#and i do get that like my writing is not the greatest or most polished or punchiest | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

forlix · 1 year ago

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𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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mercillery · 13 days ago

Note

You already know who this is lmao. Since you wrote Andrew perfectly from IDV I GOTTA see how you write Frederick relationship overview 🙏💕 I love my poor disgruntled ex prodigee French man

WARNINGS: GENDER NOT SPECIFIED + NOT PROOFREAD

NOTES: I’ve got nothing to say about Frederick mains yet because I stopped playing around his release…but i’m sure his mains are fun to play with. I imagine they accidentally pop ciphers a lot too.

At first, Frederick would charm you in a way that feels almost unfair, like he’s playing a game you didn’t know you’d signed up for???

You’d find yourself completely entranced by Frederick—there’s no escaping it. This man doesn’t just walk into a room; he makes an entrance with a grace so smooth it practically slides in on polished shoes. He’s got this natural elegance that makes you wonder if he spends his weekends secretly training under some Victorian-era etiquette coach.

Every word, every subtle movement, is meticulously chosen to leave a lasting impression. You can almost hear a soundtrack playing whenever he talks. His gaze? Oh, it’s not just looking at you; it’s reading your very soul, flipping through your emotional pages like a well-loved book. This guy has the power to sweep any lady off their feet, whether they want to be swept or not. But don’t get too worried—you’re not just anyone to Frederick.

Dating Frederick is like a high-stakes thriller with poetic intermissions. When he’s chosen you as his focus, you’ll know it. He’s as devoted as a knight in shining armor with an artistic twist. Forget flowers—he’s out there composing symphonies that embody the way you laugh or the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed.

And yes, he’s that extra. But it’s not all rainbows and heartfelt sonatas. His passion runs as deep as the Mariana Trench, and with that comes a protective streak that would put guard dogs to shame.

His moments of jealousy? Let’s just say he doesn’t do halfway—Frederick only knows extremes. If you so much as wave at your barista a second too long, brace yourself for a brooding soliloquy about loyalty and his existential fear of being forgotten.

See, the man doesn’t just want to be liked or loved; he needs to be your everything. He’s got this internal scoreboard and if he’s not winning the gold medal in your heart, what’s the point? To Frederick, being mediocre is worse than losing—it’s being invisible, and he won’t settle for that. And honestly, why should he?

When it comes to love, Frederick doesn't do simple—no, he composes entire symphonies that could put Hollywood’s most dramatic love themes to shame. His idea of showing affection? It’s nothing short of an epic masterpiece.

You’d find yourself at the center of a grand concerto, where each note is painstakingly crafted to echo the highs, the lows, and those delicious in-betweens of your relationship. And, of course, private performances would become as routine as morning coffee.

Picture this: Frederick seated at a piano, fingers dancing across the keys, eyes darting to your face every other second as if he's trying to capture every flicker of your reaction. Is that awe? Is that admiration? Good. He’ll take that as a win. Your approval? It’s like a five-star review in a world where his love language is measured in crescendos and decrescendos.

But let's not forget—Frederick is a hopeless romantic, the kind who’s read Wuthering Heights one too many times and thought, Yeah, I can top that.

Love letters? Oh, they’re not just notes; they’re beautifully penned, metaphor-laden works of art that could make Shakespeare sit down and take notes. Candlelit concerts? He’s already planned three for next month, complete with a playlist that rivals the greatest romantic ballads in history.

And the surprises don’t stop there; you'll find flowers and little notes tucked into places you'd never expect: your bag, the fridge, maybe even the laundry hamper (don’t ask how they got there).

But for all his flair, Frederick isn’t just about grand gestures. There are those quieter, softer moments that catch you off guard and remind you that his love is as layered as one of his symphonies.

A simple lean of his head on your shoulder while you read, a touch so subtle you almost question if it happened, or that electric, intense gaze from across a crowded room—those moments are like a secret shared between the two of you. It’s like speaking an unspoken language, one where every glance and touch is a verse in an ever-unfolding poem that only the two of you understand.

Frederick’s sensitivity is a double-edged sword in your relationship, like owning a cat that’s both affectionate and completely unpredictable. On one hand, his perceptiveness is unmatched. This man could tell you’re upset from the way you’re stirring your coffee or the subtle shift in your smile.

Before you even have the chance to sigh, he’s there with those eyes full of concern, ready to listen and offer comfort that feels like a warm blanket on a cold day. It’s this deep empathy that forges an almost magical connection between you two, making you feel seen and understood in a way that’s rare. When Frederick’s with you, he’s with you—body, mind, and soul.

But there’s a catch, and it’s a big one.

His own emotions are about as stable as a teetering Jenga tower in the middle of an earthquake. Frederick feels everything on a scale of 1 to 100, with no in-between. Did you forget to say goodnight because you fell asleep? Prepare for an orchestra of internal questioning that could rival Hamlet’s soliloquy. Did you compliment a friend’s new jacket without immediately reassuring him that he still has the best taste in the room? Cue the silent spiral of doubt. He doesn’t just overthink—he over-operas. (Am I funny yet or do I just sound corny?)

Reassurance isn’t just appreciated; it’s essential. A simple “I’m here for you” can turn his internal storm into a calm, clear sky. Without it, his mind becomes a symphony of self-doubt, complete with the tragic overture of “Are they slipping away?”

And while it might sound exhausting, knowing this about Frederick means you’re sharing in something unique: a relationship where vulnerability is met with raw honesty and a commitment to each other’s emotional landscapes. Just be prepared for those moments when your calming words are the only thing standing between him and a full Shakespearean-level existential crisis.

While Frederick effortlessly projects an aura of undeniable charm and sophistication, it’s in those rare, private moments that you get to see beyond the polished exterior. These are the times when the cracks in his armor show, and you catch glimpses of the man behind the grandeur.

He’ll sit beside you, the gleam in his eyes softened, and open up about the disappointments that still gnaw at him. He’ll talk about the aching void left by his estranged family, the times he felt abandoned, and the relentless fear of mediocrity that follows him like a shadow he can’t shake.

It’s then you realize that his vanity isn’t just there to dazzle; it’s a well-crafted shield, desperately protecting the perfection-seeking artist who’s terrified of being truly seen and found wanting. In these moments, your acceptance of him—raw, imperfect, and honest—is worth more than a standing ovation at a sold-out concert.

But, spoiler alert: listening quietly won’t cut it.

He doesn’t just want to see that you’re present; he needs to hear your voice, feel your words like a balm on his frayed nerves. A silent nod isn’t enough when his mind is a cacophony of insecurities. He craves your reassurance like it’s the only song that can drown out the dissonance of self-doubt.

Then there are those times when Frederick’s paranoia takes center stage, and his brain transforms into a crime scene investigator looking for clues of your potential disinterest. Did you pause a beat too long before answering a question? He’ll dissect that silence like a forensic expert, eyes narrowing as if you just handed him the Rosetta Stone of heartbreak.

Even your simplest words or expressions are put under a microscope, magnified until he’s convinced he’s found proof that you’re slipping away. And yes, this can lead to some tension that’ll have you wondering if you’re in a relationship or a 24/7 reality show with constant performance reviews.

But here’s the twist—your patience and understanding are the keys to unlocking the security he craves. Sure, it might feel like you’re on an emotional tightrope at times, but when you take that moment to reassure him, to tell him he’s enough, you’ll see the tension melt away, and the storm in his eyes settle. Your steady, confident love is what helps Frederick silence the relentless chorus of doubt, making him feel seen, cherished, and—finally—secure.

Frederick has an eye for beauty, a radar for aesthetics, and a deep appreciation for life’s most elegant experiences, so if you’re with him, get ready for a whirlwind of high-class romance. Dates with Frederick aren’t just nights out—they’re productions.

Picture this: a night at the opera where he’s reserved the best seats, just for you and him, leaning close to whisper his insights on the music while his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your arm. Or an evening spent at a prestigious art gallery where he guides you from piece to piece, sharing stories and perspectives that make the artwork come alive.

Even a simple walk in the park with Frederick is elevated; he’s not just strolling—he’s carefully navigating to the most scenic routes, stopping at every blooming flower and golden-lit pond to take in the view and share a quiet moment of awe with you. He’ll glance at you with that expectant smile, as if to say, Isn’t this incredible?—and yes, he’ll definitely be checking to see if you agree.

And yes, if you’re wondering, he does have standards—expectations, even. Frederick doesn’t want to enjoy these experiences alone; he wants to bask in your shared appreciation, revel in your mutual admiration for art, architecture, and all things exceptional.

He’ll be delighted to show you off to his social circle, introducing you with a certain pride, as if you’re the finest piece in his collection of treasured things. But with that comes an unspoken agreement that you’ll match his refined demeanor and partake in his world of cultured conversation and elegant gestures.

Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s not expecting you to memorize 18th-century sonatas overnight or debate the merits of impressionism versus post-impressionism at every cocktail party. But if he catches even the slightest yawn during a concert or a vague, non-committal “It was fine” when he asks your thoughts on an exhibit—oh boy, brace yourself.

His brows will furrow in a way that says Is this really happening?, and suddenly, the air will feel a bit tense, like you’ve hit a wrong note in the symphony of his evening. He thrives on shared enthusiasm, so when he doesn’t see that spark in your eyes, he’s left wondering if you’re really on the same page or if you’d rather be anywhere else.

The key to navigating these moments? Patience and a touch of reassurance that, yes, you’re in this for the full experience—fancy outfits, whispered critiques at the opera, picturesque paths and all.

One thing about Frederick? He holds mediocrity in absolute contempt. This extends beyond his own aspirations and into the realm of your relationship, which, to him, is just another area where greatness must reign supreme.

If you're with Frederick, get ready for a personal coach, cheerleader, and, occasionally, an overly intense life mentor wrapped into one. He’ll push you to chase your dreams and won’t just clap when you reach a milestone—he’ll give you a standing ovation, complete with dramatic applause.

But with that passionate encouragement comes an edge; Frederick will also be your most unsparing critic, the kind who’ll say, “That was good, but it could be phenomenal,” right when you’re ready to celebrate. It’s motivating, sure, but if you don’t share his relentless pursuit of excellence or just need a break now and then, it might feel like you’re jogging beside someone who’s running an ultra-marathon…

If you really want Frederick to beam like he just won an award, show a genuine love for his craft or nurture a passion of your own. Respect for talent and hard work is practically woven into his DNA, so when he sees that you have your own spark, that’s when you become more than just a partner—you’re his muse, his equal, the one who fuels his artistic spirit.

Conversations with Frederick are not your run-of-the-mill small talk. Forget chatting about the weather or weekend plans; he’s here to unravel the mysteries of the human mind, ponder the nature of ambition, and debate the intricacies of creativity.

His interest in dissecting emotions, motivations, and talent isn’t just a casual hobby; it’s like he’s running a one-man TED Talk every time he opens his mouth.

And you? You’ll probably find yourself nodding along, wide-eyed, captivated by the way he speaks with such eloquence that even the most mundane statement sounds profound.

Honestly, he could say, “An orange is orange,” and you’d be nodding like, “Absolutely, that’s so true,” while trying not to swoon from the sheer brilliance of his delivery.

That said, these conversations aren’t just one-sided lectures. Frederick expects engagement, intellectual back-and-forth, even if it turns into a bit of a debate. And make no mistake—he’s got strong opinions and isn’t afraid to challenge yours, especially when it comes to art and talent.

But here’s the thing: he respects those who can spar with him in these verbal duels. If you stand your ground and hold your own, you’ll earn a rare, approving smile that makes all those philosophical tangents worth it.

Plus, there’s something quite mesmerizing about listening to him—his voice, rich and confident, pulls you in, and you’re left thinking, “Yes, Frederick, tell me more about the complexities of human nature and why oranges are orange,” while internally planning your Nobel Prize acceptance speech for keeping up with him.

Beneath Frederick’s air of grandeur and confident public persona, there’s a side of him that only you get to see—a soft, almost fragile version of himself that craves simple, unguarded intimacy. These are the moments when he lets the mask slip and the weight of being Frederick Kreiburg, the heir, the prodigy, the perfectionist, melts away.

It’s in these quiet interludes that you find him seeking solace, laying his head in your lap as you read, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your knee while he closes his eyes, enjoying the rare sense of peace. He doesn’t need to fill the silence with grand words or impressive declarations. In your shared space, the performance is over; he’s just Frederick, vulnerable and human, grateful that he doesn’t have to strive for perfection in your presence. Your presence alone is enough to soothe the symphony of doubt that usually plays on loop in his mind.

And while he might dazzle the crowds with his musical prowess and philosophical musings, one of his quieter passions is equestrianism—a skill that, unlike many of his pursuits, isn’t about impressing others but about finding a rare moment of freedom. It’s a pastime that lets him shed the pressure and simply enjoy life for what it is, the rhythmic pounding of hooves syncing with his heartbeat as he gallops across open fields, feeling the wind tug at his platinum hair.

When he invites you to join him on horseback rides, it’s more than just an activity; it’s an invitation into this private realm where he feels unburdened and alive. Teaching you to ride? Oh, he’ll approach it with all the patience and joy that he usually reserves for his most cherished pursuits. He’ll guide you with an amused smile as you find your balance, his hand never straying too far from yours, ready to steady you at the slightest wobble.

But nothing makes his heart lift quite like seeing you experience the same exhilaration that riding brings him. That shared thrill—the wind in your hair, the laughter that bubbles up as you both race through sun-dappled trails—is something he treasures. It’s one of the few times where his worries, ambitions, and relentless pursuit of excellence fade into the background, and it’s just the two of you, free and unbound.

And when he looks over at you, eyes bright and a grin cracking through his otherwise composed demeanor, you realize that, yes, this is Frederick at his happiest—not the heir or the virtuoso, but a man who, for once, is simply living in the moment, sharing it with the one person who makes it all more vibrant.

Ah, the shadows of Frederick’s past—a specter that never quite left him, always lingering in the corners of his mind, whispering doubts and sowing restlessness. There are days when this presence looms larger, and he becomes a man consumed by his inner turmoil, pacing like a caged lion or retreating into the sanctuary of his study.

In these moments, it’s like he’s waging a war with his thoughts, wrestling with the frustration of creative blocks or the relentless voice that tells him he’s never enough. He might shut the world out, drowning himself in a storm of music that’s as chaotic as his thoughts, fingers flying over the keys, each note a plea for peace that never quite comes.

It’s during these times that your role is both simple and profound. You may not know it, but your quiet, unwavering presence is the lighthouse guiding him through the storm.

A soft touch, the brush of your hand against his arm as you pass by, or just sitting in the room while he spirals—these things are the lifelines he doesn’t always know how to ask for but desperately needs. And while you might think that just being there isn’t enough, oh, how wrong you’d be.

The truth is, your patience and silent support do more than calm the chaos; they remind him that he isn’t alone in the struggle. Your reassurance is like a hidden chord in his symphony, one he clings to when the rest feels dissonant.

Of course, it’s not always easy. There will be times when the emotional weight feels as if it’s pressing down on you too, and you catch yourself thinking, Is this worth it?

And then you remember—remember the man behind the polished façade, the one who laughs a little too loudly when he’s truly caught off guard, or who looks at you with such raw, unguarded affection that it makes your heart stutter. The one who finds solace in resting his head in your lap and who lights up when he shares the simple joy of a horseback ride. The man who, despite his brilliance and bravado, is just as flawed and human as anyone else.

And in those moments, it doesn’t feel so exhausting. It feels like you’re part of something beautiful and rare—like you’re holding a piece of someone that no one else gets to touch, no matter how flawless his public persona may seem.

You realize that while being with Frederick comes with its trials, it also comes with moments of breathtaking vulnerability and love so consuming that it makes every struggle worth it. Because underneath the charm, the intensity, and the restless ambition is a man who, at the end of the day, needs you more than he’ll ever admit out loud. And that? That makes it all worthwhile.

#frederick kreiburg #Frederick kreiburg x reader #idv x you #idv x reader #identity v x you #identity v x reader #identity v #idv headcanons #identity v headcanons #THIS ONE IS FOR THE FREDERICK LOVERS 🎤🎤🎤

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stvolanis · 1 year ago

Text

Broken Heartstrings

(one shot)

warnings : dom & sub dynamics, Elvis is kinda abusive, age gap, INACCURATE TIME LINE, angst, Elvis is suspected of cheating,pet-names (baby, doll, darlin’, satin), a hint jealousy (Elvis and OC), manipulation, toxic relationship, OC is naive and kinda (not really) innocent, smut includes degradation (slut, brat), praising, dubcon-ish I guess, spitting, p in v sex, oral (f receiving),size kink, slapping (not hard enough to hurt), man handling, overstimulation, spitting, house wife kink (if you squint), stomach bulge, make-up sex, and overall rough sex. Sorry if I missed anything <3

this is my first story I’ve written for Tumblr, so it won’t be the greatest and might be poorly written to some, but I had fun writing it so enjoy to those who are interested :)

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

the days grew longer as the nights seemed to be getting unbearably shorter. Lucy was sitting on a tall bar stool swinging her little frilly sock covered feet back n’ forth as she waited for her husband to get to their shared home. It was late, ‘round 12:30 and he hadn’t shown up to the dinner she had graciously prepared for the both of them. The food was getting cold and her appetite was fading, being replaced by a feeling in the pit of her stomach she couldn’t seem to pin.

The couple had their ups and downs, as any other, but lately it seemed to be more downs. he’d come home late, his hair and clothes disheveled. sometimes he’d smell like cheap women’s perfume and other times he’d smell like gin and whiskey. he’d come home with an attitude, and take it out on Lucy since she was the closest one around. She knew he was struggling, but Elvis Presley was not one for opening up and receiving help.

the drinking and coming home late started happening after his mother passed away. he didn’t know how else to cope, so he did what he’d see his father do. he’d been chasing a high he’d never be able to reach, but his determined mind wouldn’t falter. one more drink. one more show. one more hit of whatever he was on in the moment or could get his hands on. anything to help relive the aching in his chest. It was like a poison that spread through his body, draining his energy and overtaking him. but he kept on falling deeper and deeper

but there was her. Lucy. the sweet little 20 year old who kissed his worries and pains away. Lucy, who made him feel like a young school boy all over again. Lucy , who batted her pretty eyelashes up at him when she needed some loving. Lucy, who’d perch herself on his lap and whisper sweet nothings into his ear when he was exhausted from shows, telling him everything he already knew, but it was coming from her, so he’d hear it a million more times if he could. Lucy, who was so sickeningly sweet and naive, she didn’t realize that not everyone wanted wanted to be just her friend.

Elvis didn’t like that.

Elvis knew he scored with Lucy. He knew that she was the purest thing he’d ever be able to obtain in his lousy life. the freshest, kindest and most beautiful little daisy in a field of weeds. Sure, people were throwing themselves at him left and right, but they weren’t real. Girls always on his arm, yet they only cared for his charm, fame and money. Only cared about fucking their way to the top just to be a nice trophy wife on the arm of some rich piece of shit. Running them dry. But Lucy was never like that.

Lucy was from a small town. A southern bell, and a hard worker who took care of her sick mother for as long as she could remember. She always seen the good in people, even when it seemed invisible to others. Her hearts too big for her delicate body, or at least that’s what her momma used to tell her. Lucy worked at a busy diner on the outskirts of her town, and traveling people were always in and out. So it was no surprise to her when Elvis Presley had shown up in a white button down, dark jeans and polished dress shoes with his friends following behind him.

Ever since that day, Elvis made it his mission to be with her. attached at the hip since they laid eyes on each other, and neither of them would have it any other way. But once her husband started touring again, their honeymoon phase was soon ending and arose more arguments, aggression and finger-pointing.

Elvis had promised to have a nice, civilized dinner with his wife as long as she cooked the food and not one of the maids. For hours, Lucy had been feeling waves of excitement as she cooked all day, creating a nice big meal for them to enjoy together for once. It had been so long since they sat down for dinner together. But alas, he was no where to be found.

She looked down at her hands that were between her thighs as she felt her eyes begin to water and her breathing uneven. of course he wouldn’t have come. what was she thinking? as tears began to fall, it seemed as though they wouldn’t stop. The girl wept as she began to throw away the food she had worked so hard to make.

Soon, that sadness and disappointment turned into a bubbling anger in her core. How could he do this to her? Why did she always have to be the one waiting around? She hated feeling reliant on him for the smallest things. Time, attention, love. Things no one else had ever cared to give her, but Elvis had so happily. She hated that they always fell into this routine of cat and mouse. And always, just when she’s about to call it quits, he smooth talks his way back into her arms.

Mumbling words of affirmation to her. How much he loves and cares for her, and how no one else will ever love her as much as he does. How she’s such a good housewife for him, always keeping the house together and waiting for his return like a good girl. How beautiful she is, and the things he loves most about her.

as the anger bubbled in her stomach, she could hear the booming laugh of Elvis through the halls as he cracked jokes with his choice of friends for the nights and all Lucy could feel was disgust. how could she have been so dumb?

In that moment, Lucy decided she’d had enough. She slammed the door open to the kitchen and marched her way through the long halls till she got to the entrance of the house where Elvis stood in all his glory. Oh, how pretty he looked. His smile becoming bigger as he laid eyes on his wife who wore a white, off the shoulder sundress and frilly white socks. she seemed so small and frail compared to him.

But his smile soon faded as he took notice of her puffy red eyes, red nose and trembling lips and worry consumed him. “Woah, darlin’, what’s goin on?” He asked as he took off his coat and laid it on a small round table. Lucy scoffed. “Are you fuckin’ serious, Elvis?” She said dryly as she squinted her eyes.

Elvis clenched his jaw, clearly displeased. “Watch ya mouth when ya talk to me, ya hear?” He said sternly as he pointed a finger at her. Lucy rolled her pretty green eyes. “Where were you? Huh? You were out with women, weren’t you? I can smell them on you Elvis!” She shouted as fresh tears fell from her eyes.

He groaned as he lazily dragged a hand down his perfectly sculpted face. “What the hell are ya talkin’ ‘bout, Lucy? I ain’t been with no women other than you!” He shouted back as he flared his arms out with a dry laugh. “I’m done with your lies, Elvis.” She said as she harshly wiped her tears and turned to leave.

Elvis made quick work of grabbing her arm and spinning her back around, harshly pushing her against the wall as his hand snaked up and snugly wrapped around her neck. Lucy was taken aback, Elvis had never put his hands on her in a way she didn’t like before.

“Dammit, woman, what’s it gonna take for you to calm down and stop accusin’ me of bullshit every damn day?!” He yelled out in her face. Lucy’s body wracked with sobs, and only then did Elvis realize what he’d done. He shakily removed his hands, but didn’t move away from her and instead caged her body in with his slender arms.

Lucy pushed harshly against his chest, trying to create some distance between them but Elvis wasn’t having it as he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. “Let me go, Elvis!” She said, her voice hoarse and broken. “Need ya to calm down first, baby.” He replied as he watched her body tremble

“Oh I need to calm down? How fucking funny coming from the man who just choked me out!” She laughed out dryly as she shot him a look of disgust and anger. “I’ve fuckin’ had it with this attitude you got. After everything I do for you, this is how you wanna act?! Huh?!” He yelled as he began dragging her up the stairs to their shared bedroom.

“Stop it Elvis, you’re hurting me!” Lucy weakly yelled as his grip tightened around her wrists, surely to leave marks the next morning. Elvis played deaf as he harshly threw her onto their bed, slamming the door shut and swiftly locking it. Lucy’s body bounced as she made contact with the bed before sitting up, ready to speak again till Elvis cut her off.

“Strip.” Was all Elvis said. His voice thick, deep and velvety. Such a sweet sound. If only the words coming out weren’t laced with disappointment and dissatisfaction towards the helpless girl on the bed. Her eyes widened and her words got caught in her throat. Again. Why does this always happen? right when she’s about to stand up for herself, she always backs down the very last second and the cycle continues and worsens each time. But it’s addicting.

Sickeningly enough, she thrives in it. She’s become so accustomed to it, she wouldn’t remember how to live like a normal couple again. The toxicity of their relationship kept her on her toes, and deep down inside, she knew she wouldn’t want it any other way. How boring it would be. She knew Elvis wasn’t with other Women, because if he was it would be the cover of every times magazine and she wouldn’t hear the end of it from her friends and family. She knew the perfume she smelled on him was his mommas favorite.

As her shakey hands met the fabric of her white dress and began pulling it off of her body, Elvis rolled up his sleeves and drunk in the sight in front of him. almond green eyes, plump lips and a cute button nose that’s still slightly reddened from her crying. long chocolate brown hair. Full breasts with perky, sensitive nipples that sat ever so perfectly. slim hips and meaty thighs with a round ass to top it all off. But god, how he adored how small she is compared to him.

How tiny she is, is one of his favorite parts about her, and oh, how he used it to his advantage in the most vile ways. it was so easy for someone as big as him to completely destroy her. and that’s exactly what he does.

“Please,Elvis, m’ sor-” she tried, but Elvis wasn’t having it. “I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ thing from ya, baby.” He said roughly as he gripped her hair at the base and craned her neck up to look at him. her hands gripped his shirt and she felt her slick between her thighs at his tone.

Elvis brought his hand up to her mouth and Lucy stuck her tongue out, welcoming her husbands fingers that harshly hit the back of her throat, making her gag and eyes water. Elvis clicked his tongue. “How can ya take my cock when ya can’t even take my fingers, darlin’?” He chuckled out.

Her mouth closed around his fingers and she began to suck them seductively and Elvis felt his pants tighten at the sight. Pretty eyes staring back up with him, trying to prove she can.

Always a hard worker, huh?

Elvis smirked at the thought as he removed his fingers and instead harshly pushed her upper body down onto the bed, spreading her legs as he dropped to his knees. his mouth watered at the sight. Her cunt was puffy and pink, bud swollen with need and begging for attention. Her slick was seeping out, and there was a wet patch on the sheets of the bed where she had been sitting that was dark and visible. It was such a pretty sight for a starving man.

He spread her lower lips and dragged his tongue between the welt folds, gathering all of her essence. He hummed at the taste of her on his tongue before savoring it for a moment. Then, he sucked her clit into his mouth with such force, her back painfully arched. His tongue skillfully played with her overly-sensitive bud, teasing and sucking as her thighs closed in around his head.

Elvis was pussy drunk. He couldn’t seem to get enough of the taste of his sweet girl. He didn’t care if he couldn’t breathe, he didn’t care about anything besides making Lucy come as many times as she could on his tongue. He prodded a finger at her sopping entrance before slowly sinking them in, letting them sit before pulling out and harshly slamming back in. Lucy let out a gasp at the intrusion as he began to finger fuck her tight cunt with no remorse.

The small girl felt the coil in her stomach tighten as her fingers gripped his mop of disheveled hair as she pushed her cunt further into the dazed mans face. Elvis curled his fingers in her before sucking her clit harshly one last time, and that’s when it snapped. “Oh my god—Elvis!” She moaned out as she tried to shove his head away from her overstimulated clit, but Elvis wasn’t listening.

“Sucha good girl, satin.” He mumbled against her clit as he felt her juices drip down his chin. God, how sweet she tasted. His entire chin and chest were covered in her, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d fuck up a million more times if it meant he could come back home to this.

Lucy panted, out of breath underneath him as he crawled above her sweaty body. He laid the gentlest kisses upon her skin, so tender and sweet. The flutter of his lips against her stomach had her insecurities seeping away into the cracks of the floor boards. The suckle of her nipples, and the releasing ‘pop’, followed by the countless hickies laid where they both knew only he would be able to see had her blushing madly. The caressing of her neck and the soft kiss against her lips made her forget the reason this all started to begin with.

“Ya with me, baby?” He asked. “Yes, Elvis. ‘M here.” She softly replied. Elvis took that as his sign to tighten his hold around Lucy’s neck, lifting her slightly to better look her in the eye. “Good, ‘cause I’m gon’ show ya what happens to ungrateful brats when I’m done with ya.” He said harshly as he slapped the side of her cheek with his free hand, but not hard enough to actually hurt. Just hard enough to know he was gonna fuck her into oblivion.

He spread Lucy’s legs, slapping her puffy, over-sensitive cunt. She softly moaned at the impact, making Elvis chuckle. “Fuckin’ slut.” He muttered as he lined his throbbing cock to her entrance. Elvis inhaled deeply as he slowly pushed his tip in, teasingly pulling it in and out a few times. Lucy whined. “Elvis-” she began. “Shut up, ya take what I give ya, brat.” He said sternly as he gripped her hair. Lucy nodded I obediently as she whimpered out a small ‘sorry’.

Suddenly, the larger man bullied his way inside her wet cunt and she could feel his hair against her throbbing clit. She moaned out as her hand grabbed the arm Elvis was holding her leg up with to ready herself. Elvis spared no mercy as he ruthlessly began bucking his hips into hers, not waiting for her to adjust to his size. She felt like heaven to him, after all, he’d trained her pussy to perfectly fit his cock since the night of their wedding, but after so long of going without being inside of her, she’d tightened up again. Elvis hissed as her walls squeezed him before throwing his head back and letting out a deep groan.

Lucy gripped the sheets below her, desperately trying to hold onto something as the beast on top of her used her cunt like she was a rag-doll solely for his pleasure. “Tight fuckin’ cunt, all for me, mama. Takin’ my dick so well, just like I taught ya, baby.” He said between breaths. Her chest fluttered at his praise, and her cunt squeezed tighter around him. “Ya like that, hm? Like when I tell ya how good you are to me. How nice you fit around my cock. My good girl.” He muttered against your lips as his hands squeezed her hips with such force, they’d be sure to leave a mark.

“Yes, Yes, fuck—yes Elvis. ‘M your good girl. All yours.” Lucy replied through loud moans, her breasts bouncing with ever rough thrust he planted. Something snapped in Elvis at that, and he threw her legs over his shoulder, hitting a new angle. Just the right spot to make her vision blurry and seeing stars. Her back arched as his fingers found her clit, rolling it between his fingers before rubbing it just the right way that made that familiar coil tighten again.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum, Elvis! p-please mm- lemme cu-cum!” She stuttered out through moans. Elvis reveled in her satisfying sounds, every thrust sent him into orbit as he became pussy drunk, completely consumed in her. He could feel her everywhere. Her soft hands all over him. Her cunt squeezing the life out of him as she was on the brink of an orgasm. the pleas of her crying aloud. Her eyes watering as she stared up at him, overstimulated.

“Hold it, ‘m almost there, baby. Doin’ so good f’me.” Elvis replied as his hips shot further into hers. The sound of their sweaty skin echoed through the room, and surely could be heard through the halls. Elvis took notice of the prominent bulge on her stomach, groaning at the sight of him filling her to the brim. He pressed his hand against it. “Feel that? ‘M right here, doll.” He said, his voice laced with desire. Lucy merely whimpered, still trying to hold back on her orgasm.

The sudden pressure on her lower stomach made her eyes roll to the back of her head as she felt the coil once again snap, releasing all her juices on Elvis’ lower stomach for a second time. But Elvis wasn’t done yet as he kept his pace of pounding into her. “Please, I can’t-” she moaned out, Elvis slapped her cheek. “I told ya to fuckin’ wait, but you just hadda be a slut, huh? you’re done when I say ya are.” He hissed. Lucy moaned at the contact of his hand against her cheek before nodding her head vigorously.

Elvis felt his stomach grow tighter as he was closer and closer to finishing. “‘M almost there, j-just ho-hold on f’me, mama.” He stuttered out through the waves of euphoric feelings. All of his senses were overwhelmed and his body felt hot to the touch like it was on fire as sweat dripped down him. He slammed his cock into Lucys overstimulated cunt a few more times sloppily before his hips stilled inside of her.

Elvis soon pulled out and watched as cum dripped out of her sopping, pulsing hole before taking two of his slender fingers and stuffing it back in. “Don’t want it to go to waste, now do we?” He said with a smirk as Lucy’s body wracked with spasms as his fingers penetrated her. Lucy’s hand reached out and stilled his movements with a small whimper. “No more Elvis, ‘s too much.” She whined.

Elvis sighed. “Alright, satin, let’s get you cleaned up.” He said as he got up and went into their shared bedroom to retrieve a wet cloth before coming back and gently wiping off both of their juices from her sore cunt. Lucy sighed contently as Elvis pressed a few lingering kisses on her thighs and stomach. “You did so good.” Elvis said against her lips before softly kissing her.

“Want you to hold me, please, Elvis.” She muttered back with a cheeky smile. Elvis let out a small laugh, eyes gleaming with something she couldn’t quite decipher. “Whatever you want, Lucy.” He replied as he laid in bed next to her, bringing her closer and wrapping his arms around the smaller girl. She drew small patterns on his naked chest and smiled contently when she felt his hands begin to massage her scalp.

“Yknow I love ya, right?” Elvis said as he glanced down at her in his arms.

“I know, Elvis. I love you too.”

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

#70s elvis #elvis x reader #elvis presley #elvis x oc #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis presley fandom #elvis fans #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x y/n

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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In the 2020s, love triangles are all the rage—at least in American literature. The last five years have seen a proliferation of novels about non-traditional triads. Raven Leilani arguably ignited the trend with Luster, followed by Torrey Peters’s Detransition, Baby, Julia May Jonas’s Vladimir, and Jen Beagin’s Big Swiss, among others. Each novel featured a female protagonist armed with a sardonic voice, and each used a love triangle to probe social issues related to sex, power, race, gender, and class.

Mostly, these novels have been about American lust. But a new addition to the list, The Lady Waiting by Polish novelist and filmmaker Magdalena Zyzak, offers an international spin on the genre. This mischievously delightful caper centers on the love triangle between a wealthy American couple and their Polish assistant, who conspire to steal a Vermeer.

Although Zyzak, like her predecessors, is interested in the dynamics of sex and power, she throws a new element into the mix: globalization. The Lady Waiting is, beneath the sex, a story of the global economy, where workers from countries on the periphery do most of the labor for a tiny slice of the pie, while investors from the core economies feast.

The Lady Waiting is the second novel by Zyzak, who was born in Poland but has lived in the United States since she was an undergraduate in the early 2000s. Zyzak writes in caffeinated English: On the spectrum of foreign-born writers who switched to English, she is far closer to Vladimir Nabokov than Joseph Conrad—she never passes up a chance at puns, chiasmus, or word play.

The novel opens when a 23-year-old Polish immigrant, Viva, spots a posh woman in a green cocktail dress standing on an island of Los Angeles’s 101 freeway. Viva stops to offer a ride to the woman, who turns out to be a rich Polish-American named Bobby. Soon, Bobby and her husband, Sleeper, a retired U.S. film director, offer Viva a job. They want her to be their live-in help. “Sleeper says our household needs a wife,” Bobby explains.

Viva has been in the United States for a year and is floundering, going unhired because of her faltering English and her failure to absorb American social norms. (When an interviewer asks what her greatest weakness is, Viva answers, “manipulating”; she doesn’t get the job.) Viva never wanted to come to the country in the first place. But a boyfriend convinced her to enter the green card lottery; when she won, everyone told her she’d be crazy not to cash in the ticket. In Poland, she has a “teaching degree, though nothing to teach”; in America, the only job she can get is as a home aid for an older woman who soon dies.

Viva’s reasons for being in the United States crystallize when she meets Bobby, who strikes her as the kind of woman you see on Los Angeles billboards. Bobby is rich and comfortable being rich. She charms Viva at an expensive lunch in Beverly Hills. The waiter brings out rosé and sharing plates, and Bobby says, in characteristically gleeful free association, “People hate rosé but I love it … Doesn’t give you as much of a headache, as long as it’s a quickie, not an affair. Never date a socialist unless he’s the champagne kind. Oh, hey, socialism! We’re going to share all the plates!”

Viva is intoxicated not just by Bobby’s money but also her command of English. When Viva speaks, she is hobbled by her adopted tongue; in Viva’s narration, though, her internal monologue sounds kind of like Bobby’s dialogue. Explaining her origins, Viva narrates: “The man who had impregnated my mother in a rapeseed field—not a metaphor, a major Polish crop—had ridden a motorcycle.”

After lunch, Bobby takes Viva to an expensive boutique, where she steals a $9,000 dress for her. Viva is distraught—she could lose her green card if she’s an accomplice to a crime.

“Why did you steal it?” Viva asks.

“Because I could afford it,” Bobby says with a shrug.

The dress turns out to be a harbinger. Bobby convinces Viva to steal—or fake-steal, in a move that she claims is “neutral legally”—a Vermeer that went missing from a museum nine years earlier, from her ex-husband, a Russian mobster. The fictional Vermeer, “The Lady Waiting,” is a small portrait of a woman seated in front of a window, gazing at her hands. The ex-husband recently acquired it as repayment for a debt, and he’s looking to return it to a German museum that’s offering a 10 million euro reward.

Her ex is outsourcing the job because it would be difficult for a Russian on the Magnitsky list to claim the reward. If they succeed, the Russian ex will get the majority of the 10 million, paying out a million each to his German lawyer as well as the Americans—Bobby and Sleeper. In a mirroring of globalization, Viva, the laborer brought in to do the actual work and assume the actual risk, will get only 1 percent. But 100,000 euros is a life-changing amount for Viva. It might buy her a ticket on the elusive route from immigrant to expat.

As for the love triangle, Viva sleeps first with Bobby, who excites her in context if not action. (“It was not the technique but the situation—that she was my boss—that aroused me.”) Sleeper excites her in a much more straightforward way: “It was remarkable that other men had never made me come, because the whole thing had taken less than two minutes.” It’s Bobby who pushes her to Sleeper—each of them knows of Viva’s involvement with the other—and every time Viva sleeps with Sleeper, it seems to bring him closer to Bobby. She begins to fall for Sleeper, but also for Bobby, in a confusing way: “Sometimes I like you so much I want to be you,” she tells the latter.

Sleeper and Bobby are idle rich. They live like “nineteenth-century aristocrats,” working little and drinking often, in constant pursuit of drollness. Viva is paid $1,000 a week for an unwritten and varying set of tasks that includes making breakfast, bringing ice to cocktail hour in the hot tub, breaking in Bobby’s shoes, and, implicitly, sex. She is alternately ignored, fawned over, spoiled, and humiliated. “Was their behavior an abuse of power if that power was the very thing that turned me on?” she wonders.

Through Bobby, she gets a taste of American opulence. When she tries on Bobby’s expensive boots, she feels a “desire to own them that was akin to lust or hunger.”

“Poor girls from Poland, Russia, Ukraine in my generation had little to no inoculation against luxury products, communism having wiped out most hereditary wealth,” Viva says. “We’d kill for a pair of designer shoes.” When Viva later climaxes with Sleeper, she fantasizes that she is Bobby, surrounded by designer shoes.

The plot to retrieve the painting goes smoothly, but—spoilers ahead—after Viva brings it back, it is stolen from Bobby’s closet. Viva, Bobby, and Sleeper travel to Venice to hunt down the Vermeer, all the while being tailed by a Russian mafia thug. Abroad, their affair turns more overt, and Viva begins sleeping with the couple together. At one point, she catches Bobby watching her have sex with Sleeper. Viva later tells Bobby that she wants to be the one spectating. Bobby replies, “do you really think I care to know what’s in your bird brain? This is my fantasy. Mine, not yours.”

This is when Viva begins to realize, if she hadn’t already, that she is on the lowest rung of this ladder, and if she wants money, power, or choice, she’ll have to break out of the system. She tracks the now thrice-stolen Vermeer to a mining town in Poland, where she buys it from an old lady storing it in her car for a little more than $1,000. The woman lives in a communist housing bloc where, “in an apathetic nod to individualism, each cube was painted a different, faded underwear color: gray-white, dull red, brown-pink, lint blue.” When Viva talks to the woman, she notices in her mouth “a gap from a missing canine, a tiny black door to the mean world I’d escaped, a world where you’re reduced, one indignation at a time, by cheap dentists, expensive priests, needy parents, treacherous children.”

Viva’s emigration isn’t easy for the Americans in the novel to understand. She didn’t leave Poland to pursue a dream: “Where I’m from, fantasies tend to be about revenge, not aspiration.” Nor is she, as a friend of Bobby’s assumes, fleeing “some hellhole where men raped sheep and women gave birth in ditches.” Poland, which acceded to the European Union in 2004, is something of a development success story, and it’s often seen by its neighbors to the east as a land of prosperity and opportunity. But opportunity is relative.

In Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s 2013 novel Americanah, a Nigerian émigré says of the white people in his adopted country:

they would not understand the need to escape from the oppressive lethargy of choicelessness. They would not understand why people like him, who were raised well fed and watered but mired in dissatisfaction, conditioned from birth to look towards somewhere else, eternally convinced that real lives happened in that somewhere else, were now resolved to do dangerous things, illegal things, so as to leave, none of them starving, or raped, or from burned villages, but merely hungry for choice.

Viva ambivalently left the “shabby comfort” of home for opportunity. But once she’s walked in the shoes of her U.S. employers’ blend of boundless optimism and reckless shortsightedness, she can’t go back. She swipes the painting, cuts off contact with Bobby and Sleeper, travels to Berlin, gets her own German lawyer, and claims the reward. The consequence of her actions quickly becomes clear when she sees that Interpol has declared Bobby and Sleeper missing, last seen in Russia.

In the real world, it would likely be the worker who bore the consequence of a scheme gone sideways. But Zyzak’s world is more just than ours, in a sense, while still adhering to the hierarchy. Here it’s the wealthy American investors who must answer for their actions and Viva who claims their spot as the aspirational rich.

Toward the end of the story, Viva’s German lawyer recommends that she give up her green card and settle in a tax haven such as the Cayman Islands to keep more of her reward money.

“I think I want to keep my green card,” she says.

“May I ask why?” the lawyer asks.

“Because,” Viva says, “I won it in the lottery.”

Viva may be a millionaire now. But more importantly, she’s an American.

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kimtiny · 1 month ago

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Have you seen the seen the headlines lately that they are reanalyzing the Columbus DNA again to figure out his origin?

I did not. So I looked it up!

Most that I found is just confirmations that the bones that are supposed to be his (in Serville) are his. And I didn't know that was such a mystery, I kinda thought it was already confirmed for ages but ig not?

I only saw one article really talking about trying to determine his origin and giving us some theories that bloomed over the year, and, I'm sorry but, most if not all of them are ridiculous imo. Plus, didn't he literally write he was from Genoa?

Would I believe he would have lied on his origin? Yes. I mean, the whole name change was a way to be more accepted imo- if we follow his determined origin (for now), in Ligurian his name is "Corombo" (or Combo, but that works less for my theory lol) which was likely (maybe accidentally) changed to "Colombo" then to "Colòn" and the train chain of other names. It's just my theory that the original 'r' was misinterpreted, but if you're willing to change your first name to Cristobal to be more accepted to the Spainish people, you basically do not care if your last name is changed too.

What I'm saying is that if Columbus would have changed his origin, he would have likely tried to make himself spanish like he "spanished" his own name (just a theory). I don't think he's above it.

Plus, Genoa being his birth place kinda makes sense to me. It was the perfect cocoon for someone like him to develop like he did, you did NOT wanna be in Genoa at that time. (I remember being told that there was a weird anti color cult, so he was a sad beige baby and that's still is a private joke with my bsf. I wish I could find confirmations on this)

What am I trying to get at? Honestly, I just don't think we'd learn anything new or anything at all. I guess it's great that what we thought were his bones actually are his bones. But for his origins? I do not know. In his story, it's very hard to find reliable narrators. We cannot fully trust his own writing, or his son's, or his brother's, or the sailors', or anyone I fear. Everything is a mix of what is most believable/accepted, what would have been the case and what wasn't told.

And now, I'm asking myself- does it matter? Will it change anything? His origins, that I still believe are Genoese, may be a mystery for some, but is it our greatest concern? Would it help us determine his actual birth name, that he seems to have a sick pleasure hiding- or maybe a birth date? We don't know that too!

But the biggest thing is, will that even impact the general public at all? We live in an era post Columbus propaganda, where multiple books and movies are made to make him be the hero.

What if he turns out to be Polish? Will that change anything? Will Genoa unclaim him? Will Poland claim him instead?

Will that little detail of his history do anything? I mean, not to bash anyone that is truely hyped by that! But, I'm not...

Tho if he turns out to be king Ferdinand's brother like I saw one theory say, that will really be something LOL!

#history #ask #futuristicperfectiontree

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louisupdates · 1 year ago

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[Translated]

Poland steals Louis Tomlinson. Julia Maciąg's report from the singer's concert in Krakow

By Julia Maciąg - September 11, 2023

If a member of the band One Direction announces a tour, it means only one thing - it’s going to be big. Whatever, but I don't know a bigger fandom that can sacrifice everything for its idols. I won't write about what happened before the concert itself, because everything is documented on the platform X, which is a treasure mine. So it was in Krakow's Tauron Arena, which hosted Louis Tomlinson on September 10. The singer went on tour to promote his second album Faith In The Future. I must admit that Louis is my favorite member from the popular band who is actively giving concerts, so even if Wisła was to flood half of Krakow, I had to be at this concert.

You probably associate the fervor with queuing a few days before Harry Styles' concert. Louis wasn’t missing that either, which is why the organizers introduced queuing numbers for people who bought a place on the album, which I think is a very good idea. Admittedly, in the crowd of desperate fans, I heard some protesting voices, but let's not kid ourselves - who would like to queue so long to get to the barricades? The queuing numbers and the organizer's rules proved themselves, and controlled the chaos caused by the "nomads".

Before the main concert itself, support was held by Andrew Cushin and The Lathums. I rarely mention it, but Andrew Cushin so charmed me with his music and his voice that I would consider going to his solo concert (he promised to come to our country in 2024, but time will tell). However, I did not become the most faithful fan of The Lathums, and they could appear at the beginning of the support.

The main star began his show with the song The Greatest and, like a Polish patriot, entered the stage in a white and red T-shirt. He mentioned many times that he loved our country and that he liked coming back here. He also emphasized that the crowd was very loud, which even surprised him, while encouraging even more noise in the arena. He even listened to fans asking him to play Chicago, which had been removed from the European part of the tour. For me, it was the biggest surprise of this concert because it is my most beloved Louis song, and I couldn't hold back my tears after this show.

Additionally, on the Tauron stage Louis Tomlinson sang the songs Night Changes from the One Direction repertoire, and Back To You in a rock arrangement that fit the mood of the whole concert. At the end of the concert, there was Where Do Broken Hearts Go with the original melodic line from 1D discography. Fans also got a chance to listen to a cover of 505 by the British band Arctic Monkeys, one of the inspirations for Faith In The Future. The unreleased song Copy of a Copy of a Copy Louis, which can be found on Spotify, among others, was also a treat.

One of the more interesting phenomena that took place at the concert was certainly the jumping around on Out Of My System, which happened quite close to me but fortunately didn't touch me. Fireworks unexpectedly fired at the end of Out Of My System, which almost gave me a heart attack. Admittedly the launchers also shot fireworks during Written All Over Your Face or High California, but the Out Of My System shot was quite violent and unexpected. During Silver Tongues, Louis went down to the fans and sang the last song with them. At the same time, confetti shot toward the fans.

Almost right after this concert, I lost my hearing because I had contact with the loudest fans in my entire life. Furthermore, I got an amazing memory of seeing another One Direction member live. I also learned to wait in the future for a souvenir photo or autograph from Louis after his next concert. I wish everyone who goes to Lodz a lot of fun, and for those who are thinking about Louis' concert, I can confirm that it is worth going. The Krakow setlist is below.

#louis press #fitfwt23: krakow #louis tomlinson #10.9.2023

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bronzeageyuri · 9 months ago

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Drabblecember 2022(!) Day 5: Date Night

Summary: Dianthus is about to head out on a date with King Theseus! Unfortunately for her... he dedicated to wear his golden mask out on it.

Notes: As the title implies, I originally wrote this for drabblecember way back in 2022 😭 yesterday I decided to take another look at it and I kept giggling at what I had already written, so I decided to go ahead and finish what I had 💖 perhaps at some point I'll come back and write about their actual date, but until then... well, here you are!

~ 595 words. No TWs for this one! But you do learn why Theseus can get away with so much with Dia 💖

“Lady Dianthus! Are you prepared for our most romantic engagement on this day or night?”

“Of course I am! And I’m very happy to see you, my sweet King Theseus. It is simply that…”

Dianthus looked intensely at her date. Theseus was dressed regally, his usual short chiton replaced with a longer, heavier cloth, decorated with a golden trim. He was handsome in his fancier garbs, his laurel of golden bay leaves being a shimmering reminder of why even in the afterlife he was still referred to as a king. There was an issue, however: He had that damned mask on. Crafted by Daedalus himself, it was made to match the king’s beloved Macedonian Tau Lambda, the world’s first (and likely only) motorized chariot. The mask, made of pure, shining gold, only covered about half of Theseus’ face. As an ingenious aspect of its design, it left the king’s vibrant smile exposed to all who would witness it. There were many things about Theseus’ gaudy fashion choices that Dianthus had begun to adore… such as his love for gemstones and over-elaborate embroidery. But she could not love that mask. It was a mockery of all things good and noble, a horrific affront on all that is beautiful and true. No shade could have crafted that thing with good intentions in his heart, besides; she was quite certain Daedalus made it in jest, not expecting anyone to actually wear the thing. But Theseus loved it just as much as he loved the chariot itself— the dark callings of which often lured him from his bedroom in the middle of the night. How many times now had Dianthus found him polishing that golden-faced chariot at the very crack of dawn? She cursed Zagreus for giving it to him in the first place. With Dianthus lost in thought, Theseus took it upon himself to interpret her silence: “Ah, my lady… you must be rendered speechless by my handsome visage! A truly inevitable happenstance, I assure you. Go on, then, do not be shy! You may bask in my splendor for as long as you’d like!” “...Right. Thank you, Theseus.” Dianthus sighed in response. “Hmm~! Of course, I do not wish for you to merely bask, my lady! I must admit to you that I am quite thrilled about our date! Theseus reached forward to grasp her hands within his own, his thumb brushing gently over the dark ochre of her skin. It was difficult to tell with his mask, but something about his face grew softer, his smile, while still vibrant, less intense. “I am alway happy to spend time with you, no matter what the circumstances may be! But it has been some time since our last proper date, has it not…?” Within seconds he returned to his usual excitement. He laughed warmly, his voice, as always, honeyed with love. “My dearest Lady Dianthus! I shall do all in my power to ensure that this date is the greatest, most romantic, and most jovial you’ve ever embarked upon!!” “...Oh!” Dianthus felt dizzy— she was complaining about something a minute ago… what was it? She couldn’t remember. “I mean… you don’t have to do all that for me, Theseus!” “And yet, I shall! Come, my lady— let us not dally any longer!!” Theseus lifted Dianthus into his arms, more than content to simply carry her to their destination (not that she minded one bit). Perhaps one day she would remember to mention her distaste for that mask… but for now, the topic was nothing more than an afterthought.

#📚 codex #🌺👑 king's flower

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secondhandbagofholding · 2 months ago

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One of my greatest anxieties about being a would-be author is the state of the world of publishing. To be fair my knowledge of it is limited. I don't think it's a world you know much about unless you have already traveled to it by being published, if you are a native there as an editor or publisher, or if you are on the outside looking at brochures for the place hoping to one day board whatever train it is that can take you there so your ideas and manuscripts can become published works. The workings of the publishing industry aren't common knowledge to most people, most probably because why would it need to be? Authors author the books. Publishers publish the books. Readers read the books. Why should the reader need to know what's going on in the other parts of the process? Their part is simple; go to the library or the bookstore, acquire the book, and read it.

But as someone who is part of that last category, the reader, trying to enter into the first category, the author, the blind spot I have for how the second category does its job causes me a great deal of stress. And, to top it all off, reports are fairly constant now that the world of publishing is, like mostly every other industry, overrun now with the idea of cheap and forgettable products. Ursula K LeGuin, on her blog back in the 2010's once talked about publishing and why she wouldn't let certain parts of the industry get their hands on her books, or her, if she could help it. She equated, as many people I have read do, the way books are published at breakneck speed, with little substance and even less polish to how fast food and convenience food appeals to the masses. It's quick. It's cheap. It's forgettable. It might nourish you, but it's certainly not everything you need to survive. I might add, that cases where that is the only source of nourishment available are also deplorable, especially in a society where our resources are almost limitless if we weren't so focused on profit and growth only. Fast food is great sometimes, and can fill gaps when other more wholesome nourishment is lacking or unavailable, but eventually everyone needs something more. Eventually everyone has to have something more filling and healthful. For food, that can be a home-cooked meal or even simply a more balanced meal that provides more nutrients. Something that feeds your body, and in some cases, can expand your horizons. For books, its something that feeds your soul, that challenges you, and equally, something that expands your horizons. Unfortunately, publishing is often easier for "fast food" literature. It sells well, it sells a lot, and it doesn't take a lot of time and resources to publish. And for a lot of people, that's the primary source of literature they consume.

But what about the people who don't want to write "fast food" literature? What about the people who don't want to read "fast food" literature? What happens when the only source left is the fast and palatable? What happens when someone comes along with something new and exciting, but it's not as marketable so it simply fizzles to nothing. It loses the chance to expand horizons. It loses the chance to be the main course of someone's banquet of words, edged out by the fast food that's spoiled the reader's appetite.

The rise and risk of AI are a symptom of this problem. Low cost, low quality, fast turnover, fast production. Growth, growth, growth, growth, growth. And authors suffer because of it, but I think, probably more importantly, readers do as well. With nothing to expand our horizons and nourish our souls, our horizons and our souls atrophy. All because it makes publishers and shareholders money. The consumer, the reader, the eater, the artist, the author be damned.

Guillermo Del Toro I think put it well in a recent interview in London, speaking about generative AI:

“A.I. has demonstrated that it can do semi-compelling screensavers... The value of art is not how much it costs and how little effort it requires, it’s how much would you risk to be in its presence? How much would people pay for those screensavers? Are they gonna make them cry because they lost a son? A mother? Because they misspent their youth? Fuck no.”

Call me pompous, or prideful, or full of myself. Call me whatever you want, but I want to make art that requires risk. I want to make art that makes you challenge yourself and question yourself. I want to make art that has something to say and that makes you feel the entire spectrum of human emotion.

But I worry that I will lose that chance, unable to compete, as many chefs, painters, digital artists, and other types of creators around the world are unable to compete, by the rampant unchecked trend toward cheap, easy to consume, easy to produce junk.

#musings #silly goofy mood #writing #author #write #book writing #novelist

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holylustration · 3 months ago

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Writer Asks

Thank you for the tag, @galateaencore! What a fun thing to wake up to :D

When did you start writing?

Since a pencil was put into my hand! My mother always encouraged my writing, and used to do small illustrations to my childhood ramblings.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading more than what you write?

Not really. I think "I write what I read" is an apt statement for me. I love romance and I am not ashamed to say it.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

If someone said my prose was like that of Jacqueline Carey's in Kushiel's Dart, or Katherine Arden's in Winternight Trilogy, or even Angela Carter, I'd be over the moon. That's the style I try and aim for: lush, effortless, flowing prose.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have several:

My office, at my gaming computer. Right now, a bit cluttered with my work laptop, chapstick and various nail polishes as I sort out how I want my wedding nails to look. All my tarot cards and gaming ephemera are behind me in a built in bookshelf, and my nail supplies are all nestled safely within some ikea drawers against the wall, guarded by my legion of cat-chewed planties.

My bedroom, in my bed, with the string lights on. Everything is either white or off-white, with green accents. It may be a California king bed, but you'd be surprised how little space you or a laptop can have when you have four cats who all think mom's lap is the best place to be.

Family room, on the deep-seat leather couch, cocooned in blankets, when the lights are low and the fireplace is going, so there's only orange warmth against the harsh glare of the laptop screen. Still fighting for a space to put my computer when being swarmed by cats wanting a place to sleep (my lap).

Outside, in the screened in patio. The interior façade is very Nordic bathhouse, with its knotted wood panels. When its been properly cleaned, it is a nice place to sit in early summer or fall. I do often get distracted by watching the various creatures that make my garden their home, but I've never missed my word count yet.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Go for a long walk outside while listening to music. Never fails.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

I don't know about themes, but certainly there are character types that I like to revisit. There is comfort in that familiarity.

What is your reason for writing?

To scratch the itch in my brain and to release pent up emotions. In times of great stress and sorrow, I find myself drawn to the page.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Any comment is thoughtful. I am an equal opportunity comment lover. That said, I am always fascinated about what is resonating with my readers, whether it was a description, or a conversation, or something else entirely.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Well, beyond that they're thinking of me at all (which is nice in and of itself), I'd hope that they find my stories entertaining.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Using language and sentence structure in a way that is interesting and varied, so that the reader doesn't get bored.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I am proud of it! More often than not, I'll reread a chapter and think, "Damn, yeah, that prose is fire. What a banger line. Go me!"

When you write, are you influenced by what others enjoy or might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

Because this is a hobby, I write for me. If others like what I write, that's great! This car is big enough for anyone who wants to come along for the ride.

Tagging @pallysuune + @themagnificentmags + @redbatchedcumbermayned + @theevilscribbler + @jaal-ama-daravv + anyone who wants to tag in!

#ask game

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callmearcturus · 2 years ago

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Out of curiosity, what would the premise of your dream Persona game be?

Well, let's see. What were the strong points of each game?

Persona 3 Portable: Girl Route. Team members have important relationships with each other instead of just orbiting the MC. Extremely strong theme. Structured in such a way that the player doesn't control what day they have a mandatory dungeon/plot event, making for better pacing. Best final boss. Best music. Greatest of the Best Friend guys. My favorite UX by far.

Persona 4 Golden: Best cast. Most interesting mystery. Was extremely queer, especially for the time. Most naturalistic writing. Best villain (not final boss). Easily the most polished script. Combat had the best balance of things to do and friction without being overcomplicated or simplistic.

Persona 5 Royal: Most interesting, sprawling location. Social link bonuses that matter. Jawdroppingly good bonus campaign. Best exploration. Only MC that fully feels like his own person. And I'll admit it, it has the best social links for NPCs.

So, the best Persona game would have:

A protagonist with as much personality as Joker but not gender locked. For the love of god just make a gender neutral protag.

Set it in another city that's based on a real place since it feels like real life designs better locations than Atlus does off the dome.

Honestly at this point I would love to see Persona do a game that doesn't take place in high school. I wanna see some young adults getting up to shit. If you absolutely need the school structure, then have it set in university/college. But the need for structure for the calendar can come from anything.

When everyone is cishet, the cast suffers. P5R proved it. (Okay, it's also because P5R literally has more teammates so no one gets properly developed but the cishetness does not help.) Lets get some queerness back in the cast, it does absolute wonders.

Morgana should be in it again. I don't know why or how, but I do know that carrying a cat around everywhere made Persona 5 was part of why I finished that fucking game.

I personally like the structure of having a central mystery with uncertain mechanics to solve, I think that's really engaging and helps with the episodic nature of Persona. However, once the mystery is solved, DO NOT ADD IN ANOTHER MASTERMIND CHARACTER WHO IS "REALLY" BEHIND IT ALL. JUST FUCKING STOP! GOD I HATE IT. Stop having a really cool set up and then deciding in the last 5 hours that a Mean God Did It All, I'm so DONE with that shit. Fuck Izanami and Fuck Yarblegarble.

While we're at it, if one more Persona game turns out to be a parable on how them kids are on their phones too much, I'm done.

Regarding music, either: A: Create multiple main battle themes so if they Fucking Suck again like in P4 it doesn't make your players want to scream by hour 30. B: Just use "Wiping All Out" again for the main battle theme. We're never going to surpass it, why not accept that.

LET THE PLAYER START A ROMANCE SEPARATE FROM SLINK RANKS. If I hit level 10 on someone and decide later I wanna date them, I should be able to do that. That way I can actually meet everyone, THEN decide who I wanna kiss.

Just gimme back Igor using shiny key of solomon shit to combine personae, fuck P5's edgelord bullshit. Also Margaret bc she was funny and also really hot and flirty.

Bring Maruki back just for funsies.

there we go, the perfect persona game

#flashybaby #persona

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kiisaes · 2 years ago

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Hey! So I read your post about my hero academia, the one where you talked about having a weird fatherly connections towards it and I wanted to ask you about what aspects you don’t like about the series? I share a lot of your sentiments but I do think it’s probably more than mid series? A lot of the details and writing I like and I think is considerable better than other shounen mangas. Anyways sorry for rambling. I just wanted to know what aspects you liked on the series and the ones you didn’t like.

Also complete side note: I absolutely love you’re art it’s so beautiful you’re and really skilled drawer!

sure! and thank u anon!

i want to preface this by saying that everything here is my opinion. media analysis is inherently subjective and something i think is bad might be something you think is good. considering how mha is not a shounen that's universally applauded for any or all of its writing choices, it's expected that you and i may perceive this content differently. doesn't mean i'm right and you're wrong and vice versa, it's just a different individual take on the source content.

also, even though i think mha is "mid to mid-good" (as quoted from my textpost) i don't use "mid" as either an insult or in a "it's so average it's bad" way. i know that word has been fucked over bc ppl automatically assume that something being mid means something is bad or bland or boring. it's a middle of the road series with a good share of flaws and strengths, and it doesn't particularly stand out as anything incredibly amazing or awful. just an average to decently good story, and its level of quality fluctuates throughout its run.

at the end of the day, i do like mha. despite what i think of it, it's a series i hold close to my heart and one i can enjoy even without a critical eye. if i didn't, i wouldn't have been making content for it for 2, almost 3 consistent years.

anyway, stuff i like + stuff i don't like under the cut: (warning: VERY LONG)

mha stuff i do like:

deku. he is my little boy

for the most part, horikoshi's character writing is one of his strongest abilities. characters like bakugou, shigaraki, and dabi (and honestly the todoroki family as a unit) are some of the most compelling characters in a story like this. they're allowed to be complex, dynamic and a blend of virtuous and damning traits. they match the overall themes of mha, which is that the sheer concept of "good vs evil" is surface level at best, and that placing people into strict boxes blocks them from everything else that they are. basically a complete "fuck you" to viewers who must condemn a morally grey hero/villain, for example. even less morally grey characters like ochako (imo) are still fun twists and explorations on their given character stereotypes. however i'm obligated to say "for the most part" because hori's superb character writing only matters when he gives those characters time to breathe and actually exist. i'll get into this more later

horikoshi's art is fantastic and undoubtedly his greatest attribute as a mangaka. i firmly believe that, as far as shounen art goes, there aren't any that can rival mha that are also at its global reach. there's never a single moment where i read a chapter and go "wow that art wasn't incredible" because that's not possible. he utilizes his art knowledge so effortlessly and brings out so much in every panel he makes. the manga art never feels dull. i'm so insanely jealous and in awe of him. i guess i could be biased when making this point but i find it hard to genuinely hate his art. it's so polished every time

this is a smaller point that adds to the last one but i do appreciate how he draws women. not when he's using them for uncomfortable gags, but just in general. there's like, actual meat on their bones. they have realistic body proportions (for his style). many of the women are "chubbier" than other shounen women, and a good amount of them are buff as FUCK. it feels like hori puts the same amount of effort into drawing his female characters as he does his male characters, even if he might not dignify that writing-wise

as a fellow comic artist, i absolutely love his understanding of comic language. it's small details like his onomatopoeia reminiscent of western superhero comics that really tie the presentation together. each panel is full of life, with characters and backgrounds working together in the most effective ways. i can't remember what tumblr textpost brought this up, but he also loves playing around with panel borders. he spices them up by using different subjects or objects to split up panels. and this was more of a strength earlier in the series imo, but his pacing was also pretty quick and resourceful. it shows to me that he truly loves creating manga and knows when it's the right time to visually deviate from the norm. again, i'm truly envious of how he can do this. i only hope to reach his level someday ...

this is definitely a biased point, but some of the series' arcs/storylines are some of my favorite ones in fiction. these include the tournament arc, the kamino rescue arc, the overhaul arc, twice's death, and anything relating to the todoroki family. obviously i'm only listing a handful of examples here because i think nearly every arc has its good moments that i can comment on. but when i think of good mha storylines, i think of these first

i also think that mha as a whole is a fun series that knows how to laugh at itself. there's nothing more awkward than a story that takes itself way too seriously, but the content itself is poorly written or not interesting. thankfully, horikoshi doesn't really fall into this issue

there are canon lgbt characters in this series. even if that's kind of a low bar atp (considering how only 1 out of the 3 play a consistently important role), a win is a win is a win. especially in mainstream shounen, beggars can't exactly be choosers.

mha is a story about systemic societal injustice, which is a lofty concept to tackle. thankfully the story is about powers being the norm so the whole "i'm born better than you because i have abilities" is less of a status quo rejection and more of a status quo enabler. as a story concept, it's a good basis, doesn't seem too hard to comprehend, and opens the door for nuanced storytelling and discussion. i think hori does this well at the start of the series. but as the story goes on... uhhh. i'll talk about it.

mha stuff i don't like:

man do these women have basically nothing interesting to do. i complimented how they're drawn earlier, but with the exception of a few notable ones, a lot of their characters pale in comparison to the men. it's even sadder considering that the amount of women in mha is significantly lesser than, so 5 important female characters is like, 1/4 of the female cast. 5 important male characters is like, 1/12 of the male cast. idk i didn't count the amount of characters in this series but it sincerely feels this way, especially if you remember that there are definitely more than 5 important male characters at any moment throughout this series. and when female characters do have their time to shine, there's a 50/50 chance that they die, get gravely injured, or lose limbs. which normally isn't an issue in a battle shounen like mha, but out of the important character deaths in this series, a fair amount of them are women. midnight, magne, and star and stripe have pretty anticlimactic deaths too, to add insult to injury. lady nagant talked her shit then exploded. she's still alive but like ... what? did these characters have to be treated this way? i can't really think of any important male characters who get introduced then axed from the story like this, except for maybe stain (though he's a far more important character narratively). the reason why i bring up this really lengthy point is not because i think horikoshi is actively misogynistic. i just think he falls into the trap that many shounen mangakas face, which is that male characters are more interesting to a male dominated audience. hence, female characters usually get thrown to the side. there are some important women in mha that stand toe to toe with male characters, like toga and ochako, and there are definitely certified girlbosses like mirko and yaoyorozu. but god do i wish i could add more women to this list without having to think really really hard.

and to add onto the previous, shallow, unimportant characters only gain backstories when the narrative demands for it. horikoshi used to write characters revealing their intentions and history in relatively natural ways, like with ochako and her goal to become a hero for money. it kind of came out of nowhere, but it's a valid conversation a teenager would have with other teenagers. in context, it was revealed normally. i'm not sure when these reveals turned forced, but i remember seeing kirishima's backstory and being like "well .. would this have ever been told to us if kirishima wasn't a main character in this arc?" this isn't against kirishima's character; i love the guy and i think his history was short but contextualized his personality really well. but with the recent shoji backstory reveal i could only think, "wow. horikoshi must be really glad he made a mutant character to project this theme onto, huh." it didn't feel like shoji was ever meant to have a backstory — not to mention a very depressing one — but he got one this late in the series run because it was convenient for the plot. perhaps i'm a cynic and this isn't an issue for others, idk. that being said, i think characters like shoji and even star and stripe and lady nagant could have benefited from more natural character developments, maybe with more time given so it doesn't feel like a weirdly convenient reveal.

i just really fucking wish mineta would die already. like get kicked into the sun or blown up with TNT or run over by a car or something. he's less of an openly creepy loser than he was in the beginning of the series, but i'm sure that's because he literally doesn't have the luxury to be creepy at the moment. he's one of the least appealing gag characters that never grows and changes as a person. and he got a backstory before kaminari. can you fucking believe this shit? why does horikoshi keep entertaining this bullshittery— oh yeah. i just remembered that the girls were perved on quite a bit in this series, which wasn't funny and moreso uncomfortable for a lot of readers. like, i know it's shounen, it's animanga, fanservice is kind of the unfortunate norm. but by god, do we need a series poster child for pervy, male-gaze behavior?

i commented earlier about mha's themes and that i think, at least at the start, hori had a good grasp of what he was writing. framing society's systemic flaws and failures in a wacky superheroes vs villains story is not only clever, but makes this actually serious topic accessible to those who might think social-cultural politics are too intimidating. he sets this up starting from deku and bakugou (oppressed and privileged), then adds onto it with stain (heroes who retain the status quo by seeking money and status are not true heroes, because they don't help those in need). shigaraki is thrown into the mix along the way (society fucks over the underprivileged, even those who want to do good, which breeds more villains and in the real world, more criminals) and his little league of villains all have their own stories (spinner: those who don't look like the masses are cast aside, harassed and villainized; dabi: if you don't live up to cruel expectations established by society and parroted by those in your life, you might as well be worthless; toga: any unconventional worldviews and actions are deemed scary and evil; magne: trying to conform to a rigid society as a queer person is fucking hard, man). there's also endeavor (even though you're in a position of power and respect, it doesn't automatically make you a good person). these are all GREAT, and are super compelling set-ups for mha's overall themes: that society should change somewhat, villains are a product of this flawed system, there aren't fully good people nor fully bad people, rehabilitation/growth is good, and true heroes aren't identified by title, but by actions.

these themes are quite apparent throughout mha's entire run. but i feel like the further it goes, the less horikoshi knows how to verbalize them. the latest mini arc dealt with spinner vs shoji in a strangely awkward clash of ideals. spinner is seen as a martyr who really just wants mutants to be accepted into society, and his status rallies up those who have also been hurt. shoji retaliates by... telling them to stop? by saying this isn't the right way? because he was fortunate enough to be in this position, he suddenly has the authority to tell those like him to find a better way to get their voices heard? what, should they all just become heroes? haven't we established that the society they all belong in is fucked up, and that drastic change must be made? i understand what horikoshi is trying to say but it's... off. like the point is there, but the execution is clumsy. shoji even says something like spinner's revolution setting them back 30 years, which is so fucking bizarre to say, and would certainly raise eyebrows in the real world. it sounds like villains can express their grievances with society but they can't dare revolutionize. otherwise, they'll be silenced/ignored again. it's the whole "violence breeds more violence" belief, but there's more to that that should be explored. man, i dunno.

i'm harping on this one story instance but recent mha is riddled with well-meaning but clumsy storytelling like this. and since the narrative relies on these complex, nuanced themes, it's jarring when the nuance falls through. if mha is about breaking harmful norms, why do they still dictate the execution? hori did it so right with deku and bakugou, their relationship being a definite high in the series. but i truly don't how he'll treat the villains at the end of this arc

ok tumblr's telling me to shut up anyway these are my thoughts. again, even though i've rambled so much about my dislikes, i think mha is still a fun and enjoyable series. it misses the point sometimes, but it doesn't detract from its successes. either way my opinions should not rule over how you consume the series. it's always important to form your own opinions!!!

#asks for becki #SORRY FOR THE LONG LONG LONG POST #long post #i love hearing the sound of my voice so much i end up saying nothing of value #hope ppl understand my pov. it's also ok if u don't. peace and love #bnha #mha #becki rambles about stuff

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