#and is almost an entirely different personality because of it?

[lovieku]

TRUE LOVE ⋆ 정국

when you and jeon jeongguk's paths cross again, you question if having a crush on the school's emo and alternative boy was really just a phase, or if it was true love after all.

⋆⁺��❅. 5/6 from christmas & chill

pairing tattoo artist!jk x fem reader

genre fluff, smut, grumpy & sunshine, somewhat f2l

warnings jk 24 | oc 24, jk thinks he’s too cool for love, oc suffers from a chronic case of “i can fix him”, she eventually does, oc simps HARDDD and jk only pretends to be unaffected, yea he’s a bit of a dick sometimes but he’s also Very funny, brief description of panic attacks, male masturbation, kissing, idk what else to add i just rly rly love them and will think of them for the entirety of xmas season

word count 10.2k

author’s note hi lovies 🩷 it’s my last time with c&c 🙁 i’m kinda emotional omg… it’s been such a fun, warm and lovely week, and i love each one of you for showing endless support to this project <33 i’ll keep trying to not disappoint… please tell me if you like this!!! thank u always and always 🩷 luv u <3

banner by the gorgeous @awrkive ⊹₊⟡⋆

On the first day of December, your path crosses with thee Jeon Jeongguk’s after enough years for your brain to trip slightly before recognising him. But it would have been impossible not to—there’s likely a whole, well-preserved section of your thinking organ dedicated to that mortifying phase of high school, when your hormones turned life into an endless internal tug-of-war.

The moment your eyes widen at having him stand in front of you, you’re yanked unceremoniously into the past, brought back to buried, locked and left to gather dust feelings that have your teenage self’s screams echoing within you in a chorus of delight and cringe.

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is simply following his duties as a tattoo artist. When he catches sight of you next to his appointed client on such a breezy day, the cold December air starting to find its space even in the confines of his studio, he only nods his chin upward at you in slow recognition.

It’s awkward, at first. Only because you make it.

You’d volunteered to accompany Eunbi, your best friend, to get her first tattoo as an early Christmas self-gift. Your mission was clear: support her, hold her hand if the pain became unbearable (though you’re probably the least dependable person when it comes to making clarity in situations of panic, as seen right now), and be the first to bask in her excitement as she finally sees what she’s always pictured to be inked on the skin of her forearm. A blue whale tattoo, large enough to make you wince just thinking about the needlework.

You’d never go through something like that. Never.

And that’s exactly what’s showing on your face when you’re met with Jeongguk’s full sleeve of tattoos, leaving you rooted to the spot.

You’d always known him to be the different kid, the quiet one with forced sharp eyes that canonically listened to alternative rock and glared at anyone who dared approach, whether to tease him or befriend him. He’d convinced himself that no one could ever understand him.

See, you’d instead fooled yourself into thinking you were the exception. That you did understand him.

Fourteen-year-old you had gone through some weird phases, and the one that resurfaces now at the vision of his adult self is the one centered entirely around him. You unashamedly had the biggest crush on Jeongguk. To you, he was mysterious and edgy—in an effortlessly cool way.

You’d tried everything. Offered him your lunch more times than you were left with any for yourself. Even cut your bangs to have them fall over your eyes to mimic his fringe, dyed a strand in blue, overhauled your wardrobe to align with his back-and-grey one. None of it worked. He never noticed.

But, thinking of it now, there’s no way he didn't. He definitely did. How could any boy turn a blind eye to a lovesick girl’s heartfelt Valentine’s letter, a hopeless romantic girl who almost cried on the spot when she got rejected? Jeongguk just chose to willingly ignore it.

These are all valid reasons as to why your functions seem to slow down in his unexpected presence. And you’re not going to deny nor fake that his calm, almost detached demeanor doesn’t flow through your body and right to your left eye, making it twitch with a slight tremor.

Yet, you must also admit that your teenage self was onto something. Jeongguk has changed drastically but he’s also stayed the same. You think fourteen-year-old him would be proud of where he is right now. Two piercings on his lower lip and one on his eyebrow, intricate ink tracing up his muscled arm, his… muscled arms. Wow. And then, his studio. His own studio, a place for him and his passion, one that he made into his job. That’s undeniably cool.

Maybe just not cool enough for you to be gaping like an idiot as he moves with purpose, adjusting your friend’s arm to position the stencil he had prepared, perfectly fitting in the space she had chosen. His muscles flex with every shift, and it’s impossible for you to go past that with the way the black beater he’s wearing is loose on his torso, but still clinging on his chest.

Eunbi notices, of course. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed and in return she doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when your usual chatter dries up entirely, only gulping obnoxiously noisily and alternating that with nervous silences. Jeongguk, too, catches on.

He’d always known you as obnoxious and noisy. In, huh, a good way. Or whatever.

Jeongguk just agrees that you were (and probably still are, if the pastel yellow skirt softly flowing down your legs paired with a cozy cream sweater and the full toothed grin you shoot at your friend are any indicators) the pinpoint embodiment of his opposite. You’ve always been talkative, smiley, and friendly, eager to help and to receive help, not in the slightest ever turning down the opportunity to blabber on, and on, and on.

Honestly, Jeongguk doesn’t think he ever truly listened to a single word of your rambling back in the day, especially during those times when you’d bounce up to him and launch into enthusiastic rants about obscure alternative bands he himself hadn’t even heard of. He respected the hustle, though. He’d always wondered where you found the time and energy to immerse yourself in music like that.

He much preferred when you were less trying so hard to be him and mirror his tastes, more when you gave up on impressing him and simply stayed true to yourself, the girl whose heart belonged to Justin Bieber and One Direction. Truthfully, he fucked with them. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. His quiet, brooding image wouldn’t survive that revelation.

What he respected the most was your resilience. After all the times he rejected you and your awkward blurts of confessions, you still didn’t think it was enough of a reason for your villain origin story to take off, and instead remained the same frustratingly positive ray of sunshine you’d always been.

Now, as Jeongguk works on the tattoo in front of him, the very design that caused all these long-buried memories to rise back, his dark eyes flick toward you sitting on a stool in a near corner every now and then, a hint of confusion in his expression each time you take more than five seconds to reply to his small talk.

It’s just, you’re a bit taken aback. Since when does he do small talk? The foreign smoothness with which Jeongguk handles interactions is so far removed from the sullen boy you used to know. You’re not prepared for this version of him. It’s disarming, to say the least.

Enough time has passed for you to settle into the odd scenario, your current best friend and your long-standing high school crush in the same room. Slowly but surely, your curiosity sparkles again, and the signature tendency to let thoughts tumble out of your mouth unchecked returns to you naturally.

“Ouch, that looks painful.”

Jeongguk snorts, eyes trained on Eunbi’s arm as he glides the tattoo needle with precise strokes that have his brows pinching and the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, a habit you remember from the past but one you’ve never found quite so distracting before.

Still, he multitasks and responds without missing a beat, “Wanna try?”

Wow. This is, like, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him. It spurs you on to do anything it takes to hear more of his voice, the sound of it definitely deeper than the shy tones you struggled to coax out of him ten years ago.

That is probably why you literally lie, “Hm. Maybe. I was thinking of getting one actually. In the future.”

Eunbi chokes on her spit, her chest coughing with the sudden, blatantly fake revelation, and Jeongguk promptly pauses, lifting the needle from her skin as his tattooist reflexes kick in. While your friend apologizes between a clearing of her throat and sinks back into the chair, she doesn’t keep from glaring at you, her expression screaming What the hell are you doing?

You deadpan. You’ll explain everything later and it’ll all make sense. And you know this will inevitably end up being added to the list of the many embarrassing facts she knows about you and threatens you with when she wants to go clubbing and you don’t.

Jeongguk uses the brief interruption to glance up at where you’re perched in the corner of his peripheral vision, just to square you up and down with a skeptical arch of his brow, “Really?”

You scoff, smoothing out the creases on your skirt as if the fabric is somehow responsible for the lie you just told, “Is that shocking?”

He hums, returning to his work with the buzz of the needle filling the studio again, his voice padded the more he gets closer to Eunbi’s forearm, “I just find it hard to believe such a princess like you could handle any pain.”

You gulp.

What you’re getting from this conversation is that Jeongguk has always had an idea of who you are in his mind all along. That he’s always perceived you in some way. As much as your inner fourteen-year-old is swooning at the attention, gobbling up each of the tiny crumbles he’s giving you, it doesn’t sit right with you. What exactly does he think of you?

“Test me.”

He shrugs, eyes fixated on the shade he’s perfectioning with black ink, “Busy now.”

“I’ll go pay for mine. I saw you have one last free spot today,” you announce, the words tumbling out with more confidence than you feel. You’re already on your feet before the sentence is fully formed, betraying the fact that your nosy tendencies had gotten the better of you earlier. You’d discreetly glanced at his appointment book when Jeongguk and Eunbi were finalizing her tattoo details and negotiating the final price at the desk.

He hums, head tilting slightly, “And I wanted to spend it bumming around.”

“Too bad. You’ll have to postpone that.”

You walked into this studio swearing you’d never let a needle even brush you.

Now you’re stretched out on a leather bench, Jeongguk leaning over you with a stencil in hand, gloved fingers moving with careful precision.

The design you’d chosen came from his portfolio—a delicate illustration of two butterflies in motion, their soft threads intertwining. You’d flipped through countless pages of bold skulls and intricate linework before settling on this.

The spot you’d chosen for the tattoo was the flat, firm plane between your breasts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a place you’d always liked. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that nature hadn’t exactly blessed you in the cleavage department. Subconsciously, perhaps, you thought that adding something there might give the illusion of more.

“Tehe,” you can’t stop the breathy giggle that escapes as the cool paper brushes against your skin. Your hand is pressed to your bra, holding it in place as best you can, though the situation feels so surreal it’s hard to focus on anything but the ridiculousness of it all.

Jeongguk glances up at you with a glare that’s more exasperated than angry before returning to the delicate task at hand, “What’s funny?”

Your voice wobbles, “I just— I tend to laugh during serious moments.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“Sorry.”

With a small sigh, he smooths the stencil, and once it’s transferred he hands you a square mirror, waiting for your approval. You nod, the butterflies now perfectly poised in their eternal dance, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste a moment.

The buzz of the needle fills the room as he leans closer, one gloved hand resting on the upper part of your chest to steady himself. He’s mere seconds from beginning the inking process when another laugh bubbles out of you.

Jeongguk sits back abruptly, dropping his pen onto the metal tray with an audible clink. Tilting his head, he levels you with a look of thinly veiled irritation. “I really can’t work if your chest keeps moving.”

“Sorry,” you blurt again, turning your head to face the wall. You clamp your lips together tightly, mentally scrolling through every sad memory you can conjure. Think of something awful. Your childhood dog dying. Okay, maybe not that sad—

“You haven’t changed a bit since high school. Always smiling like you live surrounded by flowers and rainbows,” Jeongguk’s mutter vibrates against your chest, warm breath fanning over the cold skin, distracting you from your no-giggling mission.

The unexpected observation has your brows furrowing in a mildly offended frown, and banter is ready on your tongue. “You’re just the same too, Gguk. The emo boy who thinks he’s too cool for a smile.”

“I’m not an emo boy. The fuck,” he scoffs, kissing his teeth and murmuring more of his indignation under his breath.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I can teach you.”

The whirring needle glides across your skin with a slightly firmer touch, making you hiss softly under your breath. He seems unbothered by the reaction, and instead bothered by your words, “Teach me what.”

“How to smile a bit more,” you reply, your voice laced with mockery as you keep your gaze firmly fixed on the wall. The smirk playing on your lips is triumphant; he walked right into your little jab, hehe.

Your mind is already racing, piecing together the beginning of a sarcastic rant about how his perpetual scowl probably contributed to his mysterious high school persona. For the sake of his ego, you won’t add how it worked in his favor, how more than one girl (your own self) found his untouchable vibe completely irresistible.

Even though, thinking back, he looked ridiculous. His big, round, slightly scared-of-the-world eyes truly didn’t belong with the heavy black eyeliner.

But before you can get a single word out, Jeongguk straightens his posture, pulling away from your chest. With a practiced motion, he tosses one of his gloves onto the counter behind him, his expression cool and indifferent. “It’s done.”

“Done?!” you exclaim, tilting your chin down to look at your chest. You go slightly cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the design now inked onto your skin. Forever.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even feel it.”

Jeongguk seems equally done with small talk, transitioning into a professional explanation of the tattoo’s aftercare step. His tone is calm but clipped, and you can’t tell if it’s his usual demeanor or just reserved for you. He also hands you a small tube of cream of which you’re not sure the use of, too enthralled by the vision of his colored sleeve this up close.

And still laying on the leather bed, you almost reach to trace one of the many lines with your finger before he interrupts, “You can pay with Yoongi at the entrance.”

Clearing your throat, you sit up, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt as Jeongguk turns his back to you, his focus already back on cleaning his tools. You still are not over, “Thank you, Jeongguk. Can I— huh. Can I get your number?”

He pauses mid-motion, just long enough for the silence to stretch thin and taut. Turning around to study your features, he stares you up and down with knitted brows and a hostile kind of confusion painting his expression. “… For what exactly?”

“In case anything happens with the tattoo.”

Jeongguk stills for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns back to what’s keeping him so occupied with a noncommittal grunt, “Huh. Sure. Yoongi has my business cards at the desk. You can ask him. Have a good day.”

With Eunbi practically dragging you out of the room, you don’t have the chance to say anything more, though your chest burns with indignation. It’s not that you expect him to fall over himself at the chance to catch up, but the sheer indifference is maddening.

Should you pretend you don’t care either? You could. But really, who are you fooling? You still have those old diaries buried somewhere in your closet, their pages crammed with his name written in looping, lovesick cursive. That little girl in you never truly died.

On the fourth day of December, you finally text him. It’s about your tattoo, of course. There’s not much else to say to him, but when his only reply to your picture of the healing process is a yellow thumbs up, you find your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words start forming before you’ve fully processed them, and before you know it, you hit send.

You [3:39 p.m]: btw u still friends with kim tae?

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: Yes

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: He’s my best friend

You [3:43 p.m.]: ohhh, cool

jeongguk [3:45 p.m.]: You want his number?

You [3:46 p.m.]: no… i’m good with yours ☺️

You can’t help but giggle at how his typing bubbles appear and then fade for a whole minute, biting your lower lip with a sheepish grin, savoring the silent victory. You’re doing this for your fourteen-year-old self, who would’ve squealed at the thought of making Jeon Jeongguk flustered. But you’re a different girl now. You’ve changed. No man could ever reject—

jeongguk [3:48 p.m.]: If there’s nothing else about the tattoo then 👋

“Hmph,” your frown is so pronounced that you feel your chin aching and your wrinkles prematurely deepening. Well, this is not the first time you come face first with his sour antics. Only now, you’re prepared.

You [3:48 p.m.]: yall hanging out soon? let me join

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: Why lol

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: He barely even remembers you probs

You [3:50 p.m.]: who would not remember me

jeongguk [3:50 p.m.]: The only thing i’m now remembering about you is how I couldn’t stand your ass

You gasp, hand coming up to brush against your parted lips. With a huff, you hastily click at your keyboard, “Mean. Sent. Ugh.”

On the sixth day of December, your persistence pays off, and you find yourself at a random bar you’d never been to before, seated with both Jeongguk and Taehyung.

Between Jeongguk’s cigarette breaks—forcing the three of you to brave the cold outside—and brief moments in corners of the cramped place where the music feels muffled against the walls, you manage to catch up with Taehyung. The rest of the time though, the noise inside is so deafening that it makes any kind of meaningful conversation impossible.

Even more when a random girl slides into the booth next to him, capturing his attention entirely, leaving you and Jeongguk in paradoxical silence.

The tattoo artist has been glued to his phone with his head down for the last 20 minutes, and now you alternate between observing his side profile, roughened by the piercings and a more defined jawline, and analysing the weird dynamic that is beginning to form between Taehyung and the girl, sitting in front of you.

Alone with your thoughts and, well, the pulsating music, you feel yourself getting unreasonably closer to symptoms you know all too well, that threaten to have you spiraling. You shake your head, forcing it to stop. There’s no reason for anxiety to visit you at such an inconvenient time.

But of course, the little voice in your head starts listing all the totally valid motives why this is indeed the perfect time for it to visit you.

The bar feels suffocating on your skin.

Your dress clings too tightly.

The couple facing you is shamelessly close to making out.

Jeongguk sighs in visible boredom.

You shouldn’t have come. Hell, you shouldn't have suggested it in the first place. A smarter version of yourself would have brought Eunbi for balance, for comfort. But in your foolishness, you thought this could be an opportunity for you and Jeongguk to catch up. Instead, you feel foreign to him, foreign to this pub booth, and the air begins to feel foreign to your lungs. You’ve never liked bars, clubs, or places with loud music.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. Then up at the ceiling. Then around the room. It keeps spinning and booming with volume that only adds to the feeling of helplessness. Quick, quick, quick.

What are five things that you can see?

Five. Your gaze falls on Taehyung and the girl, their lips and tongues clumsily entangled as they laugh between sloppy kisses. No help there. The air catches harder in your throat.

Four. Your empty glass, its smudged rim a reminder of the single drink you had, now sitting uncomfortably in your stomach.

Three. Your scuffed heels, their tips worn to the nub despite your best efforts to hide it with a marker.

Two. The swirling lights above the bar, dizzying as they flash brighter and brighter.

One. Jeongguk’s tattooed hand on your thigh.

His fingers dig into the skin, shaking you alarmedly, with a force you’ve never known from him, not even when it came to stopping your shaking stomach as you were laying on the studio’s leather bed.

Head snapping up to face him, you’re met with a perfect resemblance of how you must look right now. Wide eyes, knitted brows, nose flaring and exhaling, and you try to follow the movements of his mouth, but they jumble together annoyingly in your brain. You lean closer, narrowed orbs still fixated on his lips to try and read them. Are… you… ok—

“___, you’re scaring me. Hey, hello? Are you okay?”

Jeongguk moves from your thigh to your shoulders, jolting you gently but firmly from the fog that is threatening to cloud up your brain. The sudden clarity hits you, but you still stumble forward, your weight toppling over his chest. With it, your head dips rapidly, hurtling toward the sharp edge of the table, and before Jeongguk knows it his instinct snaps and he catches you promptly.

The next steps blur together. You vaguely register the boy next to you standing up and pulling you along with him, his broad shoulders supporting one of your arms while his inked one secures around the small of your waist, holding you firmly against him.

Then, it’s nothing but brief flashes. Jeongguk pressing a water bottle to your lips. Sitting you down on the stairs outside the pub. Holding your hair back as you double over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the pavement. Cracking a smile to make you laugh, showing off his tattoos in exaggerated detail like it’s the grandest tour of your life. Opening the door to his car and gently easing you into the passenger seat, ensuring the seatbelt clicks into place.

Inside his car, you slowly feel your senses come back to you.

At a redlight that you recognise as the one near your apartment complex, you muster a small and hoarse thank you. Jeongguk only hums low, eyes fixated on the road and fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

Before a sheepish smile can make its way on your lips and spread across your face, your head twitches back as your brows furrow. Your thoughts suddenly catch up with you, “Hey, how do you know the way to my flat?”

His gaze briefly flicks toward you in annoyance, then back to the road. “You literally just told me.”

“Oh.” A beat passes before you giggle softly. “Don’t remember.”

Jeongguk mutters something intelligible under his breath, and next thing you know he’s turning down your street and slowing in front of the building that matches the number you gave him. Given your current state, he begins to question if that is even the right one.

“This one!” You point at the tall front gate with an almost childlike excitement, back shifting slightly from the seat as your grin stretches wide. Jeongguk grimaces. Why the fuck do you look like you’ve been reuinted with your home after years apart, as if you weren’t there just a couple hours ago?

“Right. Huh, you good with going back on your own?”

“Yes. I’d hate to bother you further. I’m sorry for this, I… was getting better, I guess.”

The sad confession doesn’t land with the weight it should, softened by the smile painted on your lips and the chuckle you let out as if it were nothing. Jeongguk’s eyelid twitches, unsettled by the unnecessary happiness that always seems to drip from you, even when it doesn’t belong.

“‘S okay. Have a good night,” he awkwardly bows his head, waiting for you to exit the car. When you stay still, he clears his throat, adding just to fill the silence, and perhaps because he means it, “Huh, and make sure to rest a lot.”

You take a moment, maybe longer than you should, to study his features up this close. You particularly fixate on the way his eyes dart everywhere but never land on yours. Then, with your signature toothy grin, you bow back and open the car door, leaving with a string of thank yous, and get home safe, and I’ll text you, and please, reply to me, and bye.

Jeongguk has to fight a smile of his own.

On the tenth day of December, you realise you want him. Even more badly than your fourteen-year-old self ever did. Which is frankly insane.

You don’t know if it was the natural way he looked after you during your episode, or his dry sarcasm as he actually started replying to your random updates throughout the day.

But no, it was definitely the selfie he sent you after what he said was a long day. Messy hair, tired eyes, a hint of a smile. You’d struggled to even gulp down your saliva when the picture popped up in your chat, and maniacally stared at it with eyes glued to the bright screen before sending one of your own. He had replied with Cute. followed by Your hair pin is cute.

That is why you find yourself facing… Yoongi? If you remember correctly. The guy at the front desk of Jeongguk’s studio.

You beam at him, and what you’re met with instead is a confused stare. You inhale, “Hi. Is Jeongguk in?”

Yoongi scratches his head, muttering, “He’s busy with a client.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” you wave off his concern. “Can I wait here?”

The boy hesitates, looks unsure the more your interaction develops, and he glances between you and the empty waiting area. He relents with furrowed brows, “Sure… Huh, It’s a back tattoo, so it’ll take him a while.”

You shrug and plop yourself onto the leather sofa, seemingly unfazed, “I like waiting.”

Crossing your legs, you take in the studio’s atmosphere, eyes drifting to the dark walls lined with framed artwork and certificates. You spot Jeongguk’s name on many of those.

For the next fifteen minutes, you try distracting yourself by flipping through the stack of tattoo magazines on the coffee table. You wince at inked heads, faces, butts, and even… more private parts. Deciding this world is definitely not for you, you slam the book shut.

By the time an hour passes, you’re fighting a battle with your lack of sleep. The third yawn you manage to stifle, but the fourth escapes before you can stop it. Yoongi, seated at the desk, doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed stare. Still, he’s polite enough to offer you a glass of water, a coffee, or even a chance to join him for a cigarette break.

You decline all of it, though your throat does feel dry.

Maybe you should have planned this with a bit of rationality. Or at least gotten more sleep. Now, your every blink is slower, eyelids batting to shut and taking longer to flutter open again. Hm, this feels nice. You’ll just let them rest for a bit longer. And longer. And a bit more.

The next time you open your eyes, Jeongguk’s face is inches away, his warm hand resting firmly on your arm. You jolt upright with a startled yelp.

���Jeongguk.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an unmistakably mocking smirk. “Hey. You don’t have a bed?”

You sit up, forcing Jeongguk to step back and straighten to his full height. Your neck cranes upward to glare at him, brows furrowed in what you hope is an intimidating glare, though you sport a pout that is all but menacing, “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue, turning back to round the desk and fiddle with the appointment book, clearly unbothered. You take the moment to rub your eyes—only to remember, too late, that you’d worn makeup. A quick glance around reveals how much has changed since you last let your eyelids flutter open. The lights in the studio are dim, the hallway is dark, and every door is shut. Yoongi is nowhere in sight. It’s just the two of you in the deathly quiet space.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your parted lips, “Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry. I was probably really tired from yesterday.”

Jeongguk hums, focus still locked on the book in front of him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask why you came here in the first place, and doesn’t acknowledge your apology. Ugh. This is humiliating.

Before you can stand, you feel something heavy draped over your body. It’s a jacket. Definitely not yours, since you never took it off. At least not consciously. No, this is a worn black leather one on which his scent lingers. You tug it closer, puzzled, and then look up at him, holding it out. “Did I steal this in my sleep?”

Jeongguk scrunches his nose, “Ew, are you a sleepwalker?” Locking the till, he strolls over to you and plucks the jacket from you, casually slipping it on. “No, I put it on you. Wanted to see how long someone could feel safe enough to pass out in my studio. Thinking of turning this place into a daycare. I’ll have you play in the morning, get some lunch, nap time...”

There’s a beat of silence in which his sarcasm lingers in the air, and you stare at him, unamused. He shrugs, smirk unwavering.

You huff, “I regret coming here.”

“Yeah, why did you come here?”

Smoothing down your pink wool sweater, you stand up to stretch with zero shame. Then, fluttering your lashes at him, you assert with a smile, “You’re coming with me to the Christmas markets. This Sunday.”

Jeongguk groans like the idea physically pains him, “Oh, I would fucking hate that.”

Ignoring him, you zip up your puffer jacket and rock on your toes, “Pick me up at seven, okay?”

He glares, unimpressed at your excitement, before heading toward the entrance and pulling a hefty set of keys from his pocket, “I don’t even remember where you live.”

You hurry after him, following him outside and shuffling closer in your coat at the cold air hitting you. Watching as he locks the door and pulls down the rolling shutter with its red-and-black skull graffiti, you chirp, “You’ll have to text me for that.”

Jeongguk rises up again, giving you a slow once-over. He seems distracted by your hair before snorting, “You’re talking like I’m the one who spent their afternoon napping in my studio just to drop this bomb and leave. Couldn’t you just text me this?”

You shrug innocently. He sighs, reaching out for you, “Do you need a ride hom—”

“Bye!”

You spin on your heel and skip off in the opposite direction before he can let his own greeting out, waving a gloved hand behind you. Jeongguk stays where he is, arm still held out.

Do you even have a car? He hopes so—it’s freezing out.

With another sigh, he shakes his head and tugs his jacket tighter around himself. Why are you so fucking weird?

On the fourteenth day of December, your arm is looped tightly through Jeongguk’s as you stroll through the Christmas markets, burying your face further in your scarf to shield against the icy air, and with each few step you gasp at things that the boy next to you finds utterly unimpressive.

You stop at nearly every stand, eyes glowing with the warm Christmas fairy lights strung all around, effortlessly picking up conversations with the vendors and melting even the most stoic faces with the scrunching of your nose at every grin and the exaggerated nods following descriptions of their crafts.

Through all of it, Jeongguk remains put at your side, his arm linked with yours and a subtle pout on his lips. When you tease him about it, he simply shrugs, and you figure it’s just his natural expression. You find that oddly endearing.

He still humors your enthusiasm, offering low hums or murmured praise whenever you exclaim you’ve finally found what you’ve been searching for everywhere, and he offers to pay every time, the gesture so casual that he doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.

When you bow to the nth seller, clutching yet another bag of sweet treats tightly to your chest, Jeongguk exhales and resumes slow walking beside you, “I don't like these places.”

You glance up at him, fluffy hat almost slipping off before he promptly secures it back on your head with a gesture so smooth you hardly notice it. You instead wonder, “Then why are we here now?”

He slips his hand into his pocket, “Because you threatened me.”

“With a really good time.”

“If this is your version of a good time, you might as well kick me in the balls. That probably feels better.”

You gasp, halting in your tracks to glare at him. When he lets a small chuckle topple out of him, you think you might forgive him. No, you’re more than sure with the way his smile lingers. You sheepishly look away, muttering, “Don’t tempt me, emo boy.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” you interrupt, snapping your face back to his. Clearing your throat, you prepare your best imitation of him, exaggerating a frown and lowering your voice, “I’m so different, I hate Christmas.”

Jeongguk scoffs, pulling you tighter to him when a scooter unexpectedly zips past you. You yelp, instinctively shuffling closer to his arm. He continues the conversation casually, unaffected, “That’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard. And also, I never said that.”

Releasing the breath you held for a moment too long, you uncertainly keep your slow stroll going, only narrowing your orbs at him, “It’s written all over your face.”

“I love Christmas.”

The admission is small, his voice soft and almost reluctant, like it pains him to reveal something so simple and obvious as loving Christmas. When you lean your chin on the puffed arm of his jacket, he doesn’t look down at you, his gaze fixed ahead, guiding the two of you through the chaos of the busy street.

You chirp, your steps stumbling, “Really?

Only then he shifts his attention to you, steadying you with his other arm wrapping around your figure in what seems like a hug, before he lifts you up by the neck of your coat and retreats just enough to face you. His lips press into a straight line as he nods, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes the more he stares in yours, “Yeah, really. I just don’t like… crowded spaces.”

You can’t help but think back to what happened just a week ago. The exact reason why the spirals in your brain wouldn’t stop twisting and tangling is now slipping from his lips in a voice that quietens as he seems to grasp the delicacy of his own confession.

He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him. Drawn-up brows over wide and sparkling eyes—the only part of your face visible beneath your scarf—stare at him with something too tender, too focused, that makes him uneasy. He turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red not only from the cold, and pulls you along toward another stand, an almost nervous distraction.

It’s your turn to frown. Maybe the one that’s permanently plastered on his face tonight isn’t just a reflection of his usual sullen demeanor. With a knot tightening in your chest, you can’t help but feel like you dragged him into something he truly hated, and that he wasn’t just pretending to.

What if this isn’t just your evil inner voice talking? What if this isn’t just overthinking, but the factual truth of your current reality? He’s hating every second of this but still enduring it because— you catch your breath with a long and strained inhale, because—

“Hey, dimples. You okay?”

Jeongguk moves to stand in front of you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, a stance eerily reminiscent of that night you were just thinking back to. He nods at you, “Breathe with me, hm?”

You find yourself quickly adjusting to his comforting aura, drawn in by the reassurance in his eyes trained on you, never wavering, watching closely as you begin to mirror the measured rise and fall of his chest, your breathing gradually syncing with his until the tightness in your chest starts to ease.

When you feel your feet touching the ground again, you offer a small, apologetic smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just…” You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes landing on a colorful stand, “Wait here a second, okay?”

Jeongguk lets you slip away, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He takes a few hesitant steps closer, careful not to crowd you but unable to tear his eyes away from your next actions, how your grin comes back on your lips with unpracticed ease, lighting up your face as easy talk flows between you and the seller. A few coins trade hands, and soon you’re holding two churros, their chocolate-dipped ends threatening to drip onto the ground.

You don’t hesitate, biting into one of them before it has the chance to make a mess, and with a quick nod of your head you motion for Jeongguk to follow. He does so, only after taking the churros from your hands, and letting you seek his warmth again with an arm snaking under his. He’s only letting you do this because it’s fucking cold, no other reason.

You walk, and walk, guiding him along until you find a quieter corner, away from the bustle, where you two stand isolated from the rest. The dim lighting casts a softer glow, and the distant hum of chatter and music fades into a gentle background noise.

Glancing up at him, you flash a playful smile before leaning in to bite another chunk of the churro he’s holding, your laughter spilling out as he grimaces in exaggerated disgust and pulls the sweet out of your reach. You settle onto a nearby bench, patting the empty spot beside you invitingly.

Jeongguk is unsure of what this means. He takes slow steps towards you, handing you your churro—which you take eagerly, already chewing on it—before tilting his head back in mild confusion, “But… you wanted to visit the markets.”

You shake your head, your bug eyes meeting his as you speak around a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, “There’s no point if you’re not going to enjoy it.”

The look you’re giving him is one he’s seen countless times before—familiar, and annoyingly reminiscent of ten years ago. It’s the same look that, he’s convinced, is solely responsible for making his knees weak and his fingers jittery, no longer something he can blame on the cold. You’re unbelievably frustrating.

He clicks his tongue, looking away, “You’re fucking weird.”

You giggle, humming, “If weird is a synonym for whipped, then sure.”

He has to fight the twitch of his lips. Fakes a gag instead. You chuckle louder. Only then, he hints at a smile, “C’mon. Let’s go check out some other stuff.”

“But—”

He interrupts, pulling you up by your forearm, “I’m hungry.”

The next hour you spend wandering around is made of Jeongguk’s small, imperceptible ways of cracking: his pout less prominent, more replaced by lips pulled into a tight line or in a mildly pursued scowl as you ask him which beanie looks better—the pink or purple one; his so evident sarcasm as he comments on how the old vendor was totally flirting with you, or when he mockingly adds to your over-the-top excitement every time you spot a dog. All in all, he’s more relaxed. More himself.

You then find yourself standing in front of the churros stall from earlier, the warm scent tugging you closer. Without hesitation, you ask the lady behind the counter for another four churros—this time with extra sugar. You add two thank yous.

To fill the waiting, you pick up casual conversation with the woman, until she pauses mid-sentence, wrinkled hand coming to rest over her heart as her gaze flits between you and Jeongguk, her crinkled eyes lighting with a sudden fondness and a quiet, content smile finds its space on her chapped lips, “You two look perfect together.”

Jeongguk snorts, “Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you, auntie!” You chirp, and your grin is so wide it squeezes your eyes into crescents. You accept the first churro she hands over, biting into it and talking through it, “These are delicious. Is the recipe a secret or can you share it with me?”

The woman laughs, clearly flustered by your energy, and leans in with a conspiratorial expression, though she gives in pretty soon, “It is a secret, but… Oh, c’mon. A pretty lady like you deserves to know.”

You burst into chuckles, joined by auntie’s own rolling and carrying a contrasting warmth to the cold air. Jeongguk, for his part, stands slightly to the side, observing. You still cling to his arm, even as the vendor reaches over to gently smooth her fingers through your curls, complimenting the way they frame your face. You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation, but there’s a dimpled smile stretching on your cheeks that gives you away.

Before you leave, the lady points to Jeongguk, voice growing earnest, “You, handsome. I can see you’re a good guy, so you probably don’t need my advice. But treat her right, yes?”

Jeongguk stills for a second and stumbles over an awkward nod, managing to force a smile that has you stifling a laugh under your scarf. You tug him away with a cheerful wave to your new friend, promising her you’ll come visit again before Christmas.

Once you’re at a safe distance, he mutters, “Why did you not tell her that we’re not together?”

You tilt your head considering his question, “It’s not like she knows us. She looked like she adored you. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. Maybe seeing a young couple like us really means a lot to her.”

Jeongguk observes how the more you explain, the more you’re convincing yourself as much as him, eventually solidifying your reasoning as you nod, muttering some more under your breath. He scoffs, looking away to hide his lips twitching.

When he turns back he’s frowning, though it doesn’t quite match the way he lets you hook arms again, your pastel pink bag hanging from his shoulders. Still, he sulks as though the mere thought of your observation has him shivering, and not with the cold, “We’re not a couple.”

Jeongguk barely gets to let his unnecessarily petty comment out before you drag him with an unusual strength over to another stand, his voice not even touching your ears, “Oh, let’s go over there, Gguk!”

On the twenty-first day or December, you send him a picture of your tattoo.

You had been talking non-stop ever since your… date? Or was it just a hangout? Whatever it was, it’s been a week, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling at a fucking screen too many times a day for his linking. It’s irritating. Even brings his phone with him to the bathroom in case you text him. Not because he cares. No, it’s practical. What if you ever had an emergency and he was the only one who could help?

Most of the time it’s just you sending TikToks, but he clicks on the links with the same urgency he’d reply to a genuine plea for help. He doesn’t really want to think of the reason why.

Now, this picture—it catches Jeongguk off guard.

It doesn’t even look like it’s about the tattoo. Not really. It feels like an excuse, a flimsy pretext for you to show yourself to him. The tattoo—the one he himself inked—is there, yes. But it’s not at all the main focus of the photo that tightens his grip on his phone.

You’re wearing a thin, pink tank top with delicate lace trim, the straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Your fingers hook under the neckline, tugging it down just enough to expose the tattoo nestled between the soft curve of your breasts. The angle of the shot is deliberate, he can tell. Your back arches slightly off what he assumes is your bed, and your face is cropped out, save for your glossed lips, full and slightly parted, catching the dim light.

Jeongguk blinks, hard. Then again. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the low light of his phone screen doing little to soften the image burning itself into his mind. His eyes dart upward, scanning his surroundings, just to make sure everything is in place. The shop is empty, the door is closed, the hum of quiet settles over the space.

Looking down, the picture still stares back at him paired with a single message.

Annoying [11:39 p.m.]: do you think it’s healed? idk about this stuff, need your help 🥺

He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what this is. He alternates between the photo and your words, jaw ticking and tightening more with the seconds flowing.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’re testing him like this. He tries to push the feeling down, to reject the buzz of heat pooling low in his stomach. You know him well enough to be aware that he won’t reply to something like this. A stupid, unnecessary message. The tattoo is healed—he told you that a week ago, clear as day. There’s no reason for you to ask again.

What’s the purpose of this?

He gets a distorted idea when he shifts uncomfortably in place, the dull ache tightening his pants almost unbearable now.

Jeongguk groans and locks his phone, tossing it onto the counter as if that will put an end to this. He tries to refocus on his tasks, the last ones before he clocks off. Cleaning needles, tossing used stencils.

But his heavy balls keep sending desperate, silent prayers to his brain, to please let them have this. Just this once.

It’s been a bad day. Two of his appointments canceled last minute, leaving him to sit around bored. The last client showed up drunk and wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him. His coworkers were loud and distracting, and to top it all off, the heater broke, leaving the studio freezing cold.

It’s been such a bad day.

So, would there be any harm? It’s not like anyone will know. Not you, not his friends. He’s the only one that will. And he’s far more willing to live with this dirty secret rather than with his hard dick straining achingly in its confines.

Jeongguk abruptly snatches up his phone again, unlocking it to the same picture that caused him to brush the device aside just minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath, thumb hovering over the screen. You won’t get no reply to him. But if you knew what he was up to right now, you would probably geek. Tease him, with your warm smile that digs dimples in your cheek, hopping on your toes to poke at his chest playfully, with those perfectly manicured hands of yours.

“Shit,” his free hand is already pushing the jeans down along with his boxers, and he drops his weight onto the nearest stool as he grips at the base of his thick cock, eyes devouring the image of you in the empty chat.

He doesn’t zoom in. That would feel too shameless. But he finds it oddly better like this. Is it weird that your text, so innocently worded, is turning him on? That the simple idea of you needing his help is enough to have his hips jerking?

What could you possibly need his help for? Fuck. The different ideas that pool his mind have him squeezing harder at his stinging tip.

Jeongguk focuses on your dainty hand, slim pointer finger snaking under the collar of your flimsy shirt to show yourself to him, and your small boobs spill from the sides with a delicious, soft swell. He hisses when he pictures that same hand working on him instead, his warm mouth stuffed with your stiff nipples, visible through the sheer material.

He can’t help the loud groan leaving his lips, wrist flickering up and down in a motion that feels sloppy way too soon, hips jutting up to fuck into his tight fist. Throwing his head back, he sees you even behind closed eyelids.

He pictures your delicate figure sprawled on his bed, long lashes batting up at him as you sheepishly hide with your cheek to your shoulder. Can clearly make out how you’d sit on his lap instead, unsteady breath fanning over his lips, using his long shaft to make yourself cum. The whole time, he sees the tattoo on your chest, the one that is forever on you, eternally a reminder of him.

When he lets his head topple forward again, his bright screen still stares at him, only because a new message pops up in the chat. He startles, and his cock throbs in his hand.

Annoying [11:52 p.m.]: oh, and i miss you.

“Oh, fuck,” the curse is strained through a loud whine, and only followed by more of his full moans filling the room. His brows knit as his hand moves rapidly, palm collecting the precum spreading embarrassingly fast on his tip and rolling it down his length.

He focuses on your parted lips, the soft curve of your breast, your hard nipples begging to be sucked and spit on. Your last text has flashes of your bug-like eyes staring up at him seizing his mind.

That’s what undoes him. He’s delirious as he lets out his every sound, freely, unchecked, not caring about how loud he is, whimpering as he gets closer to his climax. When he thinks of those eyes locking with his, kneeling before him, eager and willing to swallow his every drop, he cums. Hard.

Jeongguk pumps everything he can out of him, and it’s messy—spilling over his hand, staining his clothes, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with the effort, and the sensation of abandon he feels is so pleasurable, energy drained but leaving him with a lightness that threatens to make his cock hard again.

Fuck. He can’t afford that happening if you’re not the one attending his needs. This won’t be enough, not until it’s you. He’s insatiable.

Jeongguk needs to hear your voice.

It’s an instinct, and he bends to it. He’s careful, making sure not to tap on the FaceTime option, because if you were to see him right now it’d be glaringly obvious.

When he looks to the side, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, and he visibly grimaces at the way his cheeks are flushed, the pearls of sweat coating his forehead causing his bangs to stick uncomfortably to the skin.

Guilty doesn’t even begin to cover it.

With the phone to his ear beeping to eternity, he hesitates, contemplates ending the call before you can answer. But just then, you do.

“Jeongguk! Is everything okay?”

Your voice is familiarly soft, but there’s a trace of concern. Blinking, he brings the device closer again and gulps thickly when he can make out your panting breaths. He clears his throat and puts on his best nonchalant act, “Huh— Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know… You just never call. Or text first. This is weird. You sure you’re okay?”

Oh. Is that really what it is like?

Jeongguk never realized this was how he came across—so detached that a simple phone call feels out of character. Your naive honesty hits him square in the chest. God, he needs to get better at this. The irony stings: he just fucking jerked off to your picture and the simple thought of you, while you’re on the other side thinking he’s just a careless piece of shit who doesn’t even know how to call.

The long stretch of silence registers in his brain, and he coughs to buy time, “Yes, I’m sure. I— huh,” he thinks of stuff you usually ask to keep the conversation flowing. Not out of courtesy, but out of genuine interest, the curiosity that makes people want to open up. He’s still not used to that. Still finds it weird.

“How… How was your day?”

It must be equally weird for you because it takes you a longer beat to reply. In that quiet moment, he clenches his eyes shut and feels his jaw tick with shame. And embarrassment. And this icky feeling that makes him feel too mushy for his liking. Hell, what is he doing? He’s never been like this, he’s not supposed to be like this.

But you recover quickly, as you always do, and you smooth over the moment. Fix it all for him like you were born to be just that. Make him feel like he fits in ways that have him exhaling shakily.

Jeongguk senses a foreign drumming in his stomach, and it’s warm but odd, and he loves it but he doesn’t want to.

On the twenty-fifth day of December, cheekily under a mistletoe, Jeongguk realizes he wants you. There’s parts of him that probably knew way sooner. But the parts of him that didn’t, fighting tooth and nail to suppress the mere thought, are just now finally surrendering.

Jeongguk has always found you admirable, back in high school. You had this determination to you. Not only when it came to him. It shone particularly when you catered to others, always finding ways to help, to mend, to offer yourself with nothing less than a fully toothed smile.

But he’s also always thought you two were—and still are—too different to work. He can’t be what you want, let alone what you deserve: someone who can match your enthusiasm and unwavering smiles, your frustrating positivity; someone who sees the world the way you do. No black, no grey, no shades in between. Just bright, hopeful white. Blinding white.

It’s the white making him dizzy, shifting his perspective, having him believing the opposite of what he’s always known. Pushing to be a little more egoistical, deceiving himself that he’s right for you. Because he wants to be. He oh, so selfishly wants people to know he’s the one who finally gets to have you, the one gifted with such a light, unfairly deserving of all the love you carry into every room you walk into.

Just a few days ago, during another one of your increasingly frequent phone calls, you asked him what he was doing for Christmas. He could have lied, come up with something on the spot.

But with how you so easily, and always coax the truth out of him, he let it slip. He told you he’d be alone, words subtly heavy. But they didn’t have the chance to even drop their weight before you were already inviting him to your friend’s party, insisting that he would be the most welcome.

And he’s here, and he sits beside you, and every time you laugh you lean your weight over him, and the room vibrates with the energy you fill it with, and each one of your friends is so enamoured with you, and for reasons he can’t fully understand it fills him with a sense of pride that shouldn’t belong to him. But it does, and it comes with so many other feelings.

You don’t push him to talk. You never force him into the spotlight when he takes a step back, quietly observing, choosing to stay in the background. Because you read him like it’s in your nature to do so, your soul seems to intuitively melt with his, and it intertwines in such a tight knot that he feels it constrict his throat. He knows he’s still alive because his heart is beating, just a little faster with each time you flash your dimples at him.

“Dimples. What are you doing, hm?”

Now, he’s in front of you, a small smile on his lips as you stand on your tiptoes, trying to dangle the mistletoe over both your heads. You’re struggling just a little, your hand unable to reach high enough, and the fake plant awkwardly brushes his hair, the tickling sensation causing his nose to scrunch. You laugh.

Looking up at your swinging movements, you lose your balance for the slightest second. Jeongguk’s hands move instinctively, catching you promptly by the waist to steady your body. But even after that, he doesn’t shift, his warm palms stilling. And when you face him, he’s closer and his chest brushes against yours. From this proximity, he witnesses the Christmas lights painting a galaxy of their own in your orbs.

You beam, “What does it look like? We have to kiss now.”

Jeongguk stares in your expectant eyes, brows wiggling and all. The more his mouth keeps in a straight line, the more the wiggling slows. You eventually come down from your tiptoes, letting the mistletoe fall to the side, tilting your head.

He snorts, looking away briefly to hide an embarrassingly wide grin behind his hand. When he turns back to you, your pout is enough to have him scrambling to meet your gaze.

“On one condition, though.”

You chirp, “Yeah?”

He licks his teeth, reserving you with a smug look, “Admit that you were scared to get your tattoo.”

Your smile vanishes in an instant, your expression falling into mock offense. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel, pretending to walk away from him. Pretending, only because you know he won’t let you. And you’re proven right when his fingers wrap around your arm, tugging you back with enough force to spin you into him. Suddenly, you’re pressed so close you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your chin nearly touches his chest as you glare up at him, narrowed eyes meeting the mischievous glint in his.

He bites a smile, lips twitching, “C’mon, princess. You wanted to act all tough and shit, but I could feel you shaking.”

Your scoff is loud and incredulous, “You’re such a bitch.”

He only shrugs, “You want my kiss, no?”

“Oh my god,” groaning, it’s your turn to face the side to hide a grin, “Are you always this cocky?”

His chin tilts upward slightly, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, “Say it.”

You whip back around to meet him with a seriousness he hardly ever sees on you, and you even clear your throat, channeling every ounce of the determination he knows you for, every drop of resolve that makes you you. “Yes. I was scared shitless, Jeongguk.”

Foreign excitement brims out of him, not before his eyes widen just a fraction, and his nose scrunches the more he leans closer to you, inches from you, swinging side to side with exaggerated mockery and a grin splitting his face, “See! I knew—hmph.”

There’s no other second to waste.

The condition has been met, and now all the requirements for you to claim what you were promised, your reward, are there. Even more when kissing him means catching him mid-taunt and silencing whatever teasing remark he had ready.

Your lips touch his in effortless ease, breaking the air as they press together. It’s tentative at first, almost uncertain as you feel Jeongguk remain still.

But it doesn’t take him longer to move, mouth molding against yours in a sickeningly sweet hug, tasting each other with quiet curiosity, taking your time to adjust and melt, instructing your bodies to imitate the dance.

Your arms lock around his neck, his stronger and tattooed ones circle your waist, and the way you click together feels so right, almost too perfect, so perfect it scares you. When you arch yourself further into him, even the non-existent space between you unbearable, he accompanies the motion with his wide palms gliding along your back, squeezing you into him, feeling the curve of your hips.

The soft whine that scratches your throat and vibrates against his lips betrays you, along with the useless effort to contain the intensity of what you’re feeling. The emotion disarms you, the sound gasping in your chest, but in Jeongguk’s arms it feels safe to let go.

On Christmas day, you crown a youthful fantasy, the kind you’ll look back to even when you’re older. Jeongguk feels like he’d be the right person to stand by you to do so.

When he reluctantly detaches from you, his face keeps at a safe distance that’d allow him to go back and taste you, not before resting his forehead on yours and whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

You giggle. “Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

[myglittervoid]

I worked at my college bookstore. One day, someone came in and tried to return an overdue rented textbook. Even if I wanted to help them, the rental system was an entirely seperate system that I had no access to. Overdue books would pop up a thing on our screen telling us that the window for that return had closed. I explained to them and told them who they would need to contact and that they could try the buy back program.

They responded by throwing the book in my face and storming out. They had been charged almost $200 for this stupid book and I wanted to help them. But I couldn't, so instead I had to deal with their violence.

I didn't even get to take five seconds to process it because I had to just go on and help the next customer. When I told my boss, she said that it happens all the time and I would get used to it. And I did get used to it. Nobody was calling the police to protect me. Nobody was being arrested. And I wouldn't have wanted them to.

We were both being fucked by the same system, just in different ways. And I was the face they hired to stand there and accept the abuse the system caused.

I was making $12/hr to have candy, books, and stationary thrown at me. I didn't make the rules. But when those rules impacted others, I was expected to accept all responsibility for that persons discomfort and anger. $12 to be called a cunt everyday.

I think there's something to be said that saying the words "Deny, Defend, Depose, you're next" to an insurance sales rep can get you arrested for 'threats of mass homicide' or whatever with a threat of 15 years in prison

But when I was a manager in a fast food restaurant I've had customers throw food at me, demand for my personal phone number with an added threat of "Well I'll just have to FIND it", customers charging past the front counter to physically intimidate me and my coworkers, screaming and swearing, demands to know what time I get out of work, demands to know when my manager would be at work as a threat, people sitting in their car waiting for me to finish closing because they were angry at me, causing me to stay in the office watching the camera waiting for them to drive away...

But none of those incidents are arrest-able offenses, not one, any time I called the cops on any customer I would just hear excuses like " "there isn't anything illegal about calling a restaurant", that nothing physical happened and therefore there's nothing they could do, to call back and let them know if anything else happens

Idk, just think it's A TEENY TINY BIT ODD

Cop in the news goes "words have consequences" as if people don't berate and threaten fast food and retail workers every day

[rowie264]

If someone criticizes something, it doesn't mean that they hate it. It also works the other way around. If you like something, it doesn't mean that it's done well from an objective point of view.

I love Jinx. Her design, her story, her personality, her character arc... I was just fascinated by her. Jinx has become one of my favorite characters in media in general. It was the continuation of her story that I was waiting for the most.

Jinx is still my favorite character in season 2. I love almost every scene with her. How she did Sevika's arm and the subsequent fight with the Smeech, the fight with Vi in Act 1, the prison break, search for Vander in the mines, epic appearance during the battle against Noxus.

I got a lot of positive emotions while watching s2 and especially during Jinx's appearance on the screen. But… an emotional response and objective assessment are two different things. And objectively, Jinx's character in season 2 is OOC and poorly written.

Removing very importand part of her story and personality. Her mental issues almost completely disappear. This is a very important aspect of her character. And no, Isha's presence and a "more favorable environment" would not heal her, the whole 2nd act is completely unrealistic and looks stupid, since all her problems with her mental health were magically solved off-screen;

Irrelevant piece of plot. Her arc of "Zaun symbol" passes by her - she becomes a symbol by accident, ignores the consequences and directly encounters all this revolutionary mood only during Isha's saving from Stillwater (at the same time saving her followers - an indirect action, not a purposeful one). So this arc is kinda about her, but she doesn't seem to participate in it herself, and it ends with literally nothing (like the whole Zaun revolution);

Making her more appealing to wider audience. Her hatred of Piltover and Caitlyn just disappeared. Yes, while she was with Vi in the mines she said "piltie goons who murdered mom and dad," but… that's all? Jinx doesn't kill a single enforcer in the entire 2nd season (although, for example, she could have in Stillwater) and tells Caitlyn "I didn't know your mother was there." Let me remind you that Jinx literally giggled in s1 when she killed a dozen enforcers during gemstone kidnapping, killed enforcers on the bridge without any care, she hated Caitlyn fiercely because she "stole" her sister from her, and she couldn't not know that Cassandra was a councilor. It isn't showed how and why she changed her opinion and this is important thing to her character, you can't explain such change with microexpressions or parallels;

Unrealistic happy family reunion. The reunion of Jinx, Vi, and Vander is a spectacular moment from Disney. Do you remember how Jinx reacted when Vi returned? Yes, she was happy but as soon as she spotted Cait she freaked out and immidiately thought that Vi betrayed her. Imagine what would happen if her supposedly dead - bc of her btw - father had returned and now looks like some animal;

Silco mattered much more to Jinx. A very "subtle" replacement of Silco for Vander in the role of father (Jinx calls him father, sniffs Vander's jacket and not Silco's), although Silco played probably a bigger role in this? And Jinx remembers about him like 2 times? Although it's been about 7-10 years since Vi's "death" in season 1, Jinx was still triggered by just a similar appearance. Apparently, Silco wasn't that important to Jinx (which is not true); I could still keep talking about Jinx, but let's leave it at that.

I love Jinx even in season 2. I like watching scenes with her. But my emotional attachment doesn't stop me from seeing that Jinx's character in s2 is not a continuation of Jinx's character of the end of s1. Her image is broken, the arcs are not completed, the relationships with other characters are poorly written.

[dksfml]

scripted - yjw

pairing: yang jungwon x reader x nishimura riki genre: ULTRA fluff, tiny angst, unrequited love, jealousy, love triangle (if you squint) word count: 10.3k summary: where you wrote a screenplay for your theater project about your sweet daydreams about jungwon, which got chosen for your class to present to the entire school. with him cast as the male lead while you, as the director, watch another girl play your own life story.

'Cause I, I don't wanna say what's scripted Whether you aren't with it I know what I need

The rumors about your crush on Jungwon weren’t just whispers—they were facts etched into the walls of the school. Everyone knew. Your friends, your classmates, even the juniors who only knew you by name. You had always been comfortable with it. Why wouldn’t you be? Jungwon was, by all standards, crush-worthy.

He was the type of guy people noticed instantly. Good looks, a quick wit, and a confidence that bordered on cocky but never quite crossed the line. He was friendly with everyone, not a single person immune to his easy charm. And you? You were no exception.

It was almost comical how blatant your admiration for him was. You didn’t try to hide it, laughing along with your friends when they teased you for staring at him during lunch or lingering too long by his desk. For the longest time, you were fine being the girl with the obvious crush. It was harmless fun.

But then the school retreat happened.

It had been a late-night campfire activity, the kind designed to foster trust and openness. Under the flickering firelight, with everyone’s attention pinned on you, someone dared you to confess your feelings to Jungwon.

At first, you laughed it off. “Why should I? Everyone already knows.”

But the chant started: “Do it! Do it!” Your friends joined in, and even Jungwon—sitting across from you, grinning in that infuriatingly charming way—raised an eyebrow as if daring you to go through with it.

So, you did. You stood up, brushed the dirt off your hands, and announced, “Jungwon, I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

It was meant to be bold, confident, a way of taking control of the narrative that had always surrounded you. But as the laughter and applause erupted, you noticed the way Jungwon’s smile faltered. He chuckled, scratched the back of his head, and said, “Thanks, Y/N. That’s… flattering.”

Flattering. That was it. No reciprocation, no playful banter to ease the sting. Just a polite brush-off in front of everyone.

You didn’t let it show, of course. You sat back down, forced a smile, and played along with the jokes that followed. But something inside you shifted that night.

Since then, the teasing felt different—less like harmless fun and more like salt in a wound.

Weeks later, when your media studies professor announced that your play had been chosen for the class project, the room erupted into chaos.

Gasps of excitement rippled through the room, followed quickly by hushed murmurs. Your classmates exchanged knowing glances, the kind that made your stomach churn.

“Of course, her script won,” someone whispered, loud enough for you to catch. The words were casual, almost dismissive, as if your victory was inevitable—not because of your skill, but because of the ever-present rumors surrounding you.

“She’s good at this stuff,” another voice chimed in, but it was tinged with something less kind, as though your talents were overshadowed by something else entirely.

And then it came: “I bet Jungwon’s the inspiration for her male lead.”

That one landed like a punch.

You stiffened slightly, forcing your expression to remain neutral. Showing any reaction would only fuel the fire. Instead, you stood and walked to the front of the classroom with measured steps, pretending not to notice the smirks or the pointed glances being exchanged.

“It’s a well-written piece,” your professor said warmly, handing you back your script. Her genuine praise should have felt like a balm, but the weight of your classmates’ stares made it hard to savor the moment. “You’ll be the director, too, so start preparing.”

You nodded, managing a polite smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

As you turned to return to your seat, you could feel the whispers start up again, quieter now but no less cutting.

“Did you hear about the retreat?” one voice said. “Yeah. She confessed to him in front of everyone.” “And he didn’t say anything back.” “Awkward…”

The words followed you like a shadow as you sat down, gripping the edges of the script.

This was supposed to be a win—a moment of pride for your writing—but instead, all you could think about was how the story you’d poured your heart into was about to be dissected by the very people who had watched you get rejected.

You’d spent countless nights drafting this play, pouring your soul into the characters, crafting a story that felt raw and honest. But now, all you could hear was the echo of your own confession, the way Jungwon had smiled politely, like he didn’t want to hurt your feelings but didn’t know what else to say.

Flattering. That’s what he had called it.

The memory burned, and for a fleeting moment, you considered pulling your script from the project entirely. But no—that would only make things worse. The last thing you wanted was to give anyone more ammunition to use against you.

So instead, you forced yourself to meet the professor’s eyes again as she moved on to announce the rest of the assignments. You sat there, quiet and composed, as if the whispers didn’t bother you.

The first group meeting for the play began in a chaotic hum of chatter and excitement. Despite your nerves, you stood at the front of the room, gripping the script like it was the only solid thing in your world. As the director, you knew you had to project confidence, even as the weight of everyone’s expectations pressed down on you.

“Alright, let’s get started,” you began, forcing your voice to sound steady. “We’ll need strong actors for the leads. There’s the rich male lead and the pauper female lead, they need to have believable chemistry.”

You barely got the words out before someone shouted from the back, “Jungwon should be the male lead!”

The room exploded with agreement, your classmates’ voices blending into a whirlwind of approval.

“Yeah, he’s perfect for it!” “Jungwon’s already the campus heartthrob—he basically is the rich boy.” “And he’s a natural actor!”

The noise rang in your ears, but you managed to nod as though the suggestion didn’t bother you. Inside, your chest felt tight. This was inevitable, wasn’t it? Of course, they’d choose him.

You raised a hand to quiet the room. “Jungwon, are you okay with that?” you asked, keeping your tone carefully neutral, professional, like this was any other task.

All eyes turned to him as he leaned back in his chair, the corners of his lips tugging into that easy grin that made your stomach twist.

“Sure, why not?” he replied casually, like it was no big deal.

The ease with which he accepted stung more than it should have, and you hated yourself for letting it bother you. But that smile—the same one that had made your heart flutter countless times—felt sharper now, like a blade.

“Great,” you said briskly, moving on as though you weren’t fighting to keep your composure. “For the female lead…”

“How about Minji?” someone chimed in before you could finish.

The room buzzed again with approval. Minji, with her long, glossy hair and angelic features, was undeniably beautiful. She was talented, too—her voice could silence a room, and her presence commanded attention. And then there was the one thing that made your stomach churn: her closeness to Jungwon.

“She’d be perfect,” another classmate added enthusiastically. “She and Jungwon already have great chemistry.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing the muscles in your face to stay neutral. This was your moment to speak up, to push for a different choice, but what could you say? Everyone already assumed you’d written the male lead with Jungwon in mind. Picking anyone else now would only make it more obvious.

You turned to Minji, who was practically glowing under the attention. “Minji, are you in?” you asked, your voice sounding distant even to your own ears.

She flashed a dazzling smile, flipping her hair over her shoulder as if the decision had been made long before you even asked. “Of course!” she chirped, casting a playful glance at Jungwon.

It was a glance that made the whispers of their rumored closeness feel all too real.

“Perfect,” you said tightly, moving on to assign the rest of the roles. Your pen hovered over your notebook as your classmates debated the supporting cast, their voices buzzing around you like static.

The session ended quickly after that, with everyone chattering excitedly about their parts. You remained at the front, collecting stray papers and reminding everyone to bring their scripts for the first reading.

As the room cleared, you caught sight of Jungwon and Minji walking out together, their laughter echoing in the hallway.

You let out a slow breath, willing yourself not to dwell on it. This was your project, your story—and you’d see it through, no matter how much it stung.

The following afternoon, the cast gathered in a loose circle in the auditorium, scripts in hand, buzzing with the kind of energy that only came with new beginnings. You stood at the front, clipboard clutched tightly, feeling the weight of their eyes on you. As the director, you had to guide them through this. You had to remain composed, professional, and in control.

“Alright, let’s start from the top,” you said, your voice steady despite the anxious flutter in your chest. “We’ll read through the entire script first. Blocking and staging will come later.”

The hum of voices quieted as everyone found their places. The reading began smoothly, with the cast slipping into their roles as if they’d been made for them.

Jungwon, sitting with a relaxed posture, leaned forward slightly as he read his lines. His voice carried the same effortless charm he exuded in real life, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Each word felt natural, as if he wasn’t acting at all.

Minji was just as polished, her voice flowing with practiced ease. She smiled at the right moments, added depth to her lines, and cast Jungwon occasional glances that made their chemistry undeniable. The rest of the cast followed suit, and as much as you hated to admit it, the characters truly were coming to life.

But when you reached page 37, something inside you twisted.

Your eyes scanned the dialogue—the words you had written from a place of quiet vulnerability. It was a simple scene, one you thought would go unnoticed by everyone except you. But now, it felt like a spotlight was shining directly on your heart.

“We’ll skip this part,” you said quickly, your voice sharp enough to cut through the room’s focus.

There was a brief pause as everyone flipped to the page in question.

“Why skip it?” Jungwon’s voice broke the silence. His tone was curious but calm, the faintest hint of confusion in his furrowed brow as he studied you.

You met his gaze briefly, forcing a shrug. “It’s unnecessary,” you replied, injecting as much nonchalance into your tone as you could. “The pacing is better without it.”

Jungwon didn’t let it go. His eyes dropped to the script, scanning the scene you were trying to erase.

It was a quiet moment between the male and the female lead, walking side by side on their way to class. She teased him about skipping gym, and he promised, half-jokingly, that he’d join her next time.

Your chest tightened. The scene wasn’t just any scene. It was yours. A memory you cherished more than you wanted to admit; walking to gym class with Jungwon, just the two of you, back when things were simpler. Back when you could still let yourself enjoy the small moments without the weight of rejection looming over you.

Jungwon’s expression shifted as he read, his casual curiosity giving way to something softer. He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours with an almost cautious understanding.

“This…” he started, his voice quieter now, as though the realization struck him mid-sentence.

You turned your face away, refusing to let him see the crack in your armor. “It’s just a filler scene,” you said briskly, cutting him off. “Let’s move on.”

Minji, oblivious to the tension, glanced around before launching into her next line, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the group. The script reading resumed, but the energy in the room had shifted.

Jungwon’s usual ease and confidence seemed muted, his responses more measured and subdued. You could feel his eyes on you occasionally, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.

As the session wore on, your focus remained on the script, your voice steady as you guided the cast. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the weight of his lingering gaze or the way your carefully guarded secret had come dangerously close to being exposed.

As the cast dispersed after the reading session, you stayed at the front, scanning your notes to look busy. Jungwon approached, the script dangling loosely in his hand, his expression unreadable.

“You’re good at this,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

“Thanks,” you replied without looking up, pretending to focus on the clipboard in your hands.

“You really wrote the screenplay very well,” he added after a beat, his tone careful, deliberate. “The school will really enjoy our performance, thanks to you.”

Your grip on the clipboard tightened for the briefest moment before you forced yourself to relax. You glanced up, keeping your face neutral. “Thanks, Jungwon. The story… I know that it’s a bit…”

He seemed to study you as he waits for you to finish your sentence, searching for something in your face, but you didn’t find the right word to say under his gaze. After your long pause, he nodded and turned to walk away.

But as his footsteps receded, you felt the weight of his gaze lingering, as though he wasn’t fully convinced.

The heavy sound of the auditorium doors creaking open snapped you out of your thoughts. A tall figure strolled in with an air of nonchalance—Riki, the ever-late and often-absent classmate.

“Wow, look who finally showed up,” someone from the remaining group called out, half-joking.

Riki grinned, unfazed by the attention. “What can I say? The world doesn’t stop turning without me.”

The teasing quickly shifted, and someone shouted, “All the roles are taken, dude! You’ll have to beg the director for a spot now.”

Riki’s eyes flicked to you instantly, his grin widening. He made his way over with a confidence that clashed with the fact he was perpetually absent.

You raised an eyebrow as he stopped in front of you, completely ignoring the clipboard in your hands or the seriousness in your posture.

“So, boss,” he began, crossing his arms. “What’s my role?”

“We’ve already assigned roles,” you replied flatly, not missing a beat. “You’re too late. You should’ve been here on time.”

Riki didn’t look even remotely deterred. Instead, he tilted his head, feigning a thoughtful look before shrugging. “Guess I’ll create my own role, then. Can I handle the choreography for the play?”

“What?” you asked, more baffled than angry.

“Relax,” he said with a wink. “It’s what I’m good at. You don’t want me acting anyway—I’d outshine everyone.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Riki raised a finger, cutting you off. “Trust me. I’ll do it right.”

There was something so audacious yet oddly reassuring in his tone that you found yourself momentarily speechless.

But then you snapped out of it. “Fine,” you relented. “But if you’re taking this seriously, you can’t skip practices anymore.”

Riki placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Do I look like the kind of guy who slacks off?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned.

He laughed, the sound echoing across the emptying auditorium. “Fair enough. See you at practice, boss.”

And just like that, he turned and strolled off, his bag slung over his shoulder as if he’d just secured the role of a lifetime.

You exhaled sharply, watching him leave. Jungwon, still standing at a distance, hadn’t said a word throughout the entire exchange. But you felt his gaze, quiet and observant, as if he were trying to piece together the dynamic between you and this latecomer who had confidently claimed a place in your play.

Shaking off the thought, you turned back to your notes, already bracing yourself for the chaos that Riki would undoubtedly bring to your carefully planned production

As the weeks of rehearsals progressed, one thing became undeniably clear—Riki was no longer the unreliable absentee everyone had pegged him to be.

“Is it just me, or has Riki been showing up every day?” one of your classmates whispered loudly during a break, eyeing him as he adjusted a prop onstage.

Another chimed in, “Yeah, and he’s actually… working. Who knew?”

You caught snippets of their conversation but chose not to engage. It was true, though. Ever since Riki had taken up the choreography, he’d been showing up not just on time but with energy and enthusiasm that sometimes even rivaled yours. His movements were precise, and he had a knack for motivating others to step up their game.

Still, you were wary. “Don’t let it get to your head,” you told him after one practice when he was lingering by the stage.

Riki only smirked, leaning against the edge of the stage. “Admit it—you’re impressed.”

You rolled your eyes, but his confidence was disarming.

One evening, during rehearsals, the cast gathered to practice a particularly intense scene between the leads. Jungwon and Minji were center stage, the script in Jungwon’s hand as he delivered his lines.

“I can’t let you leave,” he said, his tone calm but firm. His hand hovered awkwardly near Minji’s face, his fingers twitching slightly as if unsure where to place them.

“Jungwon, you’re supposed to grab her chin,” you reminded him, keeping your tone neutral as you pointed at the script. “It’s a pivotal moment of the play—it shows how desperate he is to get her to listen.”

Jungwon hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get that. I just… don’t want to make it awkward.”

Minji, ever professional, smiled encouragingly. “It’s fine, Jungwon. Just go for it.”

But as he nodded and turned back to her, his shoulders tensed, and his grip on the script tightened. His hand moved forward again but stopped short, hovering in mid-air as though weighed down by an invisible force.

You frowned, watching him closely. Something about his hesitation seemed deeper than stage fright. His gaze darted toward the ground, avoiding Minji’s eyes entirely. His other hand, clenched at his side, betrayed the nerves he was trying to hide.

“Jungwon,” you said, your voice softer this time. “What’s holding you back?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back words. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I just… don’t want to mess it up.”

The murmurs of impatience from the cast grew louder, and before you could say more, Riki stood up from where he’d been sitting near the edge of the stage.

Suddenly, Riki, who had been sitting cross-legged near the edge of the stage, stood up. “Let me show you how it’s done,” he said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

The group fell silent, curious to see what he would do.

You blinked, caught off guard when Riki gestured toward you. “Come here,” he said.

“What? No,” you replied, instinctively taking a step back.

“C’mon, boss,” he teased, his tone light but his gaze steady. “You’re the director. Let’s give them a proper demonstration.”

You hesitated, but the expectant stares of your classmates left you with no choice. Reluctantly, you stepped onto the stage, your palms clammy as you stood opposite him.

“Okay,” Riki said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin before tilting it up, so your eyes met his.

The intensity of his stare made your breath hitch. His grip wasn’t too tight, but it was firm enough to command attention. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

The room erupted in whistles and laughter.

“Wow, you guys look natural!” someone shouted, breaking the spell.

Another teased, “Riki, are you sure you’re not auditioning for the male lead?”

Your face burned as you quickly pulled back, avoiding everyone’s amused stares. “That’s enough,” you said, trying to sound authoritative. “Let’s get back to the scene.”

But as you walked offstage, you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes lingering on you—or the way your heart had skipped a beat during those few seconds.

From the corner of the room, Jungwon sat silently, the script still in his hands. He hadn’t said a word during the exchange between you and Riki, but his expression was thoughtful, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the interaction unfold.

When rehearsal resumed, he seemed quieter than usual, delivering his lines with less enthusiasm.

By now, the whispers about Riki’s sudden dedication were impossible to ignore.

“Seriously, who is this guy?” one of your classmates joked as they watched him adjust the blocking for a scene.

“He’s even showing up to classes he doesn’t need to be at,” another added.

Riki overheard and grinned as he walked past. “Guess I’m a changed man,” he quipped, winking in your direction.

You shook your head, hiding a smile. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I think I’m your star player, boss,” he shot back, his tone playful but self-assured.

Despite your best efforts to keep things professional, you couldn’t help but feel that the dynamic between you and Riki had shifted. Whether it was his newfound confidence or the easy camaraderie you had developed, he was no longer just the absentee classmate.

And though you tried to focus on the play, you couldn’t ignore the growing sense that he was slowly stealing the spotlight—both on and off the stage.

The last bell of the day had already rung, and most of your classmates were already packing up for the gymnasium, where the final recital practices were scheduled. You, however, were asked to go to your professor's office to give her an update on the progress of your play.

"How are things going?" she asked, sitting behind her desk as you entered.

You took a seat across from her, straightening the stack of papers in your hands. "Everything's on track," you said confidently. "The cast is showing great improvement, and we’re refining the blocking. The choreography is coming along well, too."

Your professor nodded, clearly pleased with your professionalism. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. Keep it up."

Then, she handed you a pile of scripts. "These are your classmates' plays. I accidentally forgot to return them, so I need you to give them back personally when you can."

You took the scripts, nodding, and tucked them under your arm. "Of course, I’ll make sure they get them."

"Great," your professor said, standing up. "You’re doing well with the play. Just make sure you keep the momentum going. Let me know if you need anything."

With a quick smile and a polite nod, you left her office. The hallways were deserted, the school echoing with the sound of your footsteps as you walked back to your classroom to drop off your things before heading to the gym.

Once you returned to the empty classroom, you placed the pile of scripts on your desk and started organizing them. The last thing you wanted was to carry a mess of papers with you to the gymnasium.

But just as you were about to finish, something slipped from the pile, falling to the floor with a soft thud. You crouched down, trying to grab it quickly, but in the process, the rest of the scripts followed, scattering in every direction.

"Great," you muttered under your breath, crouching down again to gather them all.

As you reached for the scattered pages, your eyes landed on one particular script—Jungwon’s. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the familiar handwriting on the cover.

Curious and, admittedly, a little nervous, you opened the script, flipping through the pages.

You froze.

The pages before you were filled with intimate details—details you never expected to see written down in such a way. It was his play, sure, but it was more than just a story—it was a record of everything you had ever experienced together, from his perspective.

The first scene you came across made your stomach flip. It was about the time you’d first noticed Jungwon at the vending machine—the way you both had awkwardly brushed past each other without ever speaking a word, and how, despite that, you felt something stir within you. Then, it was followed by a scene that took your breath away:

“He watched her, unsure how to approach her. His heart raced, but he was too afraid to speak. Would she even notice him?”

“She had no idea, but he had been quietly in love with her for a while now. He watched her with admiration from afar, unsure how to close the distance between them, afraid she wouldn’t feel the same.”

Your hands trembled as you read. It was about your confession to him, the moment you had told him how you felt, how he had turned you down, and how you had felt a part of you break. But what stopped your heart in its tracks was the next part:

“His chest tightened as he saw her face when she confessed. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just say the words back. He had wanted to, so badly. But the moment felt all wrong, the timing was off. He imagined confessing to her in a more intimate, personal space—just the two of them. He wanted to give her his best self when he said it, not under the scrutiny of friends. Not when she was the one taking the first step. That thought held him back."

"In that moment, seeing the hurt in her eyes, he understood just how much he had been lying to himself. He had always loved her, more than he had let on. But it was too late now. He had failed her."

You couldn’t breathe. The room spun around you as you tried to make sense of the words in front of you. His play—it wasn’t just about the story of two characters. It was about you. About him. About everything that had happened between the two of you.

And there it was, in black and white—his feelings for you, all these years, something he had never said aloud.

You were so caught up in the revelation that you didn’t hear the door open.

"Hey," a voice broke through your thoughts. Jungwon stood in the doorway, looking a bit concerned. "Everyone’s waiting for you. We’re about to start the practice."

You quickly snapped the script shut, your hands still trembling. Jungwon’s eyes flickered to the pile of papers you had spilled, his expression shifting when he saw the one you were holding.

Before you could say anything, he crossed the room quickly, reaching for the script you had been reading. "Give that to me," he said, his voice unusually serious.

You tried to pull it back instinctively, but Jungwon’s grip was firm. Without another word, he yanked it from your hands and tucked it under his arm.

"Jungwon—" you started, but he cut you off.

"Don’t," he said quietly, glancing at you with a flicker of something in his eyes—regret?

He quickly helped you gather the other scattered scripts, his movements swift but oddly gentle, as though trying to avoid causing any more tension. When everything was back in order, he straightened up, looking at you with an unreadable expression.

You nodded, still reeling from what you had just discovered. Without another word, you both left the classroom, walking side by side down the hall to the gymnasium.

The silence between you was thick, filled with unspoken words. You wanted to say something—anything—but you couldn’t find the right words.

And Jungwon? He didn’t say anything either. He simply walked beside you, his footsteps steady, his presence a quiet, unspoken reminder of everything that had just shifted between you.

As you approached the gymnasium, the muffled chatter and sounds of rehearsals filtered through the door. It was a stark contrast to the heavy silence between you and Jungwon. He paused briefly, glancing at you as if he wanted to say something but ultimately stayed silent. With a slight nod, he opened the door and stepped aside to let you enter first.

The cast was already bustling about, running lines and adjusting props. Riki, as usual, was at the center of the activity, demonstrating a dance sequence with a playful flair that drew laughter and cheers from everyone around him.

“Finally!” Riki called out when he spotted you. “Thought you’d abandoned us, boss.”

You forced a smile, but your mind was still stuck on Jungwon’s script. Riki must have noticed something off, because his grin faltered slightly as his eyes flicked between you and Jungwon.

“You good?” he asked, tilting his head. His voice was softer, more private, as he stepped closer.

“Yeah, just... long day,” you replied quickly, waving him off. The last thing you needed was more attention on whatever turmoil you were feeling.

Riki studied you for a moment longer before smirking. “Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He clapped his hands together, effectively pulling everyone’s focus back to the rehearsal. “Alright, people, let’s nail this!”

The next few hours passed in a blur, each moment charged with a mix of anticipation and tension. Jungwon, usually the calm and collected actor, was delivering his lines with an intensity that was hard to ignore.

His voice held a restrained urgency, as though every word carried more weight than it should. His eyes, too, were different today: dark, focused, and filled with an emotion that couldn’t quite be placed. It wasn’t anger or frustration, but something deeper—something unspoken.

Minji, always perceptive, noticed the change immediately. During one of the breaks, as the rest of the cast gathered around the table, she leaned in, a small but knowing smile on her lips.

“Jungwon, that was incredible! Whatever you’re channeling, keep it up.” Her voice was playful, teasing, but there was a certain depth in her eyes that suggested she wasn’t just complimenting his acting. She was recognizing something more—something raw, something between them.

Jungwon looked at her, his usual smile absent, replaced by a flicker of something complicated. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on her, searching her face, as if weighing her words.

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gave a slow nod, as though acknowledging her comment, but not quite willing to let go of the emotion he was carrying.

The chemistry between them was undeniable—electric, yet unspoken. It hung in the air like a tension neither was willing to address.

Minji noticed the pause, her expression softening as she regarded him. She wasn’t bothered by his silence; she was used to the layers beneath his exterior. But something in the way he looked at her—intense, almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

Something about the way their dynamic had shifted was undeniable, and Minji couldn’t help but wonder if Jungwon felt it too.

You, standing off to the side, watched the exchange with a quiet unease. You had become accustomed to their interactions during rehearsals—how they worked seamlessly together, how there was an unspoken rhythm between them.

But today, it felt different. There was a new level of intimacy in their shared glances, a quiet understanding that seemed to transcend the script.

Deciding to focus elsewhere, you turned your attention to Riki, who had the entire cast engaged in an impromptu choreography session. His infectious energy pulled everyone in, and even though you knew you had your own parts to direct, you couldn’t help but be distracted by the undercurrent of tension between Jungwon and Minji.

The way they stood near each other, their bodies close but not touching, was enough to make the air around them thick with unspoken words. Jungwon’s eyes would flicker toward Minji every so often, as though he couldn’t help himself, even as he pretended to focus on his lines. Minji, ever the professional, matched his energy, but there was something different in her demeanor too—an openness that seemed to invite his silent attention.

At one point, Minji laughed at something one of the other actors said, and Jungwon’s gaze followed her laugh, softening for a fraction of a second. He was caught in the moment, his usual composure slipping as he watched her.

For just a moment, it seemed like the world outside of them ceased to exist. Their chemistry was undeniable, a magnetic pull that neither could easily escape from.

As rehearsals continued, the dynamic between the two only grew more intense. Minji’s confidence fed off Jungwon’s intensity, and Jungwon seemed to find something in her presence that grounded him, making his performance richer, more layered.

The unspoken connection between them wasn’t just visible to the actors on stage, it was palpable to everyone in the room. The cast couldn’t help but notice the way they seemed to mirror each other’s movements, the way their eyes would meet at the most unexpected moments.

In your eyes, what they have was more than just good acting, it was something real. And you couldn’t ignore the weight of it—the way their relationship, both on and off stage, was evolving. The lines between performance and reality were blurring, and you couldn’t help but feel the emotional toll it was taking on all of you.

By the time rehearsal ended, you were exhausted, both physically and emotionally. As the cast began packing up, you lingered near the stage, tidying up stray props and papers.

“You’re still here?” Riki’s voice came from behind you. Turning, you found him leaning casually against a pillar, his bag slung over one shoulder.

“Just finishing up,” you replied.

He tilted his head, his playful grin returning. “Need help?”

You hesitated but shook your head. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”

Riki didn’t budge. Instead, he stepped closer, his expression softening. “Hey,” he said, his voice low. “You seem... distracted tonight. Did something happen?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the concern in his eyes stopped you. Riki’s usual teasing demeanor was gone, replaced by a sincerity that caught you off guard.

“It’s nothing,” you said after a pause. “Just... personal stuff.”

He didn’t press further, simply nodding as if to say he understood. “Well, if you need to talk—or vent—I’m around.” Then, with a wink, he added, “Can’t have my star director burning out before opening night.”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile faintly. “Thanks, Riki.”

He gave you a mock salute before heading out, leaving you alone once more.

As you turned back to finish cleaning, you heard soft footsteps approaching. Glancing over your shoulder, you found Jungwon standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets. His gaze was cautious, almost apologetic.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you nodded, setting down the props you were holding. Jungwon stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking as he lowered his voice.

“About the script…” Jungwon began, his voice tight, as though each word had to be pulled from him. He hesitated, running a hand through his hair, his expression flickering with something deeper—something he wasn't ready to reveal. “I didn’t mean for you to see it. It wasn’t... ready.”

You stood frozen, heart pounding in your chest, overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. The sudden shift in Jungwon, the vulnerability in his voice—it caught you off guard. “It’s not just a story, is it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer but unable to hold back the question.

Jungwon’s gaze met yours, dark and intense, as if he were trying to carve his soul into the air between you. For a brief second, you saw it—the raw emotion swirling beneath the composed surface, something so fragile and real that it made your chest tighten. His lips parted as though he was about to say something, but then his eyes flickered away, as if he couldn’t bear to meet yours any longer.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of the secret he could no longer keep, like a confession he’d been holding back for far too long. “It’s not…” His words hung in the air, a razor-thin thread between you that neither of you could escape.

The tension in the space between you was suffocating, thick with the unspoken things that had been festering for weeks, months, maybe even years. You could feel your breath catch in your throat as you stepped forward, your heart racing in your chest.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Your voice cracked, the question more painful than anything you’d expected. The confusion, the hurt, the feeling of betrayal—everything you had bottled up finally erupted, sharp and raw. “Why wait until now, Jungwon? Why couldn’t you just... say it?”

His eyes were closed for a moment, his jaw clenched as if he was fighting something fierce inside himself. When he opened them again, the depth of the emotion there nearly broke you. He exhaled sharply, a shaky breath that made the air between you both feel like it was thickening, suffocating you both.

“Because I’m scared,” he admitted, the words spilling out in a rush, as if he couldn’t hold them in any longer. He stepped closer, but the space between you felt like miles. His voice cracked, raw with vulnerability. “Scared that if I told you, if I showed you what I really feel… it would ruin everything. I’m scared that when you graduate, when you leave for college… you won’t need me anymore. That I’ll be just some fading memory, and you’ll walk away from me without a second thought. And I… I can’t bear that.”

His words cut through you, deep and jagged, breaking something inside you. Your chest tightened, the world spinning as his confession sank in. His voice trembled with emotion, and for a moment, you didn’t know whether to cry or scream, the weight of everything you’d ever wanted from him crashing down in waves.

“I...” You swallowed, your voice unsteady as your heart hammered in your chest. “You... you really think that? You think I would forget you? That just because you’re going away, I wouldn’t still need you? You really believe that, Jungwon?” You stepped even closer now, the words pouring out of you faster than you could catch them. “You could’ve told me before. You should’ve told me before. You know how much I like you. Hell, everyone on campus knows. You said you’re going out of town for college? Do you really think that would change how I feel? It doesn’t. It never would’ve.”

Your voice broke as the last words slipped from your mouth, the emotion that had been simmering under the surface for so long finally breaking free. You weren’t sure when you had taken the step forward, but now, there was nothing between you but the distance of his unspoken words.

Jungwon’s face was tortured, like he was carrying the weight of something too heavy to bear. He bit his lip, his eyes filled with regret and something else—something deeper. And then, as if he couldn’t take the space between you any longer, he closed the distance, his breath warm against your skin.

But just as the tension reached its breaking point, the world seemed to shift. A loud crash, followed by a piercing scream from the far side of the auditorium, shattered the moment. The entire room fell into stunned silence.

You whipped your head around to see Minji sprawled on the floor, clutching her ankle, her face twisted in shock and pain.

The chaos erupted in an instant—cries of panic, footsteps scrambling toward her. But as you stood there, frozen, your heart still racing, all you could feel was the sting of everything unsaid, the weight of Jungwon’s confession hanging in the air, unfinished.

He hadn’t meant to pull away. Neither of you had. But in the next breath, everything had changed.

The commotion had taken everyone by surprise. Minji had been practicing a particularly complicated scene when she slipped, falling awkwardly and injuring her ankle badly. The room fell into chaos, the cast members rushing to her side, their faces filled with panic as she clutched her leg in pain.

“Someone get the nurse!” you shouted, but you were already on your way over, kneeling beside Minji, trying to calm her down. Jungwon was right beside you, his usual composed expression slipping into something much more concerned.

The moment the news came through, it felt like the entire world stopped. The hospital had confirmed that Minji had severely sprained her ankle—no one could have anticipated how badly she’d hurt herself, and now, there was no way she would be able to perform for at least two weeks, maybe more. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The performance was just days away, and without Minji, the play might not go on.

The cast gathered in the rehearsal room, tension thick in the air. You could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, the silent expectation building with every passing second. The murmurs began almost immediately as they discussed who could possibly fill in for Minji at the last minute.

“We could call in an understudy,” one member suggested, clearly grasping at straws.

“None of the understudies know the part as well as Minji does,” another replied, shaking their head. “We don’t have time for that.”

“We’ll figure something out. We’ll find someone who can—” Riki cut himself off, his face drawn with concern as he glanced at the empty space where Minji usually stood.

The silence that followed felt deafening. It was clear to everyone that there was no one else who could take over the role in such a short time. That’s when one of the cast members, a girl who had always been pragmatic to the point of bluntness, turned toward you. Her gaze was unwavering.

“Well... if we’re being realistic,” she began, the words hanging heavy in the air, “you know the lines, right?”

You froze, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. “I—what?” you stammered, your stomach sinking as her eyes bored into you. The thought of stepping into Minji’s shoes, even for a moment, felt like an impossible task.

“You’ve been working with her the whole time and directed this whole play,” she continued, a hint of impatience in her voice. “You’re the only one who knows her part well enough to do this. Plus, you’re the one who wrote the play.”

“I—” You faltered, panic creeping into your throat. “I don’t know if I can...”

“You don’t have a choice,” another voice cut in sharply. It was Riki. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “It’s you or no one. We don’t have time for hesitation. The play is in a week.”

The other cast members exchanged uneasy glances. Some of them, like Riki, seemed convinced that you were the only viable option, but others looked skeptical, unconvinced that you could actually pull it off.

“It’s not just about knowing the lines,” someone else muttered, crossing their arms. “It’s about embodying the role. You’re the director, sure, but stepping in for Minji? That’s a whole different challenge.”

The room fell into a tense silence, and you could feel the weight of the decision bearing down on you. Your palms were sweating, your mind racing. You glanced around, meeting Jungwon’s gaze for a brief moment. He was standing a few paces away, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on you. There was a softness in his gaze, but he didn’t speak up. He didn’t offer his support, not even a hint of reassurance. It was as though he was waiting for you to make the call on your own.

"I’m... I’m not sure I can do it," you said, your voice trembling as you shook your head. The words felt like an admission of failure even as they left your lips. The pressure was mounting, thick and suffocating. You could feel the anxious tension in the room, swirling around you.

Then another voice broke the silence, a supporting actress, her tone firm. “We don’t have time to find anyone else. You’re going to have to take the role, Y/N. There’s no other option.”

You hesitated, your heart thudding painfully in your chest, but the weight of the situation settled over you like a blanket. The others weren’t happy, and you weren’t sure you were either, but there was no room for second-guessing.

“Fine,” you muttered, almost too quietly for anyone to hear. “I’ll do it.”

Riki gave a brief nod, signaling that the decision was made. The cast moved forward, but there was no sense of triumph, only a shared understanding that the next few days would be exhausting and grueling. You weren’t sure what you had just agreed to, but it was clear that everyone was relying on you to make it work.

The first rehearsal in your new role was a mess. You stumbled through the lines, your tongue tripping over words that should’ve felt familiar. Every gesture that Minji had made with grace now felt awkward and forced. You felt like you were drowning, each second slipping away from you as you tried desperately to remember the blocking, the expressions, the emotions you needed to convey. The cast’s frustration was palpable.

“This isn’t how we rehearsed it,” one of the actors muttered under their breath, throwing you an annoyed glance as you fumbled with the choreography.

“Yeah,” another added, crossing his arms and clearly skeptical. “It’s going to take a lot more than this.”

You felt yourself shrink under their judgment, the weight of their eyes pressing on you. It wasn’t that they were outright cruel—it was more the fact that they were impatient. They didn’t think you could pull it off, and frankly, neither did you.

As the days passed, the rehearsals didn’t improve much. By the second day, you were losing confidence. You couldn’t stop comparing yourself to Minji, her effortless performance a constant reminder of how far you had to go. The tension between the cast members grew, and you could feel it in the air. Every practice session felt like a battle—one where you weren’t sure you were going to win.

Jungwon, as usual, was quiet during the rehearsals. He didn’t say much, but you could feel him watching you, always standing just a little further away than you would’ve liked. His eyes never left you, but he said nothing. His silence was both comforting and unnerving.

“Y/N, you’ve got to work harder,” one of your classmates said, his tone sharp as the cast took a break. “We don’t have time for mistakes. We know you have a lot on your plate, considering you’re still our director. Thankfully Riki’s now co-directing though. You just need to be better, we know you’re capable.”

His words stung more than they should’ve, especially when it wasn’t your fault that Minji had gotten hurt. But the pressure was unbearable. You were carrying the weight of the play on your shoulders, and it felt like the world was watching, waiting for you to fail.

It was during one particularly frustrating rehearsal that Jungwon finally spoke to you. You had just stumbled over another line and had nearly given up in frustration when you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“You’re doing your best,” Jungwon said quietly, his voice a gentle balm against the harshness of the rehearsal room. You looked up at him, surprised by the softness in his words. His gaze was steady, unwavering. “I know it’s hard... but just trust yourself. You’re stronger than you think.”

His words—simple, calm—pierced through the storm of anxiety inside you. Something in his tone made you pause, made you take a breath. For the first time in days, you felt a flicker of reassurance.

“Thanks, Jungwon,” you murmured, the weight of his support grounding you. In that moment, despite everything, you felt like you could at least keep going. Maybe you couldn’t do it perfectly, but you could keep trying.

The performance day arrived in a blur of last-minute adjustments. Everyone was exhausted, nerves frayed, but despite the tension, there was a sense of collective determination. The theater was packed with an eager audience, and as you stood backstage, the reality of it all hit you.

You were about to step out onto the stage, alone in a role you hadn’t fully prepared for, a role that belonged to someone else. But then you looked at Jungwon—he was standing at the edge of the stage, watching you with a quiet intensity.

Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes met his, and in that moment, you found the strength you needed. He gave you a small, encouraging smile, and it was as though he was silently telling you that everything was going to be okay.

The stage was set. The audience’s murmurs faded as the play began, and the atmosphere shifted from anticipation to pure focus. The first few lines came out smoothly, and with each passing moment, the tension you had felt in the rehearsals started to melt away. The natural rhythm of the play flowed effortlessly between you and the other actors. But what you hadn’t expected—what you hadn’t anticipated—was how easy it felt to perform alongside Jungwon.

Every movement, every word, every glance felt effortless. As soon as you shared the first scene with him, there was an unspoken connection. His presence on stage was magnetic—his voice strong, yet soft, filled with depth. And his eyes—those eyes—spoke volumes without him having to utter a single word. You hadn’t expected to feel so at ease, so in sync with him, but it was as though you were breathing in rhythm, your performances becoming one.

Lila: (Her voice laced with doubt, her eyes searching his for reassurance.) “You... you really think you could want me? I’m nothing like the women you’re used to, Lawrence. I don’t belong in your world.”

Lawrence (Jungwon): (His voice calm, unwavering, as he looks at her with a sincerity that catches her off guard.) “I’ve always wanted you, Lila. You. Not the world you think I live in. Not the money or status. Just you.”

The way his words lingered in the air made your heart flutter. His gaze softened, and in that fleeting moment, it felt as if the entire world faded away. The audience, the stage, the lights—they all disappeared, leaving only the connection between your characters.

In this scene, Lila was supposed to be uncertain, lost in her own doubts, but Adrian’s unwavering confidence made it feel like she could do anything. He gave her the strength to believe in herself, just by being there.

Lawrence (Jungwon): (His voice deepens, a subtle warmth behind his words as he steps closer.) “You’re not alone in this, Lila. Not anymore. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

For a split second, it felt as though the scene had stopped being fiction, as if Jungwon himself wasn’t just acting but revealing a deeper part of himself. His sincerity was unmistakable. The chemistry between you was undeniable, and for a moment, you almost forgot that you were acting. Your heart skipped a beat, and you had to remind yourself to stay in character.

Lila: (Her voice trembling just enough to make it feel real, her eyes searching his face.) “I... I’m scared, Lawrence. What if I’m not enough for you? What if I’m just some joke to you?”

He took a step closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

Lawrence (Jungwon): (His voice firm, a promise in his words.) “Then I’ll be enough for both of us.” (He reaches out, gently cupping her cheek.) “This isn’t a game, Lila. I’m not here for some joke. I’m here for you.”

The line was so simple, so full of promise. And yet, in that moment, it felt like the most powerful declaration you had ever heard. The tension between the two characters—no, between you and Jungwon—was growing stronger with every passing second.

Lila: (Her heart racing, her voice a whisper.) “Are you sure? This... all of this feels too good to be true.”

Lawrence (Jungwon): (Stepping closer, his breath almost mingling with hers, his voice tender and serious.) “I’m sure, Lila. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The scene continued, each word flowing naturally, each touch, each exchange building the emotion. But nothing could have prepared you for what happened next.

As the final scene began to unfold, your characters stood face to face, the final lines lingering in the air. The tension had shifted. It wasn’t just the chemistry of the characters anymore—it was the undeniable pull between the two of you. Your heart pounded as you spoke the last few lines, your voice quiet, almost hesitant.

Lila: (Softly, her voice trembling.) “Is this... is this really goodbye?”

Lawrence (Jungwon): (His expression a mix of sadness and longing as he steps closer.) “No. Not if you don’t want it to be.”

And in that split second, just as the final words should have left your mouth, Jungwon did something unexpected. He didn’t wait for the cue. Instead, without a word, he leaned in toward you, closing the space between you until his face was mere inches from yours. The audience gasped as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek—soft, fleeting, but full of emotion.

You froze. The script hadn’t called for it. No one had prepared you for this. Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, it felt as though time itself had stopped. The kiss—completely unplanned—was full of unspoken meaning. It was a promise. A confession. It was everything he hadn’t said on stage, but everything his eyes had been telling you all along.

When Jungwon pulled back slightly, he met your gaze with a softness you had never seen before. His eyes were vulnerable, as though he had just exposed something deep within himself that he wasn’t ready to share with anyone else. Then he adjusted his lavalier microphone slightly away from his mouth as he leans into you again.

“This wasn’t on your script... but it was on mine,” he whispered to your ear. It was barely inaudible that you wouldn’t believe he said that.

The words settled over you like a spark, igniting something inside your chest. You couldn’t speak. The world had shifted in that single moment. The play—everything—had suddenly become something so much more. The chemistry between you was undeniable, and the connection between your characters now felt so real.

The audience had fallen silent, their eyes wide in shock, but you didn’t notice them. You didn’t hear the applause. All that mattered was Jungwon, standing there before you. The final scene had ended, but in that moment, it felt like the true beginning of something neither of you had expected.

As the curtain began to close, you stood side by side with him, your heart racing. The play was over, but it didn’t feel like an ending. Not to you. Not to Jungwon. Not anymore. You both knew, without saying another word, that this wasn’t just a performance. It was real. This connection, this feeling, this chemistry—it was something that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. And now, you were finally seeing it for what it was.

As you walked off stage, the weight of the moment seemed to cling to you, like the lingering echo of a song that you couldn't forget. The applause rang in your ears, distant and muted, as if you were in another world, separated from the reality that had once felt so familiar. The connection you shared with Jungwon—it was no longer just a performance. It was something raw, something real. And as your footsteps echoed through the backstage corridor, you couldn't shake the feeling that this moment was just the beginning.

Jungwon slowed his pace beside you, his steps in perfect sync with yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. The smile he gave you was soft, almost hesitant, but his eyes—they were full of something you hadn’t seen before. There was no pretension, no calculated charm. Just a quiet sincerity that spoke volumes.

"I didn't mean for it to be like this," he said, his voice low, but it carried with it the weight of everything unsaid. “I should’ve told you sooner. All the things I was too scared to say before, all the things that kept me from being honest with you...”

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure of what to say. But Jungwon didn’t wait for your response. His hand reached out, brushing lightly against your arm, his fingers grazing your skin like a question that hadn’t been answered.

“I don’t want to leave things unfinished,” he continued, his voice now firm, but his gaze vulnerable. “And I don’t want to go on pretending that I don’t feel this... whatever this is between us. I know I’ve been an idiot. I didn’t want to mess this up... But I can’t keep pretending anymore.” He took a breath, stepping even closer. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. And not just as some role in a play or as some unspoken dream. I... I like you. All of you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with you. His words, raw and unguarded, hit you in a way you never expected. It was more than just the confession—it was the vulnerability, the sincerity in his eyes. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he stepped closer, his voice softening as he leaned in again, this time closer than before. “You deserve to know the truth. Not just as an actor, not just as someone I worked with, but as someone who means something more than I ever let on. I never wanted to hurt you, and I’m sorry for making you feel like you didn’t matter.”

The silence between you stretched out for what felt like an eternity, and in that moment, everything else—everything that had once mattered—faded away. You took a shaky breath, the words finally bubbling to the surface. “Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “I... I didn’t know what to think, what to believe. But hearing you say this now, I—”

Before you could finish, he gently cupped your face, his touch warm and steady. He smiled, that familiar, charming smile you’d seen a thousand times before, but now it felt like it carried a weight of meaning that it never had.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he said, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Just know that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere… for now.”

Your heart was racing, and you nodded slowly, your chest swelling with emotions you had kept hidden for far too long.

Just as the moment felt like it was about to crescendo into something you couldn’t quite grasp, a voice interrupted from the shadows of the backstage.

“Hey, you two!” Riki’s voice was loud, teasing, and unmistakable as he stepped into the light, a grin plastered on his face. He caught the glance between you and Jungwon and immediately raised an eyebrow. “What’s all this tension about, huh? You guys didn’t think the play was over, did you?”

Jungwon stepped back slightly, a small chuckle escaping him as he ran a hand through his hair, though his gaze never left yours. "We were just wrapping up... some things."

Riki’s grin softened, his playful expression giving way to something more sincere as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You two…” he said, glancing between you and Jungwon, his eyes knowing. “You don’t have to explain. It’s about time.”

The weight of Riki’s words settled between the three of you, and in that moment, everything clicked into place. Riki wasn’t just the supportive friend. He was the one who understood—who had always known, even when the two of you hadn’t. It was a relief, in a way, to have that acknowledgment, that understanding.

“I guess we’ll see where this goes then,” Jungwon said, his voice soft but confident, his gaze returning to you, full of meaning.

Riki gave a playful roll of his eyes before clapping Jungwon on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t mess this up, alright?” he teased, but there was warmth in his words, a reassurance that everything was going to be fine.

"See you around, boss."

You couldn’t help but smile, a weight lifting off your shoulders. It was clear now. No more games, no more pretending. This was real. And as the three of you stood there, a sense of closure washed over you—the play was over, but this new chapter? It was just beginning.

And maybe, just maybe, it was going to be everything you had always wanted.

permanent taglist: @tinycatharsis @han-to-my-minho @1starqi @wensurr @yjwonsgf @lovestruck-moonlight @leah-rose03 @kanonjji @kyunlov @somuchdard @seongiewon @luumiinaa @enhaverse713586 @lynanist @cakuqe @hhyvsstuff @gardenwons @frankenstein852 @firstclassjaylee @lamin143 @serenadehera @elove2047

hello guys! i haven't had the chance to reply to each of you under my paramedic jungwon fic. but this taglist will be the one I'll be using for the series! lmk if you want to be removed from the permanent taglist, I'll still add you to the paramedic jungwon taglist nonetheless <3

send me an ask or reply if you wanna be part of the tl! love youuu! happy holidays <333

[movingmusically]

Author’s Note:

This is probably as close as I’ll ever get to writing Feyd, I thought I’d use this request as my opening. Pairing is Austin x actress!girlfriend.

Word Count: 9,032

Masterlist

Feyd’s Darling

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, taking a steadying breath as you step into the sleek black SUV waiting to take you to the studio. The small cameo you’ve agreed to shoot today isn’t like the roles you’re used to. You’ve built your career playing complicated, deeply layered characters that demand weeks of preparation. But this? This was something entirely different.

You weren’t here for the role itself. Playing one of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s Harpies—a voiceless, eerie presence in a pivotal scene—wasn’t what had drawn you to the set of Dune: Part 2. No, you’d agreed to this for one reason.

Austin.

It had been months since you’d last seen him. Between his rigorous training and rehearsals for Dune and your own shooting schedule overseas, time together had become scarce. You’d been surviving on stolen moments over FaceTime—late-night conversations where he’d look impossibly tired but still manage to make you laugh, and texts exchanged in the middle of the night when one of you was just waking up, and the other was finally going to sleep.

But today, for the first time in what felt like forever, you’d get to see him. In person.

The thought makes you smile as the car weaves through traffic. Austin had been dropping hints about how much work he’d put into the role—his training regimen, the diet, the months of preparation to embody Feyd. He’d downplayed it, of course, but you could hear the pride in his voice.

You’d also seen glimpses of the transformation in those FaceTime calls—the way his posture had straightened, the sharper angles of his jaw, the quiet intensity that crept into his eyes when he talked about the character. He’d joked about being “a total monk” while preparing for the role, but you knew how much it meant to him. And now, you were about to see the results of that hard work up close.

You glance down at your phone, re-reading his last message for what feels like the hundredth time:

Can’t wait to see you, Harpy. Don’t let me distract you too much. ;)

The nickname makes you laugh softly. It had started as a joke after Denis Villeneuve—Denis Villeneuve!—had suggested you for the cameo. You’d almost turned it down because of scheduling conflicts, but the idea of working with Austin on something this big, even for just one scene, had been impossible to resist.

You catch your reflection in the car window and smooth your hair. It’s not every day you step onto a set like this—not as yourself, at least. This wasn’t your project. This was his. You weren’t here to command the spotlight. You were here to be a part of something bigger. And for once, you didn’t mind.

As the SUV pulls up to the studio gates, your heart flutters. The driver rolls through security, and you sit up a little straighter, anticipation thrumming through you. It’s ridiculous, you think. You’ve been with Austin for years. You’ve shared countless moments more intimate than this. And yet, the thought of seeing him here, in his element, makes your pulse race.

The car slows to a stop, and you push your sunglasses up into your hair before stepping out. The familiar scent of a busy set—dry, metallic air tinged with the faint smell of latex—hits you immediately. Around you, assistants dart back and forth with costumes and props, crew members shout directions over the hum of machinery, and towering set pieces loom in the distance like alien monoliths.

Your eyes scan the chaos, searching for him. And then, you see him.

Austin.

He’s walking across the lot in a dark hoodie and sweatpants, the hood down, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he talks with an assistant. Even from a distance, you can feel the quiet confidence in his stride, the subtle shift in him that had started months ago when he first began preparing for this role.

As if sensing your gaze, he glances up—and freezes.

The grin that spreads across his face is immediate and infectious. He starts toward you, his pace quickening until he’s practically jogging, weaving around crew members and equipment.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm and familiar, tinged with the kind of relief that only months of separation can bring.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, grinning as he reaches you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.

The first thing you notice is the heat of him, the way his body feels solid, firm against yours. It’s not just the closeness you’d missed—it’s the way he’s changed. His chest is broader, his arms stronger, and you can feel the sheer strength of him as he holds you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Before you can say anything else, he dips his head, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s soft and sweet but lingers just enough to make your heart race.

“You made it,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against yours as he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Of course I did,” you reply, your hands resting on his chest as you take him in. Up close, the subtle changes in him are even more obvious—the sharper lines of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes that speak to how hard he’s been working. “You look…”

“Different?” he finishes with a crooked grin.

You laugh. “Yeah. Different.” Your hands slide down to his arms, squeezing gently. “Have you been hiding these from me, or did this just happen overnight?”

His laugh is low and bashful, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s been a lot of work, but… it’s been worth it. Honestly, I’ve enjoyed it more than I thought I would.”

You smile, your hands still resting on his arms. “That’s because you don’t know how to do anything halfway. You’ve been obsessed with this since day one.”

One of the assistants calls his name, gesturing toward the makeup trailer. Austin glances over, then back at you, his hand lingering on your waist.

“I gotta go,” he says, his voice tinged with regret. “But we’ll talk later, yeah? Between takes.”

You nod, smiling. “Go. I’ll see you on set, na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.”

He groans, backing away with a grin. “Stop with the titles. I don’t need an even bigger ego.”

As he disappears into the trailer, you let out a slow breath, your heart still fluttering. It’s only the beginning of the day, but already, you can feel it—it’s going to be one you’ll never forget.

After Austin heads off, you’re guided toward the makeup trailer by a friendly assistant. It’s bustling with activity, prosthetic pieces laid out like delicate artefacts on metal trays, airbrush machines hissing softly in the background. You take it all in with quiet fascination. As seasoned as you are in the industry, it never stops being surreal to see these massive productions come to life.

A makeup artist greets you with a warm smile. “Right on time. We’ve got everything set up for you.” You nod, slipping into the chair they gesture toward.

The makeup process takes far longer than you anticipated. You sit patiently as the team works around you, transforming every inch of your face and head into something alien and terrifying.

It starts with the bald cap—a delicate, almost surgical process that requires precise glue application and hours of smoothing to make it seamless. One artist carefully stretches the material over your hairline while another paints and blends until it looks like your skin. The sensation is strange and a little claustrophobic, but you’ve been through similar transformations before. You know the end result will be worth it.

“How’s it looking?” you ask, glancing in the mirror halfway through.

“Still human,” the lead artist jokes, not even pausing as they work. “But don’t worry, we’ll fix that soon.”

After the bald cap is finished, they move on to your skin. Airbrushes hum softly as they pale your complexion, giving it an unnatural, ghostly tone. Every inch of you, from your jawline to the exposed parts of your arms and shoulders, is meticulously blended to match.

Then come the details—the black, predatory contacts that make your irises look soulless, and the finishing touch: the black dental inserts.

The assistant holding them out gives you an apologetic smile. “These are going to feel weird, but you’ll get used to them.”

You slide the inserts into your mouth, testing the fit. The sharp metallic taste is immediate, and you can’t help but grimace when you flash a grin at the mirror. Your teeth are pitch black, turning your smile into something sinister.

“Yikes,” you mutter, leaning closer to inspect. “I look like I crawled out of someone’s nightmare.”

“Perfect,” the makeup artist says with a grin. “That’s exactly what we’re going for.”

The final piece is the costume, which you’re guided into with the help of the wardrobe team. The sleek black leather clings to your body like a second skin, the high collar and sharp lines giving you a distinctly otherworldly edge. It’s tight—so tight that even breathing feels measured—but the effect is undeniable.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror, it almost doesn’t feel real. You tilt your head, trying to reconcile the figure staring back at you with the person who stepped into the trailer hours ago.

“You ready?” one of the wardrobe assistants asks, adjusting a strap on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you say softly, taking one last look before turning to the door. “Let’s do this.”

The set is already alive with activity when you step out. The metallic hum of machinery mixes with the low murmur of voices, and the air is heavy with the scent of paint and latex. Crew members move purposefully around towering Harkonnen set pieces, their dark, industrial design making the atmosphere feel even more claustrophobic.

You clutch the edges of your robe closer to your body, the leather of your Harpy costume beneath sticking uncomfortably to your skin. The tightness of the ensemble, the black teeth, the bald cap—it’s all doing its job a little too well. You already feel like a stranger in your own skin, which you suppose is the point.

“Looking good, Harpy,” one of the crew members quips as they pass by, giving you an approving nod.

You smile politely, but your attention is drawn to the massive table at the centre of the room. This will be the focal point of the scene—a dark, sinister slab surrounded by smaller props that look like they belong in an alien torture chamber. A few assistants bustle around it, carefully setting up what appears to be ceremonial knives and goblets.

Before you can take another step, you hear the sound of a door opening behind you. The quiet hum of the set is broken as someone steps inside, and you know, even before you turn around, that it’s him.

“Austin’s here!” one of the assistants announces, and the energy in the room shifts slightly as everyone turns to greet him.

You turn, and there he is.

He’s wearing a simple black robe that hangs open just enough to hint at the body beneath. The bald cap, perfectly blended, makes his already sharp features look even more defined, and his posture—straight, confident, almost regal—is unmistakably Feyd.

But it’s his eyes that catch you. Even as he exchanges pleasantries with the crew, his gaze finds yours, and for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you in the room.

He crosses the set toward you, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, well,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “If it isn’t my favourite pet.”

You smirk, crossing your arms over your chest. “Nice robe. You make that look work for you?”

He chuckles, glancing down at himself. “You tell me.” His grin widens, his eyes sweeping over you in your full Harpy transformation. “You look… amazing. Creepy, but amazing.”

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, tilting your head toward him. “I think you’ve got me beat in the creepy department.”

“Good,” he says, his tone playful but carrying just a hint of Feyd’s menace. “I wouldn’t want anyone stealing my spotlight.”

“Trust me,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “No one’s stealing anything from you.”

Before either of you can say more, a familiar voice calls out across the room.

“Ah, there’s my pair of troublemakers!”

You both turn to see Denis Villeneuve striding toward you, his expression warm but sharp, as if he’s already calculating how to squeeze the perfect shot from the scene.

“Troublemakers?” Austin echoes, smirking. “I’m on my best behaviour, Denis. You know that.”

Denis laughs, shaking his head. “Your best behaviour is still dangerous, my friend.” He turns to you, his eyes flicking over your costume with an approving nod. “And you—fantastic. Exactly what we needed.”

“Thanks,” you say, smiling. “This whole setup is incredible. The design, the atmosphere… it’s amazing to see it all come together.”

Denis waves a hand as if to brush off the compliment, but the pride in his expression is unmistakable. “It’s a team effort,” he says before glancing between you and Austin. “And now it’s your turn to make it sing. Are you two ready?”

Austin glances at you, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Oh, we’re ready,” he says, his tone low and confident.

Denis nods, clapping his hands once to signal to the crew. “Good. Let’s get everyone into position.”

You’re positioned on the dark, slightly raised mattress in the centre of the set, flanked by the other Harpies. The leather of your costume creaks faintly as you shift into place, finding a pose that feels both regal and predatory. A prop goblet filled with thick, inky liquid rests lightly in your hand, and your black teeth glint as you test the angle of your jaw under the harsh studio lights.

Denis steps forward, adjusting the camera’s angle slightly. “Alright,” he says, his tone calm but authoritative, “we’ll start from the top. Harpies, I need you to feel utterly intoxicated. You’re watching him not as a man, but as a god. And Feyd…” He glances at Austin, who is standing at the centre of the room in his robe, his expression unreadable. “You own this space. No hesitation, no weakness.”

Austin nods, his face hardening as he prepares to shed himself and fully step into Feyd. A makeup assistant approaches, slipping off his robe, and suddenly, the set seems to fall into a collective hush.

He stands there, bare-chested, as the attendants begin applying the jet-black mud to his torso with precise, almost reverent strokes. The paint clings to the hard lines of his muscles, accentuating the strength and sinew he’s worked so hard to build.

Your breath catches slightly, but not just because of how striking he looks—though it’s impossible to ignore. It’s the way he holds himself, every inch of him embodying Feyd as though the character has seeped into his bones. You’ve always known how hard he works, how deeply he commits to every role, but seeing it up close like this… it’s something else entirely.

Every glance, every subtle movement of his body is deliberate, calculated. Even in stillness, he exudes an intensity that fills the room. You can’t help but admire how completely he’s transformed—not just physically, but mentally.

This isn’t Austin anymore. This is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, a creature of cruelty and cunning. Watching him, you realise there’s no trace of the man you know and love in the sharp smirk curling his lips, in the deadly precision with which he handles the blade. It’s almost unsettling, but it only deepens your awe.

“Focus,” you remind yourself, forcing your expression to remain neutral as you slip back into character.

“Action!” Denis calls, his voice ringing out across the set.

Austin moves into place, his bare feet stepping purposefully on the metallic floor. The attendants surround him, their movements graceful but subservient as they smear more mud onto his skin. His gaze is sharp, scanning the room with an almost predatory detachment, before landing on the three of you—his Harpies.

His lips curl into a smirk that’s equal parts seductive and cruel.

“Would you like some fresh meat, my darlings?” he purrs, his voice low and velvety, with just enough menace to make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. “Lungs? A liver? What would you like? I hear they are big today.”

You and the other Harpies exchange subtle glances, your eyes gleaming with an almost feral hunger as you raise your goblets to your lips. The movement is slow, deliberate, meant to convey intoxication rather than haste. You let the thick liquid slide down your throat, suppressing the urge to gag at the bitter taste of the fake drink.

The tension in the room builds as the Weapons Master enters, grovelling before Feyd as he presents the blades. Austin steps forward, taking the white dagger in his hand and running the blade along his tongue in a move so smooth, so unnervingly casual, that even you feel a chill crawl up your spine.

You know this moment is calculated—designed to unsettle—but it’s so flawlessly executed that you forget for a second you’re on a set. You’re not just watching Austin act; you’re witnessing the culmination of months of effort. The discipline, the preparation, the way he’s pushed himself to inhabit this character—it all hits you at once, and you feel a swell of pride so intense it almost distracts you.

But it’s more than pride. It’s a magnetic pull, an overwhelming need to keep watching him. His body, honed to perfection, moves with a deadly grace that makes it impossible to look away. Every muscle, every sharp edge of his frame, tells a story of sacrifice and dedication.

The scene continues, building to the moment when Feyd turns his attention to the attendants. With brutal efficiency, he slices into the first, testing the blade with disturbing ease. As the actress crumples to the ground, clutching her neck, your job is to remain impassive, watching with a detached sort of curiosity.

When he stabs the second attendant in the ribs, over and over, you feel the weight of the scene—the cruelty, the coldness—but it’s tempered by your knowledge of the man behind it. He’s brilliant, you think, your chest tightening. Brilliant, disciplined, and utterly unstoppable.

“Cut!” Denis calls suddenly, and the spell breaks.

The room shifts as people spring into action, assistants rushing forward to reset the props and help the actors reset their positions. Austin steps back, his features softening as he glances at Denis for feedback.

“That was good,” Denis says, stepping forward. “But I want more menace from Feyd. The cruelty is there, but the charm—it’s a little too subtle. Remember, these people worship you. They want to fear you. And Harpies…” He turns to the three of you with a thoughtful smile. “I love the stillness, but I think we can push the intoxication further. Let’s see a little more… hunger.”

You nod, adjusting your position slightly as you exchange a glance with the other actresses.

By the time the cameras roll again, the atmosphere on set feels electric. Austin’s movements are sharper now, his command of the space absolute. Every glance, every shift of his body exudes dominance and danger, and as he delivers his line—

“Would you like some fresh meat, my darlings?”

—you feel a shiver run down your spine, not from fear, but from awe at how fully he’s become Feyd.

The scene flows seamlessly this time. Feyd’s smirk is perfectly calculated, the brutality of his actions balanced by the charisma in his tone. When he stabs the second attendant, the room feels charged, the energy thick and tangible.

As the third attendant trembles, Feyd tilts his head, his expression almost curious as he murmurs, “A notch off balance.”

The Weapons Master visibly quakes, and as Feyd delivers the final, cutting line—“It’s the tip. Should be sharper. See?”—you feel the perfect synchronisation of every element in the room, from the lighting to the acting to the unspoken tension that hangs in the air.

“Cut!” Denis calls, and this time, the applause is immediate.

As the crew begins to clear the set, you stay frozen in place for a moment, your goblet still clutched loosely in your hand. Your heart is pounding, your breaths shallow, and not because of the scene itself. It’s because of him.

Austin moves off to the side, brushing some of the remaining mud from his chest, and you can’t take your eyes off him. The sharp lines of his muscles, the powerful way he moves, the way his body looks like it’s been sculpted out of marble—it all leaves you breathless. But it’s more than that.

It’s the way he’s able to command a room, to hold everyone’s attention with nothing more than a glance or a shift of his tone. It’s the discipline you know he’s poured into this role, the months of preparation that have transformed him into something unrecognisable, yet still him.

You swallow hard, a heat spreading through your chest as you watch him joke quietly with one of the assistants, his easy smile making him seem so at ease despite the weight of the scene he’s just performed.

You feel something deeper than admiration bloom in your chest—something heavier, something that sends your pulse racing as your eyes linger on the curve of his shoulders, the taut muscles of his back.

He glances at you suddenly, catching you staring, and his lips quirk into a subtle, knowing smirk. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes—the flicker of heat, the way they sweep over you briefly—says enough.

The tension coils tighter, a silent promise that you’ll deal with this later, when there’s no one else around.

“Alright,” Denis says, cutting through your thoughts. “Let’s move on to the close-ups. Take five while we reset!”

Austin walks toward you, his smile softening as he steps closer. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you with those impossibly sharp eyes, his chest still streaked with remnants of black paint.

“You’re staring, Harpy,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make your breath catch. His smirk deepens as he stands over you, his shadow falling across your body sprawled on the mattress. “Should I be flattered?”

You tilt your head, forcing yourself to stay in character just a little longer. “What can I say? You do make a rather commanding figure.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, somewhere between Feyd’s menace and Austin’s genuine amusement. His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the gleaming leather of your costume, the sharp lines of your body pressed into the dark mattress. His eyes darken slightly, a flicker of heat passing through them, and the tension between you tightens like a wire.

“Funny,” he says, leaning down until his face is level with yours, his voice dropping into something velvety and teasing. “I was about to say the same thing about you. My perfect little pet.”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you forget about the dozen or so crew members moving around the set, the cameras, the fact that you’re supposed to be preparing for the next take. It’s just him, towering over you, his voice dripping with that intoxicating mix of Feyd’s menace and Austin’s natural warmth.

“Careful,” you manage to reply, your voice softer than you intended. “You’re going to make me forget which one of us is supposed to be worshipping the other.”

He chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver through you. His fingers brush lightly against the edge of your goblet, his touch deliberate, teasing. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s plenty of time for that later.” His words are a promise, quiet enough that only you can hear them.

Your heart races, your pulse thrumming in your ears as he straightens up, his expression smoothing back into Feyd’s calculated coolness. He lingers for a moment longer, his gaze locking with yours, and then he steps away, moving toward the crew without another word.

You let out a slow, shaky breath, gripping the goblet in your hands as you try to steady yourself. It’s ridiculous, you think, how easily he can undo you with just a few words, a look, a slight shift in tone. But that’s Austin—and right now, it’s Feyd.

You glance toward him as he speaks with Denis, gesturing toward the set pieces with a calm authority that only enhances his commanding presence. He’s in his element, and watching him like this—completely focused, utterly confident—you feel that familiar rush of pride and admiration, mingled with something much deeper.

“Places for close-ups!” someone calls, and the noise of the set begins to rise again as everyone scrambles to reset. You shift on the mattress, falling back into your predatory pose, but your mind is still on him.

The tension between you now feels electric, and you know, without a doubt, that this isn’t over. It’s only a matter of time before you’re alone, and that thought is enough to send a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

For now, you tell yourself, you’ll keep it together. You’re a professional, after all. But as the cameras start rolling again, and Austin steps back into place, you can’t help but let your gaze linger on him just a second too long.

“Cut! That’s a wrap for this scene,” Denis calls out, his voice cutting through the hum of the set. “Fantastic work, everyone.”

The relief on set is palpable as the crew begins dismantling the setup for the next scene. The assistants start clearing props while Denis reviews the playback with the camera operators. You stay seated on the mattress for a moment, stretching your legs out and rolling your neck, trying to shake off the stiffness that comes with hours of holding predatory poses.

Austin approaches, still partially smeared with remnants of the black mud. He wipes at his chest absently with a towel handed to him by an assistant, though it does little to remove the dark streaks. Despite the intensity of the scene, he’s grinning, that boyish charm slipping through the cracks of Feyd’s menace.

“Not bad for a bunch of creepy Harpies,” he says, glancing between you and the other actresses. His voice is light, but his gaze lingers on you, softening slightly.

“Not bad for a sadistic na-Baron either,” you reply, smirking up at him as you shift on the mattress. “I think Denis might actually keep you around.”

Austin huffs a laugh, reaching up to scratch at the edge of his bald cap. “High praise. Should I be flattered?”

Before you can reply, Denis himself appears, his expression a mix of satisfaction and his usual sharp focus. “Austin, you were brilliant,” he says, gesturing animatedly. “The menace, the presence—it’s exactly what we needed. You owned the scene.”

Austin grins, brushing a hand over the back of his neck. “Thanks, Denis. Means a lot.”

Denis turns to you, his gaze appraising but warm. “And you…” He points at you, nodding in approval. “Exactly what I wanted from the Harpies. Controlled, predatory, but magnetic. You brought a presence to the scene that elevated everything.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling as you push yourself up from the mattress. “This whole setup made it easy to slip into character. I mean, how could I not be terrifying in this costume?”

Denis chuckles, glancing briefly at your leather ensemble. “True. But it’s more than the costume. You both brought something special to this. This scene—it’s going to stand out. I can feel it.”

You glance at Austin, catching the flicker of pride in his eyes as Denis continues. For a moment, it feels like the three of you are the only ones in the room, the noise of the crew fading into the background.

“Well,” Denis says, clapping Austin on the shoulder before turning to you with a nod, “you’ve earned your break. Go get out of those costumes, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

You’re back in the makeup trailer, sitting side by side with Austin as the team carefully removes the layers of prosthetics, paint, and black inserts. The atmosphere in the trailer is quieter now, a calm after the storm of filming.

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes as the lead makeup artist gently peels the bald cap from your scalp. “I’ll never get used to how weird this feels,” you mutter, earning a chuckle from Austin beside you.

“Think of it as a free facial,” he jokes, his voice lighter now that the day’s intensity is behind him.

You turn your head slightly to glance at him, watching as one of the assistants wipes away the remnants of the black mud from his chest. Even out of character, there’s something commanding about the way he carries himself, something magnetic that keeps your eyes locked on him.

“You still have paint in the cracks of your abs,” you tease, pointing at the streaks the assistant is struggling to remove.

He looks down, grinning. “Occupational hazard. I’ll just tell people it’s part of my skincare routine.”

You laugh, shaking your head as the assistant works on removing the black contacts from your eyes. Once they’re gone, his familiar blue gaze locks onto yours, and the soft warmth there makes your heart skip.

“You looked amazing out there,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, meant just for you.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” you reply, smiling as your cheeks heat under his gaze.

He leans back in his chair, his grin lazy. “Not bad, huh? That’s all I get after transforming into a sadistic space lord?”

You shrug playfully, tilting your head. “Well, I guess I’ll give you some bonus points for the tongue-on-blade move. Very creepy.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with something more. “Creepy was the goal.”

The makeup artist interrupts with a laugh. “Alright, you two, stop flirting, or we’ll never get this done.”

You and Austin share a conspiratorial look, but you stay quiet, letting the team finish the process. It’s not until the last remnants of paint and prosthetics are gone that you finally feel like yourself again, though the tight leather of your costume reminds you the day isn’t over yet.

By the time you’re both out of makeup and back in your casual clothes, the set has mostly cleared out. The towering Harkonnen structures seem less menacing now under the dimmed studio lights, and the hum of activity has died down to a quiet murmur.

Austin waits for you by the door, his hoodie pulled back over his head, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. “Ready to get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, his smile soft and inviting.

“Absolutely,” you reply, stepping up beside him. The weight of the day seems to lift as you fall into step together, the tension from earlier still humming faintly between you.

The night air is cool as you step outside, the city lights casting a soft glow over the lot. Austin’s hand brushes against yours, a subtle, fleeting touch that sends a thrill through you. He glances down at you, his smirk returning.

“Crazy day,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a hint of exhaustion.

“Crazy,” you agree, tilting your head to look up at him. “But worth it.”

He nods, his expression softening as his hand finally finds yours, his fingers curling around yours with an easy familiarity. “Thanks for being here,” he says quietly. “It meant a lot. Having you on set, seeing you there…”

You squeeze his hand, your voice warm. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Watching you work like that… it’s inspiring, Austin. You were incredible today.”

His smile is small but genuine, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk side by side. “Hearing that from you… means everything,” he murmurs. “I mean, I know I put the work in, but seeing you out there, knowing you were watching… it made me want to give it everything.”

You glance up at him, the raw honesty in his voice making your chest tighten. You stop walking, tugging his hand slightly to make him pause. The lot is quiet now, only the faint hum of distant conversations and the occasional clatter of equipment breaking the silence.

“You always give it everything,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “That’s one of the things I love most about you. You don’t know how to do anything halfway.”

His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile, his free hand coming up to rest lightly on your waist. “I guess I just want to be someone you’re proud of.”

You take a step closer, letting your hand rest on his chest, where you can feel the steady beat of his heart. “You already are.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The tension from earlier lingers in the air, but now it feels softer, warmer—less like a coiled spring and more like a quiet promise. His eyes search yours, and you can see the weight of the day melting away, replaced by something tender and unspoken.

Austin holds your gaze for a long moment before he exhales softly, the tension easing into something quieter. He leans in to press a kiss to your forehead—simple, gentle, and lingering—before murmuring, “Let’s get out of here.”

You nod, your chest tight, and fall back into step beside him as the two of you walk toward the waiting car. The driver holds the door open, and Austin gestures for you to climb in first before sliding in after you. The interior of the car is warm and quiet, a sharp contrast to the cool night air, and as the door shuts, it feels like the rest of the world finally falls away.

The city blurs by outside the window, the lights streaking like lazy stars. For the first few minutes, neither of you says anything—there’s no need to fill the silence. Austin shifts beside you, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh, thumb tracing soft circles through your jeans. It’s an absent, familiar touch, but it still sends warmth pooling in your chest, spreading outward.

“You okay?” he asks softly, breaking the silence. His voice is low, rougher around the edges after the long day.

“Yeah, just thinking,” you reply, turning your head to look at him. “About how much I missed this. Missed you.”

He lifts his hand from your thigh to lace his fingers with yours, bringing your joined hands up to his lips. “I missed you too,” he admits, squeezing your hand. “More than I even realised.”

The car slows as it approaches the building where Austin’s been staying during filming—an unassuming apartment building tucked away from the busier parts of the city. Austin thanks the driver quietly before stepping out, reaching back to offer you his hand.

“Come on,” he says, the faint smirk tugging at his lips softening the invitation.

You take his hand, following him out of the car and into the cool night air. The building is silent as you step inside, your footsteps echoing faintly off the marble floors. Austin leads you to the elevator, his hand never leaving yours, and the moment the doors slide shut, you both exhale at the same time, as though you’ve been holding your breath all day.

The quiet hum of the elevator fills the space as you step inside, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. Austin presses the button for his floor, leaning back against the wall, his hood pushed back, revealing his now-messy hair and the faint shadows still clinging to his jaw. One hand is in his pocket and the other still holding yours.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy in a way that makes your pulse quicken, like you’re both aware of the tension but neither of you wants to break it just yet.

You lean back against the opposite wall, your fingers still tangled loosely with his. Austin’s eyes flick over you, lingering for a beat too long, and when your gaze meets his, you catch the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” you ask softly, your voice breaking the silence.

His head tilts slightly, his blue eyes sharp and steady on you. “Nothing,” he murmurs, though there’s something knowing in his tone. “Just looking.”

You roll your eyes to cover the way your heart stutters, a teasing edge creeping into your voice. “Well, stop it. It’s weird.”

He grins, slow and lazy, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between you in a few easy steps. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the warmth of him wraps around you like a blanket.

“Stop looking at you?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost playful, but there’s an edge to it that makes your breath hitch. “Not a chance.”

Your back presses against the cool wall of the elevator as he raises a hand to rest it lightly against your hip, his thumb brushing just under the hem of your sweatshirt. It’s the gentlest touch, but it sends heat curling through you, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he continues softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Thought I’d return the favour.”

You open your mouth to reply, but the words catch in your throat when his free hand rises to brush a strand of hair back from your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it’s enough to unravel you completely.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper when you finally speak. “Austin…”

Whatever you were going to say gets swallowed as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring every second of it. He tilts his head just slightly, deepening it, and his hands slip to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but the hum of the elevator and the thrum of your heartbeat.

It’s not rushed, but it’s not gentle either—there’s a quiet hunger in the way he kisses you, as if the tension that’s been building between you all day is finally snapping, and neither of you wants to stop.

When he pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you’re both breathing a little harder, your hands clinging to the front of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

Before either of you can say anything, the elevator dings softly, the sound startling in the quiet, and the doors slide open behind him. Austin sighs, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he pulls back just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Perfect timing.”

You huff a breathless laugh, trying to collect yourself as he steps back, his hand slipping into yours again. “Saved by the bell.”

“More like delayed,” he mutters, his voice low and teasing as he leads you out of the elevator. You feel his thumb brush over your knuckles as you walk side by side down the quiet hallway, the tension from earlier still humming faintly between you, simmering just beneath the surface.

Austin pauses in front of his door, glancing back at you with that lopsided grin that’s both infuriating and impossible to resist. “You coming in, or are you still thinking about the elevator?”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Just unlock the door, Butler.”

He chuckles softly, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open, stepping aside so you can walk in first. The apartment is quiet, the faint hum of the city outside muffled by thick walls and drawn curtains. It’s lived-in but simple—warm lights, a couch with a throw casually tossed over the back, and a few stray scripts scattered on the table.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you barely take two steps inside before you feel his presence behind you, his hands slipping onto your waist, warm and steady. Your breath catches as he pulls you back against him, his chest pressed to your spine.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, “I’ve been trying to keep it together all day.”

You turn slightly, just enough to catch his gaze over your shoulder, his eyes darker now, the usual softness replaced by something heavier—something you’d felt building between you since the elevator. “I noticed,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, your pulse racing.

Austin doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else. He turns you to face him in one fluid movement, his hands still firm on your waist as he backs you up slowly until you hit the door. The soft thud reverberates through you, and you’re caged there—him in front of you, the door at your back, and every inch of space between you evaporated.

You look up at him, your breath uneven, your hands instinctively clutching at the front of his hoodie. “Austin—”

“I know,” he cuts you off softly, his forehead brushing against yours as his hands slide from your waist up to cradle your face, thumbs sweeping across your cheekbones. “I missed you too.”

There’s no hesitation this time. He leans in and kisses you, and it’s nothing like the kiss in the elevator. This one is deeper, hungrier, months of separation and stolen glances crashing together all at once. His lips move against yours with a desperate kind of urgency, like he’s trying to make up for every moment you’ve been apart.

You melt into him, your arms winding around his neck as you pull him closer, your fingers threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He groans softly against your mouth, the sound low and rough, and it sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Austin presses you more firmly against the door, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping them tightly as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear. When he breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear, you let out a soft gasp, tilting your head back to give him more access.

“God, I missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with need. “Missed you.”

“Me too,” you manage to breathe out, your heart pounding as you tug him back up to kiss you again, your body arching into his. There’s nothing careful or hesitant about the way he kisses you now. It’s all-consuming, overwhelming, and you don’t care about the door pressing into your back or how your clothes feel stifling when his body is so close to yours.

One of his hands moves beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, and you shiver at the contact, the heat of his touch searing through you. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” he murmurs between kisses, his lips ghosting over yours. “Lying there, looking at me like that…”

You can’t help but smile, breathless, as your fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel him—all of him. “I couldn’t help it. You looked…”

“Hmm?” he hums, his smirk pressing into the corner of your mouth as he pulls back just enough to yank his hoodie and t-shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him. “Go on. I looked what?”

Your words falter as you take him in, your gaze sweeping over the broad lines of his chest, the hard planes of muscle you’d only been able to admire from afar earlier. Your hands move instinctively to his skin, splaying out over his chest, your thumbs brushing along the ridges of his abs. He’s warm and solid beneath your touch, and for a moment, you forget how to form words.

His smirk softens into something warmer as he watches you, his hands returning to your waist, his thumbs dipping just beneath the waistband of your jeans. “Speechless?” he teases, his voice low, his lips brushing your temple.

You let out a shaky breath, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “Just… appreciating the view.”

Austin chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest, and he dips his head to kiss you again—slower this time, but no less intense. It’s softer now, more deliberate, like he’s taking his time to memorise every brush of your lips against his.

The warmth of his hands grounds you as he starts guiding you away from the door, walking you backward through the dimly lit apartment, his body close enough that every step feels like a challenge to keep moving. When the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, he pauses just long enough to look at you—really look at you—his blue eyes dark, filled with something that makes your pulse stumble.

You reach for him, your hands curling around his shoulders as you pull him closer, but he doesn’t move right away. Instead, he lifts a hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing along your jaw with an unexpected gentleness. The contrast between the quiet intensity in his eyes and the raw need lingering in every other part of him leaves you breathless.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s saying it to himself.

The emotion in his voice twists something in your chest, and you reach up to thread your fingers into his hair, pulling him down to kiss you again—this time harder, like you’re trying to answer every unspoken word in the way your mouth moves against his.

Austin doesn’t hesitate now. His hands slide beneath your sweatshirt, pushing it up as his lips trail down your neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake. You tug at the hem of his sweatpants as the two of you fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, laughter slipping out between the kisses, only to be swallowed up again as the tension finally snaps, pulling you under.

Austin’s weight presses you into the mattress as your bodies fit together like they were always meant to. His lips never leave your skin, moving from the hollow of your throat to the curve of your shoulder as he pushes your sweatshirt higher, exposing inch after inch of your bare skin to the cool air before removing it completely.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice rough and breathless, like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands trace your waist, sliding over your hips with a reverence that sends a shiver through you. It’s not just the way he touches you—it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to memorise every part of you after so much time apart.

“Too many clothes,” you manage to whisper, tugging at the hem of his sweatpants again. The desperation in your voice makes him grin, low and knowing, as he leans back just enough to peel the offending fabric down his hips, leaving him bare. Your gaze drifts lower, and heat flares across your cheeks when you take in the hard, heavy length of him, already straining with need.

“Your turn,” he says, his tone low and teasing as his fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans. He drags them down slowly, watching every inch of your skin as it’s revealed, his eyes dark and hungry. When you’re finally bare beneath him, he takes a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over your body like he doesn’t know where to start.

“You’ve been driving me insane all day,” he mutters, his voice gravelly as he shifts back over you, his body settling between your thighs. “Watching you on set like that, knowing I couldn’t touch you…”

His hands skim up your sides, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below your ribs, and you gasp softly, your back arching instinctively. Austin catches the sound with his lips, kissing you deeply as his hips press against yours, his arousal hot and heavy where you’re already aching for him.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice dark and commanding but still tinged with that familiar warmth that’s all him.

“You,” you breathe, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle ripple beneath your touch. “I just want you.”

That’s all he needs to hear. Austin dips his head to kiss you again, slower this time, like he’s savouring the taste of you. His hands roam your body with purpose, mapping every curve, every sensitive spot, until you’re trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in shallow gasps.

When his hand slips between your thighs, his touch is gentle at first, teasing, as his fingers brush over your slick heat. “So wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice rough and low. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

You bite back a whimper, your hips rocking against his hand as he presses a finger into you, slow and deliberate. “Austin—please.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he kisses his way down your neck. “I missed hearing you like this,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, his pace steady but relentless as he works you open. “Missed feeling you like this.”

Your body arches, heat pooling low in your stomach as the tension builds, and you grip his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin. “I need you,” you gasp, your voice breaking as his thumb brushes over your clit, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. “Now, Austin. Please.”

He groans softly, pulling his hand away to position himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He hesitates for just a moment, his eyes searching yours, dark and tender all at once. “You okay?”

You nod, your breath catching as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I’m perfect.”

That’s all the permission he needs. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he sinks into you, filling you completely. A gasp tears from your throat, and Austin groans, his forehead dropping to yours as he stills for a moment, giving you time to adjust.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice rough and strained. “You feel… so fucking good.”

You tighten your legs around him, urging him to move, and he doesn’t hesitate this time. He pulls back slowly before thrusting into you again, setting a rhythm that’s deep and deliberate, each movement sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

Your hands cling to him, your nails dragging down his back as he moves inside you, his pace quickening as the tension builds between you. “Austin,” you gasp, his name a broken whisper as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with need as his hips snap against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. “I’ve got you, baby.”

The pressure coils tighter and tighter inside you, your body trembling beneath him as his movements grow more urgent, more desperate. His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and pressing in tight, deliberate circles that make you cry out, your back arching off the bed.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, his lips brushing against your ear. “I want to feel you, baby. Come for me.”

His words push you over the edge. The coil inside you snaps, and pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and shaking as your body clenches around him. Austin groans, his pace faltering as he follows you over the edge, his release spilling into you as he buries himself deep, his body trembling above yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Your heart is still racing as Austin collapses against you, careful not to put his full weight on you as he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, his breaths coming hard and fast.

“You okay?” he murmurs, after a while, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his blue eyes soft and searching.

You smile, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “More than okay.”

Austin grins, brushing a strand of hair away from your face as he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time, his lips warm and gentle against yours. “Feels like forever,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with quiet sincerity. “Having you here… it’s everything.”

You smile against his mouth, your heart swelling. “I know the feeling.”

Eventually, he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you’re curled against his chest, his arm draped securely around you. The exhaustion of the day finally starts to settle in, but the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear keep you grounded, safe.

“Don’t let me fall asleep yet,” Austin murmurs sleepily, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your back. “I don’t want to waste a second of this.”

You smile against his skin, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “I’ll wake you if you do.”

But as his breathing evens out and his hold on you relaxes, you don’t have the heart to keep your promise. For the first time in months, you’re both exactly where you’re meant to be, and you’re not going anywhere.

[leona-hawthorne]

okay i have been waiting for this on the edge of my seat and i'm so fucking grateful that i finally got to sit down and read it (alone, of course, because my reactions were quite literally animalistic)

let me also add that the warnings themselves had me fucking moaning—alright now let's get into this!!

zoya, your writing truly has me in complete awe. "english is not my first language" okay and it appears that that literally does not matter at all because this??? this was a goddamn masterpiece.

(apologies in advance bc this is going to be an extremely long reblog)

He was insane. Truly insane. Almost unhinged. Mattheo Riddle was the definition of impulsive thoughts turned into reckless actions, actions that always led him to trouble. He was raw, magnetic, and dangerously unpredictable, the kind of person who attracted attention without even trying.

okay, but this right here??? the way you captured mattheo's essence so perfectly, i’m obsessed. like, he’s not just reckless—he’s raw and magnetic, and that’s such a powerful way to describe someone who’s constantly teetering on the edge of chaos. it’s like you reached into his chaotic little soul and pulled out the perfect words. it’s giving “force of nature,” and the way you wrote it feels so vivid and alive, like i can see him and feel the tension he carries everywhere he goes. your writing is so sharp and evocative, i can’t stop rereading this bit.

He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.

the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.

my babyyy, he craves trouble like it’s the only way he can feel noticed. it’s like he’s reduced his own worth to just being seen and perceived by others, even if it means chaos. love how you captured that desperation in such a short line.

every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.

how do you set the tone so well?!? the imagery is wildly vivid—i can almost feel the heaviness of the space, like it’s got its own dark history!!

The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.

And for him, that was awful enough.

oh this killed me—the tension between wanting something and being terrified of it. mattheo’s vulnerability here is chef's kiss, showing how much he's fighting against his feelings, even when he’s almost lost to them. such a perfect snapshot of their dynamic.

He never quite understood why his heart raced when he was in your presence, as if it might break through his ribs, his flesh, and fall directly into your palms, fully out of his power. At times he couldn't help but press his hand against his own chest, trying to stop it, trying to hold it back, but it only frustrated him further.

Nevertheless, there were times when he nearly wished his heart would simply give way and land in your hands so you could do with it whatever you pleased, whether that meant crushing it entirely or holding it tenderly between your fingers.

okay i am genuinely so in love with this whole part, i had to reread it like 3 times 😵‍💫 the internal conflict is so palpable—like, he’s torn between wanting to control something that’s clearly already beyond his grasp, but also secretly wishing to surrender to the one person who can break him. the image of him physically pressing down on his chest to stop it??? i am actually crying, zoya. ugh, and the fact that he doesn't care whether he'd be hurt or cared for—he just wants her, FUCK he is obsessed.

This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you.

AHDHSFG his possessive ass actually enjoying sharing something??? aw he likes her 😚🤗

Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand.

the way he kept laughing like a fucking maniac throughout the entirety of this fic OMG i can almost hear it in my head, he's so fucking hot.

his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there

I'M BLUSHING, idk if he's doing that solely because of the ritual but either way, the fact that he wants to reassure himself that she didn't go anywhere is making my heart squeeze in my chest 🥹

Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence.

BITCH??!?! YOU ASSHOLE, hold my hand i'm scared ☹️

He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one. 

this is so true—HE'S FUCKING MEAN, but i genuinely have never seen a more angelic man 😭🪽

Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.

Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.

alr here we go (i'm horny now)

Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care.

well shit, now we're both hard, mattheo!! 🤜💥🤛 (i am drooling at the thought of this rn)

Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin.

no, you actually don't understand—this is so intimate, i can just imagine the silence and the only sound being their heavy ass breathing, its so 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 also i think i would lose my mind if my nips were like JUST BARELY brushing against him, what a tease

With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did.

idk if you've seen stranger things but this is making me think of when nancy and jonathan did the same exact thing and cut their palms. that scene and the matching scars and just them in general is so dear to me, so this is making me feel so many things rn

Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood.

“It’s so sweet,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, the crimson of your blood staining them as he pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt almost inhuman. “So fucking sweet.”

okay mr vampire!! (this is so fucking hot i am literally struggling to function rn and i am lucky i didn't read this during ovulation 🙂‍↕️)

Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?”

MY JAW DROPPED PLEASE OH MY GOD, HIM SPREADING THE COLD BLOOD ON HER STOMACH?? I CAN IMAGINE MYSELF JERKING AWAY OMF YES DADDY I LOVE IT

Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound...

i'm being so serious, this part will live on in my brain forever. him MIMICKING/MOCKING HER MOAN??? HE'S SO MEAN AND COCKY HOLY FUCK THAT WAS SO HOT

he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth. 

spreading her own blood all over her body just so he can lick it off, oml can you spread my legs open next, mattheo? 😇 (jk, they're already spread)

The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger.

“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.

first, AJDGHFDJHDRFGJHAFGHJSRGFJHSRF him pressing her tits together just to SHOVE HIS FACE IN BETWEEN oh he's so down bad 🤭 also the "your tits..." BOY. he was so cocky and degrading before—now he's all pathetic and obsessing over her tits? ah, just what I love to see 😮‍💨

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.

yes sir please spit in my mouth (he's so nasty and disgusting and i fucking love him for it)

You could feel Mattheo’s cheeks pressed against your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, suffocating himself in your scent and taste. He mentally begged some higher power to let him one day die like this...

YES PLEASE LET ME SUFFOCATE YOU BETWEEN MY LEGS MATTY PLS 🙏 "let him one day die like this" he is so obsessed god i love this so much

“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.

THE WAY HE CAN'T TEAR HIS FACE AWAY EVEN JUST FOR A MOMENT TO SPEAK AJDGSGDFHSDFG i would actually be dying at all the praise

clearly, i got a little carried away with this reblog (this is literally the longest reblog i’ve ever made 🧍🏻‍♀️), but what can i say? this was 6.3k words of art and i had to include all my favorite parts 🤷‍♀️🙂‍↕️

love you zoya!!!! 🫂🤍

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍

mattheo riddle x fem reader

SUMMARY. in which mattheo seeks power and needs your help to perform a blood ritual. WORDS. +6.3K. english is not my first language.

WARNINGS. smut, mdni, porn w//plot, mean mattheo, aged up characters, friends to fuck buddies, blood play, blood kink, cuts, spitting, nipple sucking, oral sex f!receiving, pussy drunk mattheo, handjob, dirty talk, biting, marking.

navigation -> masterlist

He was insane. Truly insane. Almost unhinged. Mattheo Riddle was the definition of impulsive thoughts turned into reckless actions, actions that always led him to trouble. He was raw, magnetic, and dangerously unpredictable, the kind of person who attracted attention without even trying. Every move he made, every word he spoke, every breath he took was saturated with confidence and superiority.

He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.

Mattheo was like a storm no one could outrun, an enigma without resolution, and that was exactly what made him so intoxicating. There was something in his presence that pulled people toward him, whether in admiration or fear, and no one could quite decide if it was for better or worse. He wasn’t just hard to ignore; he was impossible to overlook. He demanded attention simply by existing, and it was maddening, the way he could dominate a room with nothing more than a simple glance.

It could have been for a lot of reasons. Maybe it was the way he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, the sharp, biting comments he always seemed to have ready, words that stuck like blood on stone.Or maybe it was the fights, the way he seemed to throw himself into them too often, always coming out with the same satisfied expression. After all, he was the only son of the Dark Lord, and that alone was enough to draw all kinds of attention.

Whatever was the reason, chaos seemed to follow him everywhere, like he thrived on it. Perhaps he didn’t care at all. No outsider really knew, and no one ever tried to figure him out. Nobody had the courage to do so.

Either way, there were always whispers about him, cruel rumors about his personality and massive ego, some saying he was just like his father, or maybe even a darker version of him, while others came from students eager to get close in obscene ways, hoping to spend a night with their bodies tangled in his. 

Yet Mattheo didn’t show that he cared, always pretending to be focused on his own goals, moving through the chaos unshaken and unbothered, though deep down, the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.

But you had seen enough to know the truth. He was cruel, ruthless, and everything people whispered about him, perhaps even worse. And yet, here you were, trapped in his chaos, each moment with him drawing you deeper into the darkness.

You were trapped. Absolutely trapped.

Perhaps it was in the way he looked at you, his deep brown eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away, leaving you struggling to keep your heart from racing, as if he saw something inside of you that you weren’t capable of seeing. Or maybe it was the way his words stayed in your mind long after they were spoken, carving their way into your thoughts like a knife you didn’t want to pull out, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were already in too deep.

If you thought about it more, you didn’t know what had brought you here. The main factor to why you were so attracted to an ongoing fire.

Could be the adrenaline from his strange proposal, or the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, his presence always glued to your mind. Could also be the need to be near him, the way your body moved toward his as if it had no will of its own, or perhaps it was the way he seemed to control your heart in a way you couldn’t even understand. It was twisted, even a little scary, but neither of you cared.

After all, you were friends.

You didn’t know when it stopped feeling like curiosity—just a lingering thought— but the doubt never really went away. Instead it became prominent, tight in your chest whenever he was around. There was something darker about him, something dangerous in the way he lived recklessly, only focused on his own desires, how he thrived on the attention he got, pulling you deeper without even trying.

And now, standing there, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever came next, there was no turning back. No escape.

The Room of Requirement was cloaked in dark shadows, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of flickering candles. Their soft, wavering light offered a fragile sense of comfort, though it did little to ease the tension hanging in the air. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of burning incense and something darker, almost unspoken.

Torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls, making jagged patterns that twisted and stretched with each almost shiny flicker. That night, the requirement room felt weird, unlike the form other students seemed to used—every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.

The faint metallic scent in the air lingered, sharp and heavy, mixed with something even more heavy, felt almost like a warning. On the stone floor, crude runes spiraled out in precise, jagged lines, their edges glowing faintly as though alive and energetic, pulsing in time with the biting silence as if they were watching, waiting to know what was about to take place.

In the center of it all stood Mattheo Riddle, the one person who seemed to take up every space in your mind, his dark robes draping loosely over his strong frame, giving him an effortless air of power, his features, defined and almost angelic, partially hidden by his messy curls that always fell into his pretty eyes.

The flickering torchlight danced off his hair with every movement, making it seem almost alive; there was something strange about how his appearance seemed almost angelic, yet you knew Mattheo’s true personality, making him all the more dangerous, like a trap just waiting for you to step in.

He could look still, even controlled, but there was nothing controlled about this. Nothing about him was controlled.

Mattheo looked at the dagger in his hands, his gaze drifting over the blade, but it wasn’t the dagger that had his attention. It was you. Your eyes were on him, and it felt like he was being torn apart with just that look. It wasn’t like the attention he was used to—no fear or admiration in it.

No, this was different. It was more like an assessment. The weight of your gaze was almost suffocating, as if you were digging into him, getting under his skin in a way that made him feel stupidly exposed and making him feel a strange sensation tighten in his chest, choking his throat in ways he couldn’t understand, and he hated it.

He hated how you made him feel like this—torn between wanting to get closer and wanting to run away from that. And even if it was good or bad; neither mattered. He didn’t want to know. The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.

And for him, that was awful enough.

He never quite understood why his heart raced when he was in your presence, as if it might break through his ribs, his flesh, and fall directly into your palms, fully out of his power. At times he couldn't help but press his hand against his own chest, trying to stop it, trying to hold it back, but it only frustrated him further.

Nevertheless, there were times when he nearly wished his heart would simply give way and land in your hands so you could do with it whatever you pleased, whether that meant crushing it entirely or holding it tenderly between your fingers. He wasn't certain which would provide him with greater comfort, but he was certain that if you gave him that satisfaction, he will never be the same again.

Mattheo sighed and shook his head rapidly, making a dramatic gesture as he attempted to avoid your concentrated, evaluating stare on him once more. He concentrated on the tiny silver dagger in his hand, trying not to hold it too firmly in his palm, but nothing could take away the sensation, and even if it didn't cause him any discomfort, the pressure that made it was obvious.

He let out another sigh, this time frustrated, rubbing his forehead, but couldn’t help releasing another, this time a relieved one, when he saw your attention shift to the two circles drawn around him, almost like some kind of illustration, and he couldn’t help but smirk knowingly as he noticed the change in your expression; at the confusion in your eyes and at your furrowed brows as you tried to make sense of the strange symbols, carefully etched inside the circles on the floor.

Mattheo looked away, quickly shifting his focus to the symbol at his feet. In comparison with the other symbols, this one was far more complex, with each line and curve being meticulous and precise. As he raised his chin in satisfaction with what he did, Mattheo couldn't help but widen his smirk into a full grin, an equal amount of pride and arrogance coming across his expression.

This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you. Even though you were there not completely voluntarily, you still had a place in it, whether you liked it or not. 

This time, it was Mattheo who looked at you with an intense, almost predatory gaze, his hand tightening once more around the blade in his palm as he kept his eyes on you. He was already preparing to take the first step toward the power he would gain from what you two were about to do. All he needed was your final confirmation and for you to step into the middle of the circle with him.

“Are you ready for this?” His voice broke the silence, low and almost a purr, making you look up at him. Ready? Fuck no. In fact, you were terrified. Every part of you screamed to run, to get as far away from this room and this stupid ritual as possible. But your body didn’t listen to your brain. Your heart didn’t either. Instead, you stayed still, frozen, your eyes locked with his own, already filled with amusement and something darker, like a challenge. 

You knew this was stupid. Hell, it was almost suicidal. A ritual to give him more power, cutting your own hand, spilling your blood, mixing it with his just to make him stronger. It was madness. More than that, even.

But then again, a part of you wanted it. A part of you wanted to leave a piece of yourself with him, to bind yourself to him in some twisted way. And for some fucked-up reason, you craved that. You wanted to be marked by him, to have a part of you inside him forever. Mattheo had already carved his mark into your mind, into the darkest corners of your heart, and now you wanted to do the same.

Stupid curiosity.

“Well?” Mattheo asked again, his voice dripping with amusement, though you could hear the faint edge of annoyance creeping in. He tried to hold onto his usual confident, relaxed demeanor, but it was slipping. “What’s it gonna be?” The same damn question. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to make him ask a third time. 

“I…” You paused, your voice cracking, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself under your breath as you felt his gaze digging into you, waiting for the answer he wanted. “I think I’m ready,” you finally said, taking a step forward, ignoring the part of you screaming to get the hell out of there. Yet your body moved faster than your mind, and before you knew it, you took an unconscious step closer to him, making his eyebrow quirk in amusement. 

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think?” he repeated, his voice thick with mockery. He almost laughed; if it were not for the situation you two were in.

“Fuck—” you hissed under your breath, cursing yourself again, and Mattheo’s smirk stretched wider. “I’m ready.” You corrected yourself, the words tasting wrong. “I’m ready,” you said again, this time to convince yourself more than him.

Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, and your cheeks flushed as his voice echoed in your ears. When he looked back at you, his eyes were softer than before, though the usual intensity remained, as if he was offering something that, despite not being comfort, somehow left you feeling relieved in a way.

He stretched his hand towards you, his voice calmer than before but still firm. “Let’s go. The sooner we start, the sooner this thing is going to end.” The sooner he would have control. Mattheo called you again, and you let out a soft sigh before taking that first step.

Each step you took was filled with hesitation, but your body didn’t seem to care. It moved toward the circle, fighting the doubt gnawing on your mind. When you finally stepped inside, you couldn’t hold back a small sigh as your hand found Mattheo’s. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing as you saw the same smirk on his lips, the reaction causing a tug on your heart. He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel how much he enjoyed this, how much he knew the effect he had on you.

Sometimes you wanted to punch him. 

As soon as you took his hand, Mattheo’s confidence wavered slightly; his heart pounded just by your touch. However, he couldn’t hide the dark amusement in his eyes as he watched your flushed cheeks and how your body betrayed you. It was too easy.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the intricate runes carved into the floor with the tip of his dagger, his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there. “It’s going to hurt like hell.” He said it with such ease, as if the pain and the blood were just a minor part. You swallowed hard, the confirmation of what you already knew settling deep in your stomach. “At least for you,” he added with an eyebrow raised, his voice laced with amusement.

His words weren’t reassuring at all—not that you expected them to be. He didn’t care about calming you or making this easier to bear. That wasn’t his style, and it never had been. Mattheo thrived in chaos, in mess, and he wanted you to feel every bit of it. He wanted to pull you into the madness, to push you until you struggled to keep yourself together.

“You’re not exactly helping me calm down, you know?” you said through gritted teeth, barely stopping yourself from telling him to go fuck himself. 

Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence. “Glad to know, sweetheart.” He said casually, like it didn’t matter at all. “But who said I want you to calm down?” he murmured, and you might have thought he was joking if it weren’t for the fact that you had known him for years.

You scoffed at his lack of sympathy. It wasn’t surprising, though; his attitude was one of the things that drew you to him, even if it wasn’t exactly healthy. You watched as he lit more candles, the flame dancing with every step he took, highlighting the sharp lines of his features. He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one. 

After a few seconds, Mattheo stood up, still holding the dagger in his hand. He glanced at you, and for a brief moment, something in his gaze made his heartbeat almost thud down his ribs. He took a few steps toward you, and your eyes met. His dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and the weight of the air between you made your stomach twist. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, with a hint of mischief in his tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, the excitement creeping slowly.

“Take off your shirt.”

You blinked, shocked, and for a few seconds, all your fear vanished. “Excuse me?!”

Mattheo observed you, almost as if he were stripping you bare. “Your shirt,” he repeated, his tone annoyingly dismissive. He spun the dagger in his palm with flawless precision, taking a step closer as if your hesitancy pleased him. “Take it off,” he said almost coolly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

You crossed your arms, feeling your heart race as your face flushed with heat. “And why, exactly, do I need to do that?” You snapped, your voice sharp. You had fantasized a thousand times about Mattheo asking you to do this, but you never imagined it would actually happen, especially not now, in this situation. 

“For the ritual,” he said simply, tilting his head and giving you a smirk that bordered on taunting, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “I need access to your skin, sweetheart. The magic won’t work otherwise.” His words were smooth, but you couldn’t shake the feeling they held a hint of mockery.

You hesitated, studying him closely. There was something about his response that didn’t sit right, too casual in a way that felt almost taunting, like he wasn’t being completely honest. “You’re making that up,” you said flatly, letting your arms drop to your sides, your eyes narrowing as you searched on his face for a sign of truth. 

His smirk widened, and he continued to twirl the dagger between his fingers, his eyes locked on you. The sight of your flushed cheeks only seemed to make him think with his other head. “Am I?” He took another step closer. 

“Please, Mattheo, I know that’s bullshit!” you spat out, trying to ignore how his smug expression made your skin heat, though particularly of you couldn’t help but consider it.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, the tension between you nearly unbearable. His voice dipped, rough and almost deliberate, as his dark eyes shamelessly trailed down your body before locking onto yours again.

“Alright,” he murmured, a smile laying wickedly on his lips. “Maybe it’s not entirely necessary. But it helps. A lot.”

The dagger moved lazily in his hand, the sharp edge skimming his palm without cutting his palm. His gaze never left you, steady and intense, like a predator watching its prey. “And we both know you want this to work out, don’t we, sweetheart?” 

Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, a truth you hated to admit even to yourself. You wanted him to notice you—really notice you—the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize you had. But the sharp flare of anger clawed its way up your chest, tangling with the strange pull he always seemed to have over you, leaving you somewhere between furious and helpless.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head, the disappointment cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. You weren’t sure if it was aimed at him or at yourself for falling into this moment—this trap. Probably both. 

“And yet,” he said, taking another step toward you, “here you are.” He mocked you, making you bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off. 

The space between you two was basically nonexistent now, and Mattheo fucking hated it. Hated that it was him moving closer, like he couldn’t help himself. Hated how his body had a mind of its own, reacting to you in ways that made him feel like an idiot. The thought of you, without your shirt, without anything, was driving him insane, his imagination running wild no matter how much he tried to shove it down.

Fuck. He could already feel the strain in his pants, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. It pissed him off—how easily you got under his skin, how fucking hard it was to keep his cool around you. 

“Fine,” you bit out, your voice rougher than you felt, and Mattheo’s smile twisted with satisfaction, practically waiting for you to do it. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way his eyes were glued to you. Your fingers lingered at the hem of your shirt, heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to find the guts to go through with it. 

Mattheo’s smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving you, and for a moment, it felt like he was inside your head, reading you like a damn book. His gaze dropped low, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness. You seemed so fucking soft. “Need help?” he asked, voice dripping with mockery. 

“Shut up, Mattheo” you snapped, yanking the fabric over your head in one swift motion, a shiver running through your whole body. Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.

The second the shirt left your body, the air felt heavier, but you felt the coldness against your exposed skin and nipples. Mattheo’s expression shifted, his smirk slipping for a moment as his eyes scanned over you, taking in more than you were prepared to show. You cursed yourself for not wearing a bra under the thin fabric, your chest bare under the dim torchlight and his searing gaze. Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.

You couldn't help but feel trapped by his piercing stare as his eyes remained on you, shamelessly tracing your hard nipples. He seemed oblivious; nonetheless, his eyes burned with need as his mind wandered, thinking about the taste of his tongue on your nipples, sucking and biting until all you could think about was the feel of his wet tongue. He held the dagger tightly, only reacting when the blade cut into his flesh.

“Well,” he began, attempting to put the thoughts flowing through his head to the back of his mind, his voice rougher than before, “guess you were more ready than we thought.” He mocked you again, but it seemed like he was also mocking himself.

You could feel your cheeks burning, a mix of anger and something else boiling inside you. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to block him out, but the moment you saw the way Mattheo’s eyes were fixed on you filled with desire, your hands fell to your sides, betraying your own brain. You wanted this. You wanted him to see you, to really see you.

But as you realized you were staring at him in the same way, you quickly shook your head, trying to push down the desire and need, force some control back into your own voice. “Just get on with it,” you ‘snapped’, trying to hide how much it stung, how much you craved that attention. 

Mattheo’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, full with devilment. He took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and gestured toward the circle with a lazy flick of his hand. “As you wish.”

His expression didn’t shift, his confidence simmering just below the surface as he stepped even closer to you, trying not to look at your bare chest. His eyes flickered to the symbols on the ground, their faint glow reflecting in the depths of his gaze. Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care. He didn’t look at you but still waited for your reaction. You had already drawn one from him—only fair if he returned the favor, right?

You, on the other hand, swallowed hard, your gaze shamelessly tracing the lines of his abdomen and bare, muscular chest. The candles and torchlight cast sharp shadows across the scars etched into his skin, and you held your breath without meaning to. When he glanced forward slightly, his eyes still on the ground as he did so, he had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of your clenched fists, trying to control yourself.

This was going to be fun, at least.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke or moved. The silence stretched thin, both of you consumed by the same thoughts, the same dirty images racing through your minds. Your chests rose and fell heavily, both of you struggling to regain a normal breath. It was fucking madness. 

Mattheo quickly composed himself, standing at the point of the small symbol on the ground, making sure you mirrored his position on the opposite side. Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin. He gave a low sigh, words slipping from his lips in a language you couldn’t understand, his voice deep and commanding.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the symbols on the floor pulsed to life, glowing with an eerie light, while the candle flames flickered wildly, as though responding to his words. 

He looked at the dagger in his hand, a proud glint in his eyes before letting his gaze drift up to your face. His eyes lingered on your features, the softness of your eyes, the way your lips parted just enough to drive him insane. He almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch you, but he stayed still, his jaw tight. “Are you ready?” he asked, his lips moving without sound. “I am,” you mouthed back, the hesitation in your eyes impossible to miss. But he ignored it, choosing to focus on the way you stood there—no turning back now, and honestly? He didn’t want you to cover up. 

Mattheo gripped the dagger with steady hands, his brown eyes flickering briefly to the runes as if making sure everything was aligned. Without a second thought, he pressed the sharp blade to his palm, slicing through the skin with quick, practiced precision. The blood surged from the cut, dripping thick and dark onto the glowing runes below. They reacted violently, flaring brighter, more alive, as if the blood was feeding the symbols, feeding him. 

You held your breath, knowing you were next. But you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the ground, watching his blood drip onto the floor beneath both of your feet.

After a few seconds, he lifted his chin, pride in his eyes, his curls moving like the magic around the circles. He grabbed your hand without a word, pressing the dagger into your palm, his gaze never leaving yours. He was waiting, daring you to cut yourself just like he had. 

You felt his blood drip onto your wrist, the warmth of it sending a jolt through your veins. As the dagger pressed into your palm, a breath caught in your throat. The weight of the blade was more than you expected, and for a moment, your eyes lingered on the crimson stains left by Mattheo’s cut, almost hypnotic, tempting you.

Your heart quickened, your pulse echoing in your ears. You hesitated—for a moment. His eyes found you once again, a look that urged you to continue. The hesitation lingering in your heart suddenly dispersed; you wanted nothing but to mark him as yours.

With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did. The pain was sharp, fleeting, quickly replaced by the blood spilling down your skin, as the runes reacted violently to your action, their glow flaring in response. 

It was instantaneous. The moment your blood touched the floor, the room seemed to exhale, the light flaring brighter and the air humming with a charged, almost electric energy as the ritual began. But the reaction was brief, for Mattheo’s focus shifted.

Mattheo’s gaze was fixed on the cut on your hand, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if he was mesmerized by the crimson blood streaks trailing down your wrist, mingling with his the drops of his blood already on your skin. His jaw clenched, and you swore you saw him swallow hard as he continued to look, his chest rising and falling with a depth of intensity you’d never seen in him before. 

“Mattheo?” You called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your heartbeat quickening against your bare chest. Yet, it was enough to break his attention.

His eyes naturally met yours once again, vulnerability flickering in his gaze, though the rest of his expression remained unreadable, like a contrast to the hunger simmering beneath. But Mattheo didn't step back. Instead, his calloused fingers brushed against the blood on your wrist, smearing it slightly. The contact sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, neither of you remembered how to breathe.

“Mattheo…” you called out again, but this time it was almost a plea for him not to stop. He obeyed your unspoken request, his fingers tracing your skin as if exploring new territory, so gently that it almost made you forget the lingering sting in your hand. 

Mattheo’s hands moved deliberately, spreading the blood from the deep cut on your hand. He seemed oblivious to the matching wound on his own skin as he dragged the crimson trail up to your neck, smearing it across your skin. Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood. He let out a low groan at the taste, and you couldn’t suppress your own when you felt the warmth of his tongue against you. 

“It’s so sweet,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, the crimson of your blood staining them as he pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt almost inhuman. “So fucking sweet.” His teeth continued to drag along your skin, while his hand slid down your arm, seeking more of your blood. His fingers tightened around your palm, squeezing to draw out more of the liquid, making you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure as the burn surged through you. 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Mattheo whispered, biting your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin painfully. He didn’t care about the grunt of pain that escaped your lips, not when more blood joined the one already staining your throat. Right after his first bite, you moaned, your thighs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the wetness in your cunt. 

Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?” he murmured against your throat, pressing his lips to the marks he had left with his teeth. But when he noticed you hadn’t answered, he bit your neck harder than before and squeezed your stomach, causing more blood to spread across the area. 

You swallowed hard, locking eyes with him as you tried to form a sentence, but the only words that escaped your lips were a barely audible, “Yes, fucking yes,” which only made him laugh harder. He tightened his grip on your skin, sending a sharp sting through your own body. 

“Of course you do… such a fucking slut,” Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound, feeling his pants tighten around his cock as he tasted your blood again on his teeth. His tongue throbbed with desire, savoring the metallic taste. Holy shit, he could cum just from the taste of your blood. “But you taste so damn good.” 

He seemed to have completely forgotten the ritual, and you, too, had let it slip away. You didn’t want to remember, not when his blood stained your skin, not when your own blood marked him, and not when his mark lingered on you. 

Mattheo pulled back slightly, looking at your state and the way your plush lips were parted as you stared at him, your eyes filled with the same desire he showed. 

Without warning, Mattheo grabbed your cut hand with the one resting on your stomach, his blood mingling with yours as he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth. 

You let out a loud moan as you felt his tongue teasing the tips of your bloodied breasts, the taste of your blood on his tongue making him swirl around your breast more eagerly. The sensation only made him harder beneath his robes, each moan of his growing louder as he savored the taste of you. 

You were lost in the pleasure of his mouth, concentrated with the way his tongue lapped like a hungry animal. The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger. You didn’t hear nothing but the sounds of his mouth nor saw how he desperately reached for release, your body causing him to react out of character.

“Fuck...” he murmured, his hand releasing the softness of your skin as he reached down towards his pants. Fast, uncoordinated, he released his cock from the restraints, his bloody hands wrapping around his cock that dripped with precum. His movements grew faster, driven by the growing intensity of the taste of blood on his tongue.

You looked down, catching a glimpse through the small crease of his neck as he dragged his palm over his hard cock while sucking on your nipples. You couldn’t help but moan louder, your bloody hand gripping his shoulders as you tried to ignore how your body was responding—the wetness between your legs that you knew he could feel. 

“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.

“Fuck, your blood tastes so fucking good.” He moaned louder, and as he sucked harder on your nipples, his mouth closing around the bud tighter. Your chest was now covered in his bites, the marks of Mattheo Riddle, almost like a sign of ownership. Your body quivered against his hold, rubbing pathetically against him as you felt the tingle flutter in your stomach. You were close, lost in the daze, you had no idea whether it was from pleasure or the lost of blood—or both. You were desperately clinging to his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a spell.

The hold on his length tightened in his hand, and he came instantly. Another hoarse moan escaped his throat, and he pulled away from your chest for a moment, gasping for air. You gripped onto his shoulders once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. So sudden, so quick you fell against his hold as your body convulsed with pleasure.

Mattheo leaned against you, allowing himself a moment to relax. But when he noticed the blood still running down your throat from where he had placed your hand, he couldn’t help but let out a growl. He yanked your hair back harshly, making you gasp and exposing your throat, your scream barely escaping as he did so. 

“Mattheo…!” You tried to speak, but he didn’t care; he never did. He only pushed you further against him, your nipples pressed against his bare chest as he licked your throat, letting out another groan as he tasted the metallic flavor again. His tongue traced the line of your throat, dragging the blood up to your chin, before he licked it off obscenely, making you sigh at the sensation. 

Mattheo’s hand in your hair tightened, and in one swift motion, he turned you onto your back, pulling your hair even harder as your back arched against him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.

The kiss was rough and erotic, the fire burning from the inside making it impossible to avoid it. You could taste your own blood on his tongue, and it only made your cunt wetter, the intensity overwhelming. It was too much—more than you’d ever imagined.

You had pictured moments like this, where you and Mattheo would kiss, tasting each other’s tongues, but this was different. It wasn’t the fantasy you had dreamed of; it was raw, wild, and rougher than anything you could have ever anticipated. His teeth clashed with yours, and your tongue tangled with his, as he unleashed his most primal side. He was giving you a taste of the part of you he had consumed, and you were trapped, just as you always would be.

You didn’t care about the pain in your scalp, only the hand that held you.

Mattheo’s hands were rough, touching everything he could. His mouth marking you over and over as he swallowed every small noise you released. He was warm, too warm, a sting feeling in your mouth as he sucked and bit into your lips, the softness of your skin tethering as his mouth was once again filled with the sweetness of your blood.

He was about to lose his mind.

Mattheo sighed against your now split lip, “Stop me… Tell me to stop, and I will.” He wouldn’t; you both knew it.

You held him against you tighter; you were already too deep into him—all you wanted was to devour him, mark him enough to show everyone he belonged to you, only you. You wanted to inflict a pain he would never forget, a pain similar to the pain he caused you, so you did. Your hands wrapped around his neck, your mouth tracing his lips, then his cheeks, then suddenly the warmth of his neck. Mattheo gripped you hard; he made no sudden movement, anxiously awaiting your motive. You bit into his neck, sucking the flushed skin as your teeth marked him with the same strength he did to you. 

Another soft flow came into your mouth, you gasped, the metallic taste odd in your mouth but enough to send your heart thundering.

Mattheo whimpered, his dominant facade slipping as he sickly enjoyed the way you took control. You were so sweet, so delicate—you were completely the opposite. The idea he corrupted you twisted a sick, powerful thought in his brain. You were his. 

Your tongue reached towards his mouth again, finding yourself eye to eye with the man you wanted nothing more than to control. “Don’t ever stop; I need you.”

Mattheo grinned, his lips bloody, his brown eyes becoming dark as he suddenly pushed you towards the runes that glowed against your body. The symbols glowed, vibrating with the blood that dripped onto it. As he stood over you, he wished to capture the moment forever. You looked so fucking pretty.

He leaned over, his knees staining with the blood smeared against the cold tiles. His fingers moved quickly, desperately. He watched as your body spoke to him, reacting to every touch. Your breasts covered in his marks, his blood and yours on them that caused his cock to twitch violently.

He wanted more than the taste of your breasts; he wanted to taste the juices that gathered in the silk of your panties. He wanted to feel the way your cunt twitched and throbbed against his mouth, and damn, did he want nothing more than to have you fuck yourself on his tongue. The sweetest angel from Hogwarts all displayed for him, to hell with the ritual; now he just wanted to swallow you whole. 

Without warning, he hoisted your legs onto his shoulders with an almost violent urgency, a deep moan escaping his lips as he leaned closer to your wet pussy. The intoxicating scent filled his senses, making his bloodied hand tighten around your thigh, gripping it as if commanding you to choke him; a command you had no intention of disobeying.

Mattheo looked at your face, the dried blood around your parted lips, your cheeks flushed from everything he was doing to you, and your dilated pupils watching him anxiously. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, and you instantly bit your lip. Fuck, he was about to get hard again. 

“Please, I need you, Mattheo,” you begged, rubbing your hips desperately, trying to get closer to his flushed face. You needed his mouth, and he was more than willing to be a good friend and give you exactly what you wanted. 

“No need to beg like a slut, sweetheart,” he said, moving closer to your pulsing cunt, the light from the dunes making your wetness glisten even more. You held your breath as his warm breath ghosted over your slick folds. “I’m eager to give you what you want,” he murmured, leaning even closer, his nose brushing against your arousal as he took in your scent. Just as you were about to beg him to do something, his tongue was quicker—teasing, tasting, and finally giving in to the need to lick you.

Mattheo followed his instincts and hunger, his palms gripping your thighs even tighter, leaving bloodstained marks on your skin just as he had on the rest of your body. The sting of his own cut burned with the pressure, but he didn’t stop, sliding his hands to your hips as his tongue moved swiftly against your folds, savoring and memorizing every inch of you.

You could feel Mattheo’s cheeks pressed against your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, suffocating himself in your scent and taste. He mentally begged some higher power to let him one day die like this—only after his hunger was completely satisfied. Your back arched, heat swirling in your stomach as Mattheo licked your pussy with reckless desperation.

He was ravenous, savoring every part of you, and when your nails dug into his scalp, he let out another growl, pushing himself even deeper between your legs, making you moan even louder.

“Fucking yes, sweetheart,” he murmured against your pussy, sucking harder as your cries of pleasure filled the room. “Keep moaning like a slut, keep saying my name.” He bit down on your flesh, making you moan even louder, your legs trembling around him. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending shocks through your body and making you cry out even more.

Fuck the ritual, fuck the power—the only power he craved was the power he held over you.

“Mattheo,” you moaned even louder, rocking your hips against his face as your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him closer. “Right there, oh my—!” you cried out, feeling him lose himself between your legs, consumed by his thoughts and the blood still staining his lips.

Mattheo’s fast, steady movements continued, his almost feral tongue lapping at your cunt as his hands roamed your body. He could feel his cock harden at the sound of your sweet moans. Fuck, the taste of your blood mingled with your arousal was divine—almost too much for him to bear. 

He continued kissing your clit, desperate to savor your full taste, his tongue messily exploring your folds, drinking in every drop he could. All you felt in the moment was him. The sounds muffled as if underwater. Your fingers dug into his scalp, causing him to flick his tongue against your bud faster, his fingers circling it, his grin plastered with pride as he heard you cry loudly.

“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.

You only released a jumble of words, your bare back arching as you squirmed beneath him. You were on the edge, and you could feel it—both of you could. The anticipation was electric, and you were both eager for the release. All he wanted was to make you cum.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured against your folds, the scent of your cunt making him dizzy. “Come for me.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than you let out a final scream, the orgasm hitting you hard as your body arched, feeling your cum dripping from your pussy.

Mattheo groaned against your cunt once more, lapping at your release as he lost himself in your flavor. Quickly, he grabbed your cut hand, spreading its blood over your pussy to mix with the cum. When he felt it was enough, he ran his tongue over your folds, savoring the metallic taste of blood combined with the sweet remnants of your orgasm, only stopping when not a drop remained, and you pushed him away.

The runes still flickered on the ground, glowing brighter with the smell of your release in the air. Blood stained both your bodies, marking each other, marking the new connection between you that neither of you wanted to escape. Mattheo stood there, watching you, his brown eyes observing, shining with pride watching your state. His eyes traced the blood on your skin, lingering on the cut on your hand, before meeting your eyes again. 

“We didn’t finish the ritual,” you managed to say, your voice soft, timid once again compared to the wildness you held as you let Mattheo control you, your body still shaking from one of the best orgasms you ever experienced.

Mattheo’s smirk grew, just a little as he continued to look at the mess he had done. “It’s fine, sweetheart. We can always try again.”

He was right; after all, friends helped each other.

© 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝₂₀₂₄ — 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎.

— please be nice, it’s 4 am it probably has some mistakes!

likes and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

also a big thank you for my favorite beta readers @earth4angels & @astrxq , without them i couldn’t write all this!! i love you both off you forever

venting: sometimes, i hate english because my hard lines in portuguese don’t make sense and seem so repetitive :(

[navillee]

Hello love. I just went through your whole page and I love it. I’ve been craving for sub LADS. If I may, can I request an introduction to Sub Raf like the one you did with Sylus? 🤍

Sub Rafayel: an introduction

As a fellow ENTP just as myself, there's some interesting peculiarities about Rafayel as a partner/sub that would be interesting to highlight;

Unlike the other guys, Rafayel is the one I got the hardest time trying to "label." That's because this men can't be labeled at all;

While Xavier, Zayne and even Sylus bring a certain steady pace on their identities as subs, with a solid and clear rhythms, Rafayel is almost a body of water (ba-dum tss) doing the exact opposite;

Of course that he also has his own personal preferences and definitely personal turn ons, but there's a spontaneity on him that's different from the others;

It's a sense of first exploring, that he did in fact, recognized himself as a sub only after he got in a situationship/relationship with you;

He's ultra spontaneous. He adores to explore, and he knows how to. PERIOD;

I mean, he waited 800 years to explore your world with you. The only thing he didn't mention is that he also waited to explore himself with you too;

Adding to it, Rafayel has a silver tongue, but differently from Sylus, he doesn't provoke all the time. He uses his cleverness to bring new ideias and perspectives when he talks to you;

That's why, especially in the beginning of your relationship with him, he would navigate though all the seas that his witty banters with you would allow him to;

He's a sweet talker, inducing you to try new things with him without you even notice it. Does he want you to pose nude as his painting's muse? He would previously comment about historical artists that did the same, left some art books near the couch at his studio for you to see, and someday, maybe in the slow cozy morning after your first time with him, Rafayel would casually sit near the edge of the bed, pencil on hands while you to talk about next plans as he capture every detail of your curves curled in the bedsheets;

He has the gift of the gab, entering the nest was just an easy play for him. He wants your heart, you're his nemesis;

Did you ever heard about the term "obsessed poet"? That's Rafayel. When he's passionate about something he's the obsessive artist. He pulls an all-nighter on a painting with the same pleasure he did stalking you;

He wants more, he wants everything and he sometimes can't even tell why. Is that the bond you two share playing with his head? Is just his love? He sometimes can't tell it apart;

That's why I would guess he's more of an "Obsessive sub in training."

He would accept every new aspect of you with gratitude, it's exciting for him. You feed his obsession for you, just for him to get greedy for more;

That's why when you told him you would "lock him in a cage, whip him everyday to finish his paintings and force him to address you as 'master'" he was like: "oh."

"that's an interesting idea. Wait, did I just get hard?"

He's a house sub, and I can see him as a submissive princess as well (don't mistake it for "pillow princess" it's not the same thing);

A house sub because I don't see him indulging with others. He runs away of his own art events with you, and I think that this aspect will be kept on the bedroom. He wants a world of only you two exist, where he can unleash himself from boring social standards. Drown into personal paradise, his Lemuria again, his beloved bride;

The "submissive princess" comes from the premise of he's the fucking sea god. He's your slave, but he also wants adoration. He wants you to engage on his banters, to tell him how good he's doing, to shower him with praises and comfort;

He let an entire civilization die to get you back into his arms. But he did it good, right? Please, tell him he did good. He will crumble otherwise;

Talking about specific kinks, even though you two are exploring each other's preferences, I do think he would be collecting new addictions about you;

Public sex, but not any kind. Two, being more specific;

Rafayel would love to getting you riding him by the shore at night. It can be a private island you two went to spend the weekend together. He told you it was to inspire him on a new art work of his and trust me, nothing more inspirational for him to listen to your moans mixing with the sounds of crashing waves;

The public play was a breaking-code-life-hacking to make Rafayel attend his own compromises. Place a little vibrator on his pants. On his cock near the sensitive tip, on the base, just toet him wanting more. Even shoved into his ass to make him stumble on his own convinced words while he discourse to his fans, making him wanting to leave earlier so he can let you use him as your personal lemurian toy. Thobias will never know. At least he can pretend he doesn't, since the problem with Rafayel's absence was solved;

Let's talk about Ebb & Flow. That's when he turns the subbest sub to ever sub;

That's when his defiant personality is left to the side and he turns into the attention-seeking whore he is. No witty remarks, no teasing or talking back. He's clear as water about how much he needs to breed his miss bodyguard over and over again;

All positions, every room in the house (even those fuckin stairs);

He will lose control over his pride. Rafayel would turn into a drooling whimpering mess, repeating his words like a pray. "Please miss, please miss, please!", "I need to cum, I need to cum, I need to cum..."

He would be desperate if the day comes and you're not with him. He would try to call you, to send you audios crying and moaning, and revealing photos and videos of how much he needs his miss bodyguard to take good care of him;

Maybe even pictures of him using a lingerie set to show how pretty he looks to fill you up with his cum. You can't deny him if he looks this docile, right?

If he's sagacious enough (he is) he would coincidentally invite you to a private island weekend matching right with his Ebb & Flow day;

What? A merman needs to mate on his natural form and habitat. You can't rebuild Lemuria with only one dick (iykyk).

[brella-boi]

Okay guys this is becoming a tradition of me seeing films recently so heres a

Sonic 3 review from a technical standpoint

Look im no film critic or anything, but i AM an animator and theres a lot of. Things. I see whether I want to or not. Its just how my brain is wired because of my profession lol

(This is full of spoilers btw so now's your time to fast scroll away)

Anyway lets begin!

The movie is great. Cool even. I liked it! But theres a lot of direction decision that I am just. Baffled by I guess?

First of all- the models are different. (Httyd ass moment) And the way they sculpted the characters lips absolutely destroys anything theyre trying to emote. It looks like theyre CONSTANTLY pursing their lips. Like they ate a lemon. Do you understand? Sonic also has much more pronounced brows which makes him look more pissed off constantly LOL

[Sonic 1 model vs sonic 3 models, pay attention to the lips]

Eggman and Dr Stone had possibly the best interactions in the entire movie. Their dynamic was fantastic, and I would argue they kinda carried the movie. Unfortunately! The ending left their issues unresolved. And Dr Stone looked entirely unbothered by the possible death of Eggman.

This brings me to some writing choices that I feel may be due to... Either infantalising or time cuts. The storyboarding of this film was just. God how do I even describe this. It feels like a lot of crucial scenes where cherry picked to be deleted between shots. Thats not good at all- and while character continuity WAS there, it really did feel like something crucial was missing in some scenes. This is especially evident in the Chao Garden scenes. Specifically when the general dies (WHY DOES HE DIE LIKE THAT. WE DIDNT EVEN SEE THE RUBBLE GO ANYWHERE OR PIN ANYONE DOWN OR SEE MASS PANIC FOR PEOPLE TO DIE?) The characters COMPLETELY gloss over his death- a death that feels like its out of a show for 8 year olds Im not going to lie to you. He just flops, delivers a line, and thats it.

It feels like the two halves of the movie were written by two different writers.

The first half is weak. The jokes are stale. And the storybeats almost feel off. The actions scenes- while there's nothing particularly offendish about them- don't *hit*. If you're an animator or writer you understand that important beats need to pack a punch. It was severely lacking in packing punches in the first half.

I also wanna speak to the animators. Are you okay? Was this made on tight deadlines? Where is the fun and whimsy? Did you outsource this? Did you give your workers a good environment or were they crunching and hating life? Or did you hire younger animators with no senior feedback because they're cheaper to hire?

Look, the animation is good. Just that. Its good. Its TV show standard, not movie standard. Its lacking a good push to the poses, its using slow keyframing between poses instead of it being snappy, with good silhouettes, with good visual gags. Instead were left with this.. subpar passable animation for every character instead of something energetic and snappy like Sonics personality. I think this is where I take the most issue with because guys come on. You didnt push the models to their limits at ALL. And Sonics speedy running is... Well read my previous points. Where are the fundamentals of animation about exaggeration? Not in Sonics run cycle.

The second half of the movie carried the first half on its back thanks to Eggman. I am SO GLAD to see giant spaceships and mechs and whatnot. Thats great! Loved to see the lovely mech models and once again- interactions between Eggman and Dr Stone. Id go as far as say they should be gay tbh (hello? The scene where theyre tied up?)

I didn't bring up Shadow entirely so far. And honestly Ive no notes about him. All my notes are entirely about just the animation and not hitting the beats well. His characterisation was great- it actually explains his aggression pretty well and then redemption. Genuinely the last arc of the movie was fantastic. And finally we got to hear a rock score to go with it. Maria was fun, the flashbacks were fun, the scientific exploration was fun. All in the second half of the movie of course!

My overall score is 6/10.

To untrained eyes the movie is going to be extremely fun- if a little more childish in some parts than others. I'm glad they took some risky moments, I'm glad the characterisation is well written. I just wish other aspects were tightened down, mainly animation and storyboarding.

6/10 but I never thought Id leave the cinema with the thoughts "I could storyboard some of these scenes in a lot more meaningful way, and Im not even a storyboarder."

I recommend a watch! Its not a bad movie. Its not a rock-it-out-of-the-park movie either though. I feel like maybe all the anticipation and high expectations maybe made it not as gut punching for me as it couldve been. Overall, all I can gleam from it is theres a lot of things to improve on! But nothing that really destroys it or makes it bad. Just a lot of room for improvement.

Thanks for reading!

[piltover-sharpshooter]

Arcane and Character's Breaking Point.

One of the complaints I've seen floating around regarding season 2 of Arcane is that a lot of the characters act in a way they shouldn't. That acording to their characteristics they wouldn't react or do certain actions and they are instead dictated by the plot, and while I don't want to completly disregard that opinion, I think people are forgetting that the show wants you to see the characters as more than just archetypes and instead as real people.

And people have their breaking points, people never act the way they should in stressful situations, even if with the benefit of hindsight or a 3rd person perspective we can opine how they should have handled it, it's only because we are divorced from the moment, away from the emotions and conflicts.

Let's talk Vi. Vi is a great example of this because I'd say she has 3 breaking points.

If you were to describe Vi or look her up in a wiki one of the things you'd find out is that 'Vi is a protector, Vi cares for her family'. And that is factually true, above all else she fights for and to protect her loved ones, and the show highlights this repeatedly, to the point that it's very often detrimental to her. But she's more than just the words 'Protector' tattooed onto her forehead, she is a real human (in the story terms) and so, when pushed to her limit, she snaps, and interestingly in the three different ways.

The most famous one is when she lashes out in anger at Powder, where 75% of her family had been accidentaly killed by the other 25%, and in that moment of just sheer anger pain she commits the worst mistake of her life, and inflicts that pain onto a loved one. Would Vi normally do this? No, absolutely not. But the situation is not normal. And the show points this out, as she regrets it almost inmediately and for the entire rest of the series, and likely much much later. Vi understands, as we understand, that she fucked up, that she failed to protect her family then.

Then there's the second one, where after the attack on the council Vi puts on the enforcer uniform and goes to hunt Jinx. 'She'd never do that', yes she would, because Jinx pushed her away (like she did to her years ago), and in a moment of desperation Vi tries to find a new family in Caitlyn and justifies 'Jinx' as having killed Powder, and the only thing Vi cares about is protecting her family, even if it means doing something she hates, like putting an enforcer uniform and hunt her sister. Vi decides to hold back Caitlyn's worst decisions, and stop Jinx from ruining her sister's memory, she'll protect them from themselves, at the expense of her own desires.

And the final breaking point is when Caitlyn pushes her away, and left with nothing and noone to protect, Vi enters a self-destructing cycle, despite the fact that technically she still has her family out there somewhere to protect. But she can't, she's been pushed to her limit and the protector can no longer find in herself the power to protect. So...she just fights, and drinks, and waits for either to kill her.

These are not out of character, this are completly in character, accepting that she's been strained to her limit in these cases.

And this happens a lot in Arcane:

Why does Caitlyn, who is kind and respects justice, enforce martial law?

Why does Jayce, who tends to let himself be influenced easily, become so focused in his own goal?

Why does Mel, who is so in control most of the time, act so confused and scared?

Why did Vander, who loves his family and friends, tried to drown Silco?

Why does Viktor, who intially put such high importance on human choice, eventually disregarded it?

Why does Ambessa , who puts such value in sacrifice, refuse to sacrifice her daughter?

There's even a point to be made that some characters are in a constant state of being pushed to their limits, compare how Jinx acts normally to her childhood as Powder, the alternative Powder, or hell even Jinx with Isha and away from Silco. Compare Silco from the flashback or alternative universe to the Silco we knew.

What I'm trying to say is that it's better to look at these characters as beyond just the small phrases to describe them normally, and instead try to see them as living breathing people, and ask yourself, would you in a situation where you've been pushed to your limits act as you normally do? Would you, for lack of a better term, 'Remain in character'?

(Thank you so much to @restrainedhungr who proof read and gave feedback to this, helping to iron out some of the points)

[omnium-gatherums]

My apologies for being incapable of having short responses, ha.

For one, this post is mainly addressing a common sentiment I've been seeing throughout the years online with regards to DID about people seeming to think that seeing alters, say, have their own names and Tumblr side blogs and pronouns and profiles as a bad thing.

A lot of people see alters expressing themselves online and will fake-claim that system, will claim that this is "glorifying" DID or "romanticizing" it.

I see this CONSTANTLY! I see this on Tumblr, I see it on Reddit, I'm certain it's on plenty of other websites I don't use.

Because these types of people have a grave misunderstanding of what DID is, how it works, what and who alters even ARE. They see alters as the side thing that just happens to DID, when the person with DID is always an alter. These people will sit here and act like the mere act of, say, me expressing and introducing myself online as a specific alter and they'll look at that and fake-claim and act like it's romanticizing or glorifying DID and, pray tell, I just have to ask these people what part of me am I allowed to express? Do you see DID as "the host, and then the alters" and you think I'm a host right now, and it's acceptable to express myself because you think I'm a host, as if "host" is "the main/actual/real person" and not just another alter? What part of me is acceptable to express? What part of me is allowed to be expressed, online or not, and which parts of me aren't?

I never brought up anything about covert or overt, and that's actually for a very specific reason (the tags mentioned covert/overt, but that was that person specifically, not us). We haven't said a single thing about overt or covert in this entire post, and this is actually partially why - what I'm saying and what I'm talking about is being incorrectly conflated with meaning "Being Overt" or "being separate, distinct People" when that isn't what I was saying or implying. Being covert or overt has nothing to do with this.

I'm talking about alters expressing themselves, and I think this is incorrectly being conflated to meaning overt or meaning "distinct, separate people" when that's not what it means.

Let's take away the DID and alter stuff for a moment:

Humans express themselves through many ways - we express ourselves with our names and having our own hobbies and interests, yes, but we also express ourselves just in terms of, like. Talking to a friend about the stress we're going through.

When you, as a person with DID, are expressing yourself - by talking about your trauma to your therapist; by communicating with the different parts in your system; by allowing parts to simply BE who they are instead of suppressing them and trying to hide them - it is alters expressing themself.

That means nothing about whether or not those parts exist with a separate name, separate hobbies, or just generally are their own "distinct person."

Remember my example with my part 'Tea' - I came into therapy one day, very excitable, energetic. I felt embarrassed for Being The Way I Was in that moment and my brain switched to someone else almost immediately, because of that embarrassment.

Months later (or even a year later, I don't even know anymore lmfao), I came into therapy pretty energetic and excitable again. But this time, I felt safer and more comfortable. We didn't switch to another part out of embarrassment, I felt safe to be myself in that moment.

This is what I mean.

Overt/covert has nothing to do with it.

What self-expression means to me is going to be different from other people, and what self-expression means to them is going to be different from me. For us, it means allowing ourselves to exist as we are and not trying to force us into a closed-off box of "Being One Person." For you, maybe it means simply ripping up paper to express anger (i.e. a specific part in your system ripping up paper to express the anger they feel). And that's still self-expression, and that's GOOD!

I will clarify, though, that my second addition/reblog was more talking about my personal thing about our own journey, just as an added ramble-conversation to do with what the tags said. It was not meant to be applied to other people - I did feel that that person's tags were important, but it's not meant to be a generalized Rule of "everybody with DID must be like this to heal." I did not feel the need to put disclaimers about "just to be clear, this isn't about covertness or overtness, and being covert or overt has nothing to do with this" because it didn't feel necessary, but to clarify:

Being "overt" does NOT mean "lower dissociative barriers"

Being "covert" does NOT mean "higher dissociative barriers"

Alters expressing themselves does NOT mean "overt"

Having lowered dissociative barriers simply means communication between parts has improved, amnesia has been lowered, etc.

Whether or not a system is "covert" or "overt" is less to do with dissociative barriers, although it CAN play a role, whether or not a system is "covert" or "overt" is actually more dependent on that specific person - their life, the trauma they went through, the environments they were raised in.

Nearly every single ""OVERT"" system I have known have had very specific life experiences that have lead them to develop this presentation. When you hear about these systems and they explain things about their life, how they were raised, their trauma, it becomes clear that the presentation their DID took the form of had way more to do with their personal, specific life experiences and less to do with anything about how high or low their dissociative barriers were. Although, yes, again, that CAN play a role, but not as big of a role as you might assume - MANY, MANY "overt" systems have very high dissociative barriers.

To be a bit more clearer: alters expressing themselves can give an idea of whether or not a system is "overt" or "covert" (I think this terms are shaky and muddy and blurry anyways and ultimately don't think they're very helpful, but that's a discussion for another day), but alters expressing themselves doesn't mean anything about being overt. It just means expressing themselves, and that can be in "big" ways (having your own name, pronouns, and personal hobbies and interests) or "small" ways (allowing yourself to express your anger in a healthy way; talking to your therapist about trauma and finally feeling safe enough to do so, etc.).

It took awhile to write this post, and I hope this helps.

"DID is most often hidden and unnoticeable" as in "MANY symptoms of DID, including the symptom of switching from one alter to another, are easily passed off as something else more 'normal' and not readily understood as switching from one alter to another" but you people seem to think that it means "alters don't really have differences actually and if you're allowing yourselves as different alters to know yourselves and express yourselves, you're lying/faking/wrongly self-diagnosed/glorifying DID/romanticizing DID-"

What part of dissociative IDENTITY disorder don't you understand?

You see someone with DID simply existing as themselves (alters existing as themselves) and see someone faking or roleplaying DID or wrongly self-diagnosing or "making DID their whole identity" when really it is literally no different from somebody expressing a side of themself to a friend that they otherwise feel scared to express. It is literally just self-expression.

Tea is an alter in my system who is extremely hyperactive, energetic, exciteable. She stands out. And one of the first times she was fronting in therapy, when I was noticing how different I was and how hyperactive I was, I felt embarrassed and switched immediately. And then many months later, the next time Tea was fronting, and me and our therapist realized it was her who was fronting, we didn't switch! We/she, felt safe and okay enough to behave the ways she does. I didn't switch in order to not behave in those "weird" ways, and I didn't try to suppress the ways I wanted to behave and just Be.

This is huge! It was a huge thing for us in that therapy session. And we've only been continuing our journey with finding ourselves, finding out who we are, and allowing myself to "be" "different."

Alters expressing themselves differently is merely allowing yourself the right to self-expression. It is allowing yourself to truly "be cringe." It is allowing yourself to know yourself. To know who you really are. It is an important and huge aspect of recovery with DID.

Alters are not Nothing, that is an entire aspect of this brain's identity that could not integrate into the rest of the brain's identity.

You people continue to see DID as "the actual person versus the alters that just influence that Real person" when it is more like "all of us are That Real Person. That Real Person is different alters sometimes" like people will say these things about DID being treated like an "identity quirk" just because you see an alter expressing themself when in reality what you are doing is not that different from someone making fun of some kid because they're pretending to be a cat.

You are seeing somebody with DID merely expressing an aspect of their identity, merely expressing themself, and that's bad to you because you continue to incorrectly view DID as "the actual, real person and their alters" when those alters ARE "the real person", just dissociated into its own box.

You continue to see "The actual person, the Host, who is actually a person, oh they can express themselves! :)" but it's suddenly bad when it's not what you think is "the host/the Real/Actual Person" because, again, you people are continuing to incorrectly view alters as these Side things that just pop up and they can't self-express or have their own names or have hobbies and interests or Tumblr side blogs and act like that's bad and it means someone is "roleplaying DID" or faking or "romanticizing" when it is LITERALLY, and I mean this SO literally. It is LITERALLY just expressing another side of yourself.

[impval]

little moments

agathario x fem! reader

Agatha's the sort of person who constantly buzzes with something. Be it energy, action.. or at least, sound. She is full of stories, anecdotes, memories, quips, facts, theories, opinions. She talks about history, about mythology, about witchcraft, about your astrology signs, about her astrology sign, about her theories on the secret powers of the universe, how the stars impact the life of the beings on this planet.

Sometimes you wonder if Agatha's endless chatter, that constant flow of words tumbling from the older woman's mouth - is some attempt at soothing an internal, anxious part of herself. Whether it be a fear of silence, or fear of being alone with her own thoughts for too long.

Agatha can be such a tease with how casual her words seem to be, always delivered with a smirk on her lips and an edge of mischief in her eyes. She knows how to toy with your heart with the same ease as she can toy with your mind, drawing out your reactions - that flush that rises to your cheeks and leaves you stuttering.

There is never a dull moment with Agatha. You never know what she'll come up with and that thrill of chaos, of spontaneity, it keeps your life interesting and enjoyable. One moment, you may be enjoying a quiet meal in a charming cafe, the next, she is grabbing your hand and yanking you through the back exit, her laughter ringing through the alleys as you both dash away from the angry witch who wants her dead.

Agatha has a keen eye for fashion and oh girl, does she love dressing you. It doesn't matter what your personal style is, because when you're with her, you're her little doll to dress up as she pleases. And of course.. she pays for it all.

Sometimes, she'll pull you into stores, rifling through racks and piles of clothes, holding up different styles and colours against you with a critical eye, her own mouth twisted in a frown of concentration - like a artist inspecting her work.

Rio has the habit of gifting you the weird things - a pebble she found on the beach, a button, an old pocket watch. Just.. odd trinkets you're not entirely sure of the meaning of - but she insists they remind her of you. Some of these gifts are expensive, some are not, and you're almost certain she's taking them from, well, corpses, but her gifts are still cute.

With her, it's always a surprise. She'll just show up at random hours. You might suddenly wake up in the morning to find her already in bed with you, or she might appear during the middle of the day when you least expect it. Or even at night. She loves to keep you on your toes -dropping by at unexpected times, scaring you just a little.

There's a certain air of.. creepiness about Rio's gaze. She has the habit of staring at you, unblinking and unwavering. She particularly likes to watch you while you're asleep, and it's more than a little creepy. Her staring is incessant, but it's not cold, not entirely anyway. Just.. intensely fixated.

Rio is shameless when it comes to nudity. She'll walk around your shared space stark naked, not at all embarrassed about being bare-ass when you have guests over or are in a video call with friends.

She's obsessed with the sensation of your naked skin against hers, how it feels, the warmth radiating off of your body. Oh, and when you bathe together, she turns into a clingy little koala, wrapping her arms around your neck and burying her face in the crook of it. She could hold you like that for hours, just enjoying being in your presence, feeling your pulse against her skin, your presence so close and intimate.

It's like a competition every time you have both Agatha and Rio around you. They're constantly vying for your attention, trying to outdo one another. They both want to be the one to shower you with gifts, compliments, praise - anything to make you smile or make your cheeks flush bright red. Their own little game, trying to earn a point each by being the more caring, more loving partner, and you're the precious prize they’re fighting over.

Don't even try to argue that your closet is already bursting or that you're out of space in your house for more stuff - they don't care. If you express even the slightest desire for something, prepare for an avalanche of new purchases. Whether it's jewelry, books, or even paintings, they'll make sure to get it for you.

Agatha loves extreme activities, fun adventures, and luxurious dinners. She'll whisk you away to the finest restaurants and book fancy cruises.

Rio adores nature, quiet walks in the forest or up in the mountains where the stars shine brightly away from the city lights. She loves taking you on those romantic night picnics, lying on a blanket under the starlit sky, just enjoying each other's company and the beauty of the universe.

Oh, the poor soul who dares to even look at you in their presence. They're already individually possessive over you, but together? Agatha and Rio fiercely territorial and will make it abundantly clear that you belong to them, and only them.

Arguments, threats, and fights are a common occurrence between them, with things often turning physical. But when you're involved, it's like a switch flips. They suddenly become gentle, almost soft with one another. It's like they're trying hard to keep up their tough facades, but you bring out their more vulnerable sides. Oh, when they aren't engaged in their usual spats or competitions, they have a different kind of entertainment lined up for you - teasing.

Rio has this endearing habit of touching your pulse, her hand constantly on your wrist or her nose nuzzling against your neck. She's utterly fascinated by the steady pulse of your heart, it is a beautiful, melodic rhythm to her.

Agatha touches are light, almost like a dance, a tease both for herself and for you. She'll let her fingers graze your skin, sending shivers down your spine, or lean in for a deceptively chaste kiss on your cheek. She loves to play this game, to tantalize and entice, never fully giving in but always keeping you on the edge.

You're well aware that your time together is limited - that, in some way or another, you might not have the 'happily ever after' most people dream of. It's this very fragility that makes your time together even more precious, more intense. You catch them watching you, their eyes filled with a mixture of love and sorrow. Their touch, their caresses, when they think you're asleep - they're tender, almost reverent, as if they're afraid they might break you with a single, careless movement.

You still have time, still so many moments left to cherish. Time for dates, for those small, intimate moments. Time for arguments and laughter behind closed doors. You can savor the time you have together, make the most of every second. Enjoy the taste of their kisses, the sounds of their laughter, the feel of their skin against yours.

There's still time.

[fallenrain40]

my asexuality inherently affects how i experience romance. aspec communities are very good at separating different attractions which is great, except... a whole lot of the world... doesn't do this. and i think we forget that often.

romance and sex are almost always associated with each other and treated as a package deal. couples are almost always implied to be having sex, even when it isn't outright stated, especially if the person who wrote them isn't aspec. it often doesn't even need to be said because people assume you will just think "oh well they're a couple so obviously they're having sex"

it's why it's been so hard to figure out where my feelings stand when it comes to romance... as a very highly sex-repulsed ace, the moment anything romantic is associated with something sexual , i just... mentally check out, and then assume it was the romance that turned me off but, i believe it may actually be sexual implications that so often come alongside romance.

like sure, you can separate them, they are separate. but not without acknowledging that it is VERY COMMON for them to NOT be entirely separate things.

[sunshinemoon3341]

I JUST LISTENED TO THE ENTIRE ITHACA SAGA SO SPOILERS AHEAD

The Challenge:

We start off with a Penelope song! And I swear she eats this up!!! She only has 2 songs but she goes crazy with the vocals!!! Her voice is genuinely like lotus, I am just absolutely entranced and just cannot stop listening for even a moment!!!

Penelope saying “husbands old bow” while the suitors say “old husbands bow” is subtle but so meaningful and shows how differently they think of Odysseus!

The “Waiting” callback from the underworld!

————————————————————————-

Hold Them Down:

I’d listened to sneak peaks and snippets from like a year ago but hearing the actual version!!!! Antonious’s voice in this song is insane!

Don’t you dare hurt my baby Telemachus!!

What is their problem with his bones!!! “You’ll have run out of bones to break when you and I are through”(Little Wolf) and “Hold him down while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones”(Hold Them Down)

The way they talk about Penelope gives me worse shivers than the beginning of Thunder Bringer. But it’s also very telling of what the suitors actually think of Penelope!! They don’t care about her as a person. They just want the crown, and the power.

Bye bye Antonious!!

Overall great villain song. One of, if not, the best I’ve ever heard. I feel conflicted about liking this song because the lyrics are so dark but the song itself is sooooo good!!!

————————————————————————

Odysseus:

Right off the bat, I love the name. The only names in song titles are monsters(Polyphemus, Scylla, Charybdis) so the title being “Odysseus” indicates that he has become some sort of “monster” and that’s a really cool form of symbolism to show it!(you can also hear the monsters names in the background throughout the song)

DO NOT talk about his family like that!

I like the “Where is he?”(Legendary) reverberation. It’s a nice touch!

He stole their weapons!!! This is some Athena level stuff!!

“You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!” no notes! That line is one of the most perfect lines to ever grace Spotify!

It’s interesting that the suitors asked for mercy. They know as well as Odysseus does that if he didn’t show up who knows what they would have done!! It’s more of an attempted trick than it is an actual apology.

The way the suitor suggests “open arms” and Odysseus doesn’t even let him finish!!

Odysseus shows his cleverness and why he deserves the title “Warrior of the Mind” in this song.(though he is clever in many other songs).

DONT YOU DARE TOUCH TELEMACHUS!!!!!

Again with the bones!!! “I’ll break the kids hands”. Just leave the kids poor bones alone!!!

That voice after Odysseuss says “mercy”!!

This song was brutal, perfect and I get why Athena told Ares the Odysseus “wanna gonna make everybody b|eed”

————————————————————————

I Can’t Help But Wonder:

Heartbreaking!! So cute!!

They both just want to be good enough for each other!! They missed each other soooo much!!

I’ve never cried during any movie, play, book, anything and got almost got me

ATHENA!!!!

The Queen has returned!!!

All the “Warrior of the Mind” callbacks!!

She’s sorry for what’s she did to him! She feels like she turned him into this. This is the the closest thing Athena’s ever gotten to an apology.

He forgives her(or close enough)!! He’s not gonna dwell on all the things he could have done differently, he just wants to see his wife!!

————————————————————————

Would You Fall In Love With Me Again:

Again Penelope ATE THAT UP! I still cannot get over her voice!!

She acknowledges that he’s a bit different but to her he’s still the love of her life!!!

THE WEDDING BED!! Odysseus seems hurt when she asks him to move it. She proved that he’s still the same man!!

The “Waiting” callback again

So cute, so romantic, so beautiful!

————————————————————————

Perfect ending. After everything he sacrificed he was able to get back to the people he did it all for.

10/10 no comments, no suggestions, absolutely nothing!

I’m so excited to see what everyone does next!! I hope Epic grows bigger than I could ever imagine!

I still think the play should have ended with “And that’s my Journessy”

Tysm for reading my little rant

[devilith]

crazy how this unhinged rant manages to not only be objectively wrong, but also somehow queerphobic and misogynistic all at the same time. wild

mc is NOT a "total pushover" there are many many cases where you get to directly call out the brothers bullshit to their faces. the characters DO apologize for shit, just not at every single opportunity for every single slight up to your personal expectations. its almost like they are flawed characters. its almost like theyre DEMONS. its almost like them not being wholesome, pure, untrained, and virtuous is literally the entire fucking point

obey me has never been "aimed at women" and the players pronouns have ALWAYS been they/them in the game from day fucking one. no idea why youre lying about "getting to change mcs pronouns later on" because that has literally never been a thing, not ever. the people who made the game have explicitly said that they made the decision to have a genderless protagonist early on in development and that inclusivity was their main goal. the only reason obey me gets classified as an otome game is because the love interests are all men. the player is not not supposed to be a woman and the game has been intentionally, deliberately aimed at men, enbies, and queer people in general since before it even came out. shut the fuck up about this "ultimate female fantasy" about men groveling because youre talking out of your ass. thats some radfem terf shit and you have no fucking idea what youre talking about

"ooohhhh the world is full of nasty evil male cruelty, and the pure angelic afab girls are desperate to have their suffering eased by anime characters prostrating themselves" this is actually so hilariously bad i dont even know where to start. shut the entire fuck up forever

women are not pure, wholesome, simpering angels and men are not ontologically evil monsters. shove your disgusting bioessentialist and genderessentialist radfem terf shit up your ass. afab ≠ women, and dont fucking erase and speak over obey mes VAST audience of men, trans folk, enbies, queers, etc

the obey me characters HAVE growth and development, youre just too fucking stupid to read the words that the game puts in front of your face

the reason why "theyre demons" is an irrefutable argument that you cant counter is because THEY ARE LITERALLY FUCKING DEMONS and their flawed negative character aspects ARE THE ENTIRE FUCKING POINT. you cant just disregard the fact that theyre demons as if thats just a piece of bad writing, ITS LITERALLY THE ENTIRE POINT OF THE FUCKING GAME. theyre SUPPOSED to shitty, bad people. if that doesnt please your delicate sensibilities then play a different game

"oh, those poor stupid afab women are too corrupted by the fictional anime demons. obviously theyre just coping because they dont know whats good for them and theyre too dumb to understand the themes of an anime mobile game. those helpless, incapable girls need me to be their divine savior and tell them whats actually good for them, otherwise theyd never even know what they REALLY want. they need me, a misogynistic radfem, to utterly police their every thought for their own good"

you should be fucking ashamed and embarrassed

stop writing fucking call out posts for fictional anime characters as if theyre real fucking people causing harm in the real world. this is the most egotistical, performative bullshit just for you to play moral police over how random strangers play a god damn mobile game. you are a fucking joke

I think why we all feel unsatisfied with Obey Me is honestly just the lack of accountability or closure on ANY conflict. The characters are never really held responsible for any of the shit they do to MC, MC is a total pushover who endlessly forgives them, and we never, NEVER get a single apology.

It doesn't matter how suave or romantic they make any of the boys: the most vital requirement of any romance aimed at women (because OM was originally written for a female protag even if they let you change pronouns later) is The Grovel. The ultimate female fantasy is accountability.

In a world awash with male cruelty in our daily lives, what so many AFAB players ache for in romance media is just an apology, an honest to god admittance of "I hurt you. I'm sorry."

The most beautiful phrasing of the Grovel Trope I've ever seen is this post:

--and it's the mark that Obey Me just fails to hit over and over. Real growth means accountability and there is none.

What I see behind every "well thEy're dEmoNs" and "if they were NiCE wouldn't it be boRiNG?!?" is a lot of AFAB people learning to cope with never getting the real satisfaction they crave.

[microwavesaferat]

This is a different topic than my usual stuff, but I was relistening to Epic: The Musical and wanted to talk about my personal interpretation of Calypso's character both within and out with the musical.

So a couple things to consider when going into this:

The original material and the biases/lense that it was created through

The long game of telephone that has moulded the current view of her character

The changes made from the Odyssey to Epic

In the original material, Calypso is trapped on the island of Ogygia for supporting her father, Atlas, in the battle between the Titans and the Gods. When Odysseus washed up on her shore, she took a fancy to him and proceeded to attempt to court him. She did not take no for an answer and in fact cast spells on him through song to force herself onto him. It is noted that, later in his stay on the island, Odysseus would spend most of the day crying on the shore before being forced into bed at night.

TLDR: in Greek Myth, Calypso is a horrible person.

In Epic, some liberties are taken for a multitude of reasons:

Dramatic effect

Narrative flow

Thematic storytelling

Making it more 'PG'

The big one here is the last point, although Epic covers a lot of violent acts and tough topics, but some aspects do need to be cut in order to not make the musical too graphic. For example, in the original myth, Odysseus and Circe definitely have sex, in fact, she has a child with him. So Jorge trimmed down the complicated relationship Odysseus has with Calypso, that is perfectly fine, in fact, it probably works better in the medium than being 100% accurate.

To talk about the version of Calypso in Epic; she was cast away as a child and naively fell in love with the first person she saw. My interpretation lies somewhere in-between these versions. I believe she was isolated on the island (something present in both), but I do not believe she was entirely well meaning yet harmful.

Calypso, at least in my eyes, became obsessed with the first contact she has had in a century and did, like a school-child, gain a naïve crush. But I believe she was cruel and manipulative to Odysseus and is not free of blame for what she did.

Based on the lyrics present in Paradise, she does not reveal her Godly nature until after Odysseus threatens violence if she does not leave him alone, this is a threat to him. She will play nice as long as he does, but she always has the upper hand. She also uses his friends' words against him to manipulate him (open arms), plus she almost completely ignores everything he says during the song to continue her fantasy of a perfect couple.

In Not Sorry for Loving You, she sings a very half-hearted apology that sounds like a YouTuber apology video where she apologises for how he interpreted her behaviour (I'm sorry if my actions offended some people), she blames her actions on her own problems (I've been having a real hard time you guys and wasn't thinking straight). My interpretation is that, she is (as she says) not sorry and is fully aware of what she did, just hoping he would believe that she was simply trying her best and that he would choose to stay.

An important factor that stops Calypso from being 100% awful is that she is a goddess with a skewed interpretation of mortality and of human emotions. She doesn't understand why this is such a big deal to Odysseus to be faithful and get home soon, they have all the time in the world. 7 years is merely a moment in her lifetime. It is also important to note the general reception to Calypso's actions at the time of the Odyssey. It was common for mythological characters to take war brides and the like in many Epics, even Achilles has a bride given to him as a spoil of war. The use of an action like sex in the Odyssey is to demonstrate a power imbalance and a sense of ownership. Calypso takes Odysseus like a spoil of war because he has lost and the Gods have won. In the Odyssey, Calypso does not do this because she is a horrible person, but because Homer wanted to demonstrate the loss Odysseus has faced.

I also find it weird that Calypso is brought up so much surrounding the topic of consent when, in the original myth, Circe does the same exact thing. In fact, it's like her main thing. She turns Scylla into a monster for being with a man she likes, she turns a king into a beast for noting accepting her courtship and has sex with Odysseus in exchange for help home, giving him a child.

The changes for Circe in Epic work because Circe's job in the story is to demonstrate Odysseus's wit and his devotion to Penelope, so she can still help him after he proves he's 'not like other men' (he's a monster rah rah rah). With Calypso, you cannot make it so that she respects his choice, or that would make for a pretty chill 7 years.

TLDR: In both the Odyssey and Epic, Calypso is more important as an idea than as a character. She serves to show how far Odysseus has sunk, lost the war and has been taken as a spoil, defeated and broken.

[casiavium]

Does anyone have the direct Japanese to English translation of Ghirahim's dialogue? I can only find deleted sources from the threads talking about them :(