. People could get better for their children, but not for me.

I knew this way of thinking was flawed and selfish and he was the one struggling, I knew he was a victim. I spent the last of my teenage years and early twenties trying to fight back this feeling so I could preserve our relationship, we always kept in contact but over time he changed and was no longer the person I knew.

He became a stranger, often times incoherent and delusional, his views changed, he was paranoid, his addiction got worse and worse and now all I could feel was pity and guilt, our once good relationship was now reduced to a few interactions where he would ask me for money, I knew I was possibly funding his self destruction and he was likely lying to me but he also needed to pay for medication and so I couldn't refuse him.

I had my own life now, a husband and plans for the future. When I decided to move abroad a few years ago I knew our hug goodbye could be the last, he was broke and unstable but I thought once I was settled and had a job and a citizenship I could have enough money to get him tickets to visit and show him the life I had made for myself like he had done in my childhood.

But then Covid happened, and he would never agree to make calls. Soon after he was diagnosed with cancer, I would ask about his health and he would say he was fine. He wasn't fine, he was smoking 4 packs a day. He got the cancer removed but refused further treatment, he said he didn't have any purpose left in life and no reasons to keep living, he had a stroke and couldn't feel half his body when he was forcibly hospitalized, his cancer had spread and he hadn't been eating for a long time, he hid all this from me, I first heard it from my aunt in tears over the phone yesterday, he tried to escape the hospital in the night and had to be tied up and sedated, he never woke up.

He died alone, all that is left of his family is me and my aunt and we both live in different countries. There is nobody there to even bury him. I feel like I abandoned him. I've always known I would feel this way when this day came, in a way I've been mourning him for many years and have carried this guilt for even longer.

I had the coolest dad, cocaine took him away. I wish this had a better and uplifting message. I just wanted to get this off my chest. He taught me a lot and made me who I am, and I have a lot of great memories with him. He struggled all of his life with his mental health and despite it all he was still amazing and deserved so much better.

He always said that when he was a ghost he would follow me around, I hope he isl!! so I can live for both of us, I love you dad!! and I'm so sorry 🕯️

[feralgodmothers]

So it seems that the general consensus over The Bikeriders ending is that it isn’t a happy one, and I can see why. For the majority of the film, there’s this tug of war that Kathy and Johnny have over Benny that basically symbolizes his domestication vs. his freedom, and when you interpret it through that lens - Benny ending up with Kathy just feels like Kathy “won”, and that Benny loses a big part of himself in the process.

But here’s my interpretation:

Benny was like a stray cat, who reveled in being able to come and go as he pleased. And I think that in the middle of the film when he went his own separate way from The Vandals, he always intended for his absence to be temporary, and that he would come back when he was ready. But then Johnny died. And after what nearly happened to Kathy that one night, all that was ringing in his ear were the words she had said to him: You weren’t there. And when you’re not there when something terrible happens to someone you love, all the what-ifs can eat you alive. Kathy got lucky, and was spared her bad outcome (and I think that was just enough for Benny to keep rationalizing his unattached lifestyle, though what-might-have-been had created the first chink in his armor), but Johnny was not so lucky. So I think by the end, he wanted to be there for Kathy. I think it was a conscious choice he made, and one that he doesn’t regret. Does he miss riding? Sure. But I don’t think he wanted to be with the Vandals the way they were by the end of the movie - he just missed the good ol’ days. After Johnny died, I don’t think it was a choice between Benny’s domestication and freedom anymore - I think it became a choice between his love of a person over the particular definition of freedom he had been clinging to. I think he wanted to avoid anything terrible happening in his absence again, and his smile at the end pretty much says: The person I love is okay, and every day I get to see proof of that.

[andypantsx3]

SOMETHING IN THE WATER | 5 | SHOUTO x READER

SUMMARY: As a future marine biologist, you’ve scored big on your final internship: a summer in the tropics, researching the waters off the coast of a lush, sunny island. But what you thought would be all beach days and piña coladas turns out to be the revelation of a lifetime when you haul in a handsome merprince, and discover not everything in these waters is quite as it seems. TAGS/WARNINGS: mermaid au, interspecies relationships, mating rituals/courting behavior, (sort of) case fic, aged up characters, eventual smut, fem pronouns/afab reader LENGTH: 3.5k of est. 21k, 5th of 8 chapters

It was pollution. No doubt about it.

Under the lens of one of Kamui’s microscopes, the evidence was incontrovertible. The piece of white coral Shouto had brought you sported distinct traces of industrial processing chemicals that had almost certainly contributed to its bleaching, the concentration high enough that it had also probably choked the life out of the nearby environment.

It was high enough, in fact, that you were absolutely floored your team hadn’t come across even a hint of anything similar before. Based on the levels, you should have been finding at least smaller traces close to the area it came from, but nothing you’d found so far had even hinted at anything like this.

Which begged the question, just where in the hell had Shouto gotten it from?

When you legged it back down to the beach, however, both the merman and your sandwich were missing. The only evidence of his presence were the slices of mozzarella that had clearly been picked out of the sandwich, laid out cleanly on the wrapper you’d left behind.

You’d sighed and cleaned your trash up, then slogged back to your room for a shower and a few hours of sleep, stowing the coral away safely to show to your team in the morning.

When you awoke, however, you realized you would have no way of explaining to them where you’d obtained it, and no way to point them any closer to the source of the issue. You resolved to find Shouto as soon as possible to figure out what was going on, hopefully before the scheduled tour of Sunfish.

You rocketed through your morning tasks, and hurriedly volunteered to take over trap checking duty, disappearing out the door before Yu could so much as get out a reply.

You boated north to the reef where you’d first met Shouto, and jumped into the water before you’d even gotten your snorkeling gear on properly, certain the merman would somehow find you. You’d nearly finished checking the trap, kicking off the seafloor to rise back to the surface when a hand seized your elbow, guiding you back up.

Shouto’s handsome face was staring back at you when you yanked off your goggles, his distinctive hair slicked back with ocean water, the scar around his eye a deep pink in the sunlight. Sunlight glittered off the droplets on his skin, making him look even more ethereal than he usually did, and your breath momentarily seized in your chest.

“Hi Shouto,” you said, your face going hot when it came out weirdly breathy. Embarrassing.

A tiny little smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and his fingers flexed on your elbow. “Hello,” he said in his deep, even tone.

Even that simple greeting somehow made you flush. You quickly marshaled yourself, trying to remember you had come here with an agenda, not to float here stupidly in the water, staring at him.

“Shouto—that coral you gave me yesterday? One of them has the signs of the pollution I was looking for!”

Shouto blinked, a droplet of water sliding down the side of his straight, handsome nose. Your eyes seemed weirdly glued to it as it reached the edge of his mouth.

“Then you liked it? It had…microbes?” he asked.

You nodded distractedly. “Sort of. Signs of microbial unhealth and chemically-induced bleaching. And I did like it. I think you might have actually solved the whole case for me!”

Shouto’s mouth pulled into a fuller, happier smile, just enough to bare the tops of those sharp teeth. You blinked, momentarily stunned, looking back up into his eyes to find him watching you intently.

“You liked it. My gift,” he said, something strangely smug in his tone. A little thrill raced through you, a frission of pleasure, at having put that expression on his face, that tone in his voice. Your ears went hot, and you pointedly did not think about why his pleasure made you so pleased as well.

“Yeah, I loved it,” you nodded, startled when Shouto’s fingers slid from your elbow to your wrist, lifting it up to his face.

But then in the next instant his expression shifted, his brows furrowing and the edges of his smile dipping. Instantly, you mourned the loss of it.

“But…you are not wearing it,” he said. “Either of them.”

Your eyelashes fluttered themselves in another disconcerted blink. Had…that been a requirement? Had he said that to you, yesterday?

You didn’t think you’d had much conversation between him handing over the bits of coral and you rushing off to the lab with them, but maybe that had been his expectation of what you would do with them. Maybe that was a common merperson thing, and you were too ignorant to think of it.

In fact, you hadn’t even taken the time to ask him why he’d given the coral bits to you, too focused on getting them under Kamui’s microscope like a huge disrespectful idiot.

You flushed, suddenly feeling incredibly rude. Was this a merperson custom you had just flagrantly ignored?

“Am I—? Is that something your people, um, do?” you asked. “Wear coral?”

Shouto nodded, those mismatched eyes still glued to your bare wrist. His fingers carefully shifted to encircle it, like he was replacing the expected bits of coral with his own hold on you. Your face burned and you paddled a little bit harder in the water, expelling nervous energy.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t know. Of course I will wear them, I just need to find some kind of string—” A sudden thought seized you. “Except—-well, Shouto, I need that white coral to prove pollution. I need to show it to my team, and be able to explain where I got it from. They might need to send it off as evidence.”

Shouto’s fingers tightened on you, though you noted he was still mindful of his claws. A hissing noise exploded out of him, and that scraping feeling burned at the back of your throat again, the bioelectric signal of his distaste clear enough.

“It is yours, not theirs,” he hissed, his handsome face suddenly all twisted up.

You could quite literally feel how distressed he was, and your heart throbbed with the realization that you were the cause.

You immediately backtracked, horrified. You shifted in the merman’s grip, twisting your hand to grab his wrist too, and put your other hand to his shoulder, holding him firmly.

“I’m sorry—Shouto, yes of course it’s mine. Of course I won’t give it to them,” you said, trying to angle your face to look into his eyes. “I didn’t realize—of course I will keep it with me.”

To your surprise, Shouto calmed immediately. The snarl faded from his mouth, his lips resuming their normal soft, sweet shape, and his other hand came to rest at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer to him.

“You promise,” he asked, though it was phrased more like a statement than a question.

You had to fight back a shocked laugh at how easily he’d been rerouted, and how unbelievably fleeting and childish that little tantrum had been. A prince of his people and here he was, getting fussy with you!

There was nothing for your exasperated snort, your helpless smile. “Yes, yes, I promise. But you have to help me collect another piece of white coral from where you got it originally. I promise it’s important.”

Shouto’s hands tightened on you, and you found yourself being dragged closer, so that he was holding you up in the water, only inches from the hard planes of his chest. His tail brushed against the inside of your thigh, the scales rasping lightly over the skin there. You went still, a little thrill racing up your spine at his sudden, more immediate proximity.

“You want me to take you there,” he said, his voice suddenly a little deeper.

You blinked. “I—yes? Is that…okay?”

Shouto’s eyes narrowed in on you, and you shifted nervously in his hold as his pupils went a little more slitted, a little more inhumanly focused. “It is an area of some significance to my people, though it is now difficult to get to. Your kind has begun to touch it.”

Your interest piqued. Humans had begun to touch it, alright. Judging by the chemical processing agents left behind on the piece of coral Shouto had given you, you could guess exactly which humans had touched it, too.

“Is it Sunfish?” you couldn’t help but ask, perking up in his hold.

Shouto inclined his head, a movement that brought his mouth almost dangerously close to yours. Your breath choked off in your lungs.

“Yes,” Shouto replied. “The…microbes you are interested in, then…? They are to do with Sunfish?”

You nodded excitedly, eagerly sucking in another breath. “Yes, yes! God, I’m so stupid, I should have told you earlier—anything to do with where Sunfish is operating is of interest to me. We’ve been testing the—um, the microbes to put it simply—around the area but if Sunfish has somewhere we haven’t been yet, that’s what I’m looking to know.”

Shouto looked thoughtful, and a claw trailed absently down the skin of your arm. You jumped, startled.

“Then I will take you,” he said, eyes cutting back to yours. “On one condition.”

You felt your eyebrows raise. Well that was unexpected of him. Who knew mermen knew how to bargain?

“Name your price,” you told him.

Shouto’s mouth quirked then, a hint of a sharp incisor showing, but the rest of his expression was strangely sincere. “I want dinner and a movie,” he said, a claw trailing sweetly, absently down the skin of your arm again. “Like you said humans do.”

You could feel your eyebrows escaping towards your hairline, your mouth going slack. “You want to watch a movie and have dinner,” you repeated, floored.

Shouto inclined his head, the damp strands of red and white mingling with the movement. “You said I would like a movie.”

Damn. You had said that, hadn’t you? But you couldn’t think how in the hell you were going to get Shouto to a movie. It wasn’t like there was a movie theater on this island, and besides that it wasn’t like you could just piggyback a real life merman into one.

You supposed if pressed, you could preload something on the shitty island wifi and then bring your laptop down to the beach and watch things that way. But what if someone spotted the light and came looking? Shouto could disappear quick enough, you had no doubt, but how to explain the laptop?

And then it occurred to you: the inn had a maintenance shed, just off the main office. A sudden image came to you of wheeling Shouto uphill in a wheelbarrow, getting him into the tub in your room, and setting up a few pillows for yourself, and some kind of dinner spread on the floor.

It was unconventional. But then—so was the idea of dinner and a movie with a merman at all.

You stuck out your hand, making a mental note to swing by the maintenance shed on your way back in tonight. “It’s a deal.”

Shouto stared at your fingers, seeming not to know what to do with the gesture, until you took one of his hands in your own, pumping it up and down. He held on for too long after that, those crimson-tipped fingers closing in over your own, warm and wet and strong.

“Then I will take you now, if you like,” Shouto said. “If you are ready.”

You nodded, paddling your feet a little uselessly in his hold, in eager anticipation. Confirmation of Sunfish’s activity, and the chance to see a place meaningful to Shouto and his people. It was a dream come true for any marine biologist.

Shouto let you go, following you slowly as you paddled back to the boat, swimming leisurely, looping circles around you. He helped boost you back into the boat, and then hauled himself up after you on the strength of his arms alone. The back of your neck went very warm, as you watched his muscle coil and flex as he pulled himself in, then looked at you imploringly.

“I will point the way and you will take us,” he said, slithering across the floor of the boat to slide in next to you behind the wheel. He peered at all the meters and dials interestedly, pressing a crimson claw to one.

You had to laugh at the ridiculousness of a merman sitting behind the wheel of a boat, and another wild idea occurred to you.

“Wanna learn how to drive?” you asked.

Shouto’s eyes slid over to you, turquoise and grey pinning you to your seat. “To operate the boat?”

You nodded. Another hot flush crept across your cheeks as a slow smile spread over Shouto’s mouth, those mismatched eyes glittering.

“Yes,” he said. “I should like that very much.”

You gestured him over to your seat, rising out of it as Shouto slid all that heavy muscle your way, the scales of his tail bright and fiery in the sun. He was warm and smelled like salt up close, and you tried not to take note of the way his bicep flexed as he moved to grip the wheel in taloned fingers.

You gave him a brief run through of all the meters and gauges, the fuel level meter, speedometer, the ammeter and engine hours. He seemed disinterested in all but the speed—a typical man, even if only his upper half looked it.

Then you showed him the throttle and how to turn the key to start and what degrees of movement of the wheel at a higher speed wouldn’t send both of you flying out of the boat. And then you sank down next to him, gripping the seat for safety as he started the boat, looking thrilled.

He guided the boat off the reef more carefully than you would have expected, but he grew bolder as you made it out into deeper waters, applying a ton of throttle instantly and sending you falling backwards in your seat. You zoomed across the gentle waves, horrifyingly fast, but unexpectedly smoothly for someone who had just learned. Shouto seemed intimately familiar with the island’s layout, navigating smoothly through some of the shallow channels that gave you an almost-regular heart attack, gliding easily across the waves and not seeming to catch a single one the wrong way.

A thrilled laugh bit out of you, getting lost in the wind as you sped across the sea. Shouto’s mouth pulled into a wider smile, looking pleased with himself, those sharp teeth white in the sun. You found yourself smiling, at the ludicrousness of being driven around by a merprince, and at how much Shouto looked like he was enjoying himself.

In almost no time Shouto was steering you into a shallow cove on the eastern side of the island a couple hundred meters away from where you’d laid out an observation station. As you slowed to a stop you helped anchor the boat, feeling your brows furrowing back down in confusion, the smile slipping off your face.

If there was any level of pollution in this cove then you would have known about it from the nearby observation station. You weren’t sure if Shouto had the right spot.

But as you turned back to him he pointed a claw towards the jut of the land, aiming with certainty. “There used to be a cave through which we could access the lagoon,” he said. “But it is blocked off to us now.”

You stared at him, befuddled. “Blocked off? By what?”

Shouto’s mouth thinned into an irritated line. “By some human invention—I do not know what it is.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Then—how did you get the coral out of this, uh, lagoon if you can’t access it?”

Shouto’s eyes dipped, following your words as your mouth shaped them, looking strangely intent. Your ears went hot.

“I climbed,” he said simply.

You whipped around to stare back at the strip of land rising into the jungle. You could just make out a clearing in the trees where you thought a lagoon might lay. And it was no small distance. Your jaw dropped, imagining Shouto having to drag himself over meters and meters of land to get there.

Your stomach fluttered, the white coral suddenly taking on a new significance if Shouto had gone to such trouble for it. It had to be more than just an area of interest to his people—-it more likely had to be extremely significant if this was the length merpeople had to go for this coral. No wonder he hadn’t liked the idea of you testing it, of you surrendering it and mailing it out and away, if he’d had to pull himself over land like that to get it.

And with this realization, a new, wildly disconcerting thought crept over you, an insane flight of fancy.

Was it possible that Shouto had given you… not just a friendly gift, but something even more meaningful than you had initially realized? If this was a site of cultural significance, and he’d suffered to get the coral for you—did it mean something a little bit more intimate than an exchange between new friends?

Your gaze darted back over to Shouto, sitting pertly in his seat. He struck such a handsome profile, all sleek muscle and delicately carved features, his face carefully-noted and almost supernaturally angelic. His coloring, too, was magnificent, the rose of his scar, the deep scarlet of his scales and his claws. And he was so sweet, and funny, and so very interesting. He was unlike anything—anyone—you had ever seen, and the thought of him fetching you a gift of special significance made an even more blistering wave of heat flare up in your belly.

You rose from your seat, determined to see this lagoon for yourself.

“Alright, you wait here,” you told Shouto, “I’m going to go check it out.”

He nodded, watching you closely as you went to the bag of supplies, fishing out a camera, the log book, your shoes, and a couple pieces of sampling equipment. You stuffed them all in a dry bag, rolling the top down tight and buckling securely.

“You will be careful,” Shouto intone in his deep voice, more an order than a question.

You smiled up at him, nodding your head. “Yes. I’ll be back in just a couple of minutes.”

He looked satisfied with that, and helped lower you down into the water to swim for land. He slithered off the edge beside you, sinking smoothly into the water like a dropped stone, and swam along underneath you, following you all the way until you clambered onto the sand. You hurriedly dug around in your bag for your shoes, stuffing your feet into them still sandy and damp as Shouto looked on.

Once properly outfitted, you followed the beach as it trailed off into scrub and bushes, and then into towering palms, making your way into the jungle. The sun shone brightly through the leaves, painting everything around you in shades of sunlit green, the air under the canopy thicker than on the beach. Your feet slid over the damp sand in your sneakers, a sensation you did not particularly enjoy, but you walked briskly, your curiosity leading you onwards.

In only a few minutes, the trees once again gave way to a small strip of sand, and you spilled out onto the beach of the lagoon.

It was instantly clear to you exactly what Shouto had meant. A large metallic wall dammed off one side of the lagoon, most probably blocking off the underwater channel Shouto had told you about. It had been bolted into the jutting coral and rock around it, sealing off any water flow. Around it, the ancient coral walls of the lagoon were bone white wherever the water lapped at them, disturbingly bleached of color, and you thought the scrub and the trees that had built up over the surface overtime looked a little bit unhealthy too.

Shouto had most definitely gotten his coral from here.

As you looked around your certainty grew, until you spotted the most damning evidence. Only a scant few meters away from where you had come out of the forest, there was a pipe dug into the earth, sitting about a meter above the water level of the lagoon. It was still shiny, clearly new, and it was also dribbling the occasional bit of liquid into the lagoon, as if someone were piping certain substances out and away from the rest of their facilities.

Your heart rate doubled at the sight, and you knew even as you unloaded your equipment to take samples that you had found exactly what you had been looking for.

There was no doubt in your mind that this pipe led back to Sunfish. And Shouto had indeed just solved this entire case.

[avelera]

To understand where I'm coming from with the way I approach story meta, you have to know that once I was in an English class in college where we were analyzing Fall of the House of Usher and several students had analyzed it for themes of "incest".

The teacher, who was quite the hardass in general, went absolutely berserk, because there is no incest in the original text of the short story of Fall of the House of Usher, but it is a strong theme in some later film and tv adaptations, which has since sunk into the discourse around the short story and often gets retroactively applied. She was enraged because it meant students weren't doing their own analyzing of the text and were just reading other people's faulty analysis and basing their write-up on that.

I remember this being a lightbulb moment for me because I realized how often I'd also had a habit of filtering how I viewed a text through the lens of other people's discussion of it, rather than what was on the page itself (maybe not for this particular assignment, but in general). After that, I began to read texts a lot more closely, especially for fandom stuff, and would often challenge people in fandom to identify where their impressions of certain points came from since it wasn't in the text, especially for things like characterization when it comes to writing fanfic or just meta analysis in general.

The upside is, I think that one exchange vastly improved my ability to analyze a text and draw conclusions from it. The downside is, I have to suffer through all the Discourse of people who didn't have a similar revelation at some point 😬