#greek theatre masks

[likethestarsatnight]

THEATER MASKS

That i have made in 2024-2025 :D

1.) THE MAIDEN

2.) THE COQUETTE

3.) THE MAD EMPEROR

4.) THE ACTOR

5.) MASQUERADE OFFERING TO DIONYSIUS

6.) DIONYSIUS

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

OKAY, THAT'S ALL!

[misterlemonztenth]

04-13-24 | misterlemonztenth.tumblr.com/archive

[tigergingicat]

Another Yuletide rec:

[double-dare-designs]

Greek Mask

Shadow and Light

[myburntwritings]

"Fucking Blood in my bar!"

Back in the 2 loop exploration time, a White mask was in the White Cypress sake Bar, and they pulled out one of the sake jugs with fake blood. He poured some into one of the cups, tasted it, and then left it on the bar with drips of blood all around it.

About 20 seconds later, Zagreus arrived. He took his coat off, looked at the jug, cup, and blood for a couple seconds, and then cleared it away, muttering about having to clean up after people not respecting his bar.

The WM in question was stood on the other side of the bar, not even hiding his bloody hand. Zagreus' stool was also missing from behind the bar, and he very aggressively went to grab one and replace it.

So, when Zagreus returns from Mycenae crate room halfway through the loop to find the mess Laocoon has left, he is visibly annoyed, cleaning up as he muttered

"People always leaving fucking blood all over my bar!"

Zagreus being played by Milton Lopes

[the-mandolorian]

Are you not aware that there comes a midnight hour when everyone must unmask…

— Søren Kierkegaard, 1813-1855, Danish philosopher

Masks of the Ancient Greek theatre

[leriexoxo]

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

Next>>

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There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

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[mcnecklong]

I'm just saying if I'm going to be the strange cryptid to this years theater group the only events they see me at i WILL be looking cool as fuck or I'll die trying

[not-that-dillinger]

Ed wasn't sure why he admitted all of that to James, other than he was worried about him, because James is his friend, and, yeah, he's a afraid of hurting the younger man.

He'd hoped... Ed's not sure what he hoped for. Some sort of conversation, heart to heart, to... he's not sure. Despite having been in therapy for ten years, he wasn't a therapist, and certainly didn't have the resources to be one for James, but he wanted to make sure he knew he had someone in his corner, if the younger man needed him, wanted him to understand that he didn't want James to try to appease him because Ed was certain he would find something to like about him.

He waits patiently for James to form a response.

A monster.

Ed had been called that many times before throughout his life, and many other things like it, by classmates, by coworkers, and sometimes by complete strangers who'd heard his name and made assumptions, to the point where introducing himself to anyone was always an anxiety inducing task. He'd learned to wrap hes feeling in a thick layer of steel, because what did they know about him?

But to come from a place of genuine concern for a friend, and be hit with that?

The pain to his gut is just as sharp as the knife James slew him with.

There's a half-second where Ed's face contorts in shock and pain and grief, before he shoves on a metaphorical mask and forces his expression into a carefully guarded neutral. He clamps down on the mask as hard as he can, not daring let it slip.

He doesn't argue that he's not, because James will believe whatever he wants, and it is Ed's actions that will convince him otherwise, if at all.

He knows who he is, he knows he's not his father, he's tried so hard not to be, but--

Ed gets the feeling he'd said something wrong, that somehow he'd ended up hurting James, even if he didn't mean to.

He wasn't--

Monster.

He didn't want to be. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt James.

Monster.

It was the same thing Oleander called him, when he'd taken away their sliders, when he'd torn into their code in a fear and anger.

Monster.

Was he?

There was only one logical solution, one way he could ensure he wouldn't hurt James.

"I--I don't think you're pathetic," Ed admits quietly. "Perhaps--perhaps I misinterpreted the situation, in which case, I'm sorry. You know yourself better than I do. But. If that is how you see me, then. Well. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, so perhaps it is for the best that I stay away."

Ed took a slow step backward.

"Good bye, James. I wish you well."

He turns around, and starts to walk away, back to his room where he can be alone.

/* Confession... for James! Your choice if he remembers it.*/

Ed, for once can't seem to bring himself to look at James. "You remind me a lot of my little brother," he admits. "Of how--how he was so eager to get our father's attention, how he would do anything to squeeze himself into the metaphorical mold that our father was so focused on trying to force me into, if only he could please that heartless monster, win his affection..." He sighs. "Except... in this case, I'm... him. I--I see now desperately you are trying to be the version you think I want, but... that wasn't healthy for Jules, and it's not healthy for you either. I don't want that. I don't want you to try to be someone you think I would like. I don't want to hurt you. I want to know the real you."

In my inbox, write a confession your muse want to tell my muse. The catch, my muse will forget what your muse said unless they say in the end “Remember it.”

James is... more than a little stunned to hear this from Ed, so much that he sort of blanks out for a few seconds.

A few key points stand out to him, but they create this confused cacophony in his mind, fully preventing him from responding for several long moments:

He reminds Ed of his little brother... Ed sees him not in a romantic way, not even as a friend, he instead sees him in what James feels is the absolute worst way possible: He sees him as a brother. Oh he hates that. He hates that. That makes him feel uncomfortable in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. It feels like a knife to the stomach.

Ed thinks he (himself) is a heartless monster. That he's going to hurt James. Maybe a few seconds ago James would have argued to the contrary. That Ed is the least heartless person he knows. He's the sweetest most kind person he knows, not to mention funny and smart and just all the things you'd want to know in a person. But now? Now James feels confused. He doesn't think Ed is heartless, but he feels he has the capacity to hurt him, because here James is, hurt. And James can't even try to tell Ed he's nothing like his father because he knows nothing about his father.

He thinks he's pretending. He thinks he's being desperate. He thinks he's... trying to be someone he's not, just for... what, Ed's approval? That's what he's saying? Well, of course James wants him to like him! That's the whole point! But why does that have to mean that James isn't also being himself? Why does that have to mean he's pretending? Is he saying that the only reason James likes him is out of some kind of ruse?

The real James is dead, he died a long time ago, smothered under the layers of who he had to pretend to be to please others in order to survive.

James doesn't even know if he can muster up a response to Ed. Every time he tries, he opens his mouth and nothing comes out and he ends up closing his mouth again.

Finally, his mind ends up going to some place it hasn't gone to since...... he isn't sure, but it went there before and it took a while to come back out, and when it did there was blood everywhere and the bucket, the bucket was gone.

He blinks. And smiles. But the smile doesn't reach his eyes. When he answers, his voice doesn't have the same bounce to it. It's oddly flat. Businesslike. "Okay. All right. Sorry about that, Ed. The real me? Okay. My mistake. I must have been pretending this whole time. You're right. I was faking my entire personality and everything about me just to get you to like me. Because that's what I do. Isn't it? I just put on a whole fake persona to get people like you to like me because I'm that pathetic. That's what you're saying? You know, Ed, you're right. You are a heartless monster."

[akanemnon]

What are microchip comedy and tragedy mask Darkners doing in a Dark World based off Asgore’s Flower Shop? I can get the comedy tragedy part due to the aesthetic of the other Darkners we’ve met so far, and that they have to be able to move around and latch onto faces that match their vibes somehow, but the legs that remind me of microchip prongs feel out of left field. Am I misinterpreting the legs part somehow?

The mask bugs are supposed to resemble stylized clamps you would use to hold together a glass cabinet. Which is why they're in the glass labyrinth, since that is the light world form of that place. Their legs are just to make them look more parasitic in nature.

I had the idea of using the imagry of comedy masks for a while now, since the classic theatre as we know it hails from ancient Greece. And well... the Dark World is based on Greek mythology, so y'know...

A lot of people have made Lethal Company references, and honestly I have never played it, so idk what you guys are referencing. The inspiration of the masks acting this way came from facehuggers from the Alien series, actually. But don't worry. This is NOT going into that direction. I promise.

[moltengoldveins]

@clingyduoapologist made a really cool “what if DSMP were a stage play” post and basically the instant I saw it I was struck by the muse but I don’t want to just chain reblog the dang thing or make one huge reblog with all my thoughts so instead here are all my thoughts on this concept

i don’t think it’s a musical. I think the tone of the story doesn’t fit. But if it were, it would have a Lot of scenes of unsung dialogue, and that dialoge? Would be rhythmic poetry. It’s Shakespeare Appreciation Time baby.

i do however think there would be a live score and an orchestra. A lot of the music would need to be recorded but there’s at least be a few musicians.

different characters speak in different poetic styles at different times to communicate character and plot development.

to elaborate on that: Characters switch from loose ABBA or ABAB rhyme schemes and vaguely rhythmic meter when chatting back and forth to strict perfect iambic pentameter for tense scenes or political speeches.

Techno speaks exclusively in unrhyming dactylic hexameter, an extremely common poetic form for Greek and Latin poetry. It’s what the Iliad was written in. This has the interesting effect of making Techno sound, at first glance, unpoetic. His speech doesn’t rhyme, and doesn’t follow a common English rhythm scheme, so it wouldn’t immediately register as structured. However, dactylic hexameter is actually significantly harder to write in English than expected because of our syllable stress patterns. Speaking like that would be, objectively, a sign of extreme intelligence, but could easily be overlooked as coarse uncultured behavior.

Techno’s chorus - composed of audience members, background extras, and people (in safety harnesses) sitting in the theater rafters - speak largely in Greek and Classical Chinese, quoting sections of the Art of War and Homer’s work. The major exceptions to this are ‘Blood for the Blood god,’ ‘no,’ and ‘do it.’ They all wear a hat or some form of headband that has a glowing LED eye, hidden, but activated when they speak. The audience plants are all in dark clothes, and when the lights go down they don medical masks/sunglasses. Anything to obscure their faces.

The Chorus, a group of robed masked people who broke the fourth wall and often entered the audience, was a vital part of early Greek theatre. I am an intolerable nerd, and the thought of sitting in a dark theatre only to hear an low distorted voice beside you start to comment on the play as a whole choir of voices echo around you, then turning to see your seat neighbor is a masked person with a glowing red eye in your forehead? Literally incredible.

Dream is the only character dressed in even remotely modern clothes.

Dream is first seen as someone (again, in modern clothes) sneaking around backstage in a black hoodie: most of the audience probably assumes he’s a stagehand and not meant to be seen. Then, at some point, he moves from behind a set piece and enters the scene as an actual character, revealing his mask.

interestingly, this is really similar to what I believe is a bit of myth about why ninjas are dressed in all black in modern media. They wouldn’t have been irl, they would’ve dressed like civilians. But stagehands in Japanese theatre would dress in all-black, and were often completely visible onstage moving sets - it was common courtesy to ignore them. Then one day some playwright had the brilliant idea of having one of the stagehands enter the story as an assassin, and suddenly every actor in all-black was a threat. For the life of me I can’t remember where I read that but it’s a cool thought :D

Dream canonically can interact with set pieces, lighting, and curtains.

Dream actively directs lighting in scenes he is not in, sitting above the stage kicking his feet.

Dream is often used to hand off props to characters instead of having them pull them from a pocket and pretend they were pulled from their ‘inventory.’ This begins to get confusing when Dream is acknowledged later on as the he person giving, say, TNT to Wilbur, or wither skulls to Techno.

characters address the audience as ‘Chat,’ (English’s first fourth-person pronoun my beloved) almost constantly, especially for comedic purposes- most of their monologues are addressed directly to the audience as well. For Wilbur, it’s a sign of instability when he stops addressing ‘Chat’ and start addressing the sides or back of the stage.

philza enters from the lower audience, right by the stage, probably after pooping up from the orchestra pit and taking a reserved seat halfway through so no one sees the wings.

Tommy has by far the least structured or rhyming dialogue - if it weren’t for how carefully crafted it was it would sound like normal prose.

Tommy speaks to the audience by FAR the most. Wilbur only addresses them when soliloquizing. Techno barely addresses them at all: they address him. Ranboo speaks to the audience only when alone, and it’s usually phrased like he’s writing in his memory journal. Tommy speaks to the audience at first like a loud younger brother. As he gets older, it sounds more and more like a plea for help, a prayer for intervention that will never come. Exile is one long string of desperate begging aimed our way.

Tommy stops speaking to the audience so much after Doomsday. He starts again when Dream is imprisoned. He stops for good when he dies in there, beaten, alone.

Sam and the Warden are meant to be played by different actors, ideally siblings or fraternal twins. They wear identical stage makeup and costumes, but the difference is there. None of the characters acknowledge this.

the Stage would need to be absolutely massive and curve almost halfway around the central audience, largely because it should be able to be split at times into two separate stages to show different things happening at the same time. This could possibly also work if there were two stages, but getting people to easily turn from one stage to the other without loosing sight of what was happening would be rough.

Doomsday taking advantage of the scaffolding in the rafters and using them as the ‘grid’ for the tnt droppers.

actual trained dogs for Doomsday my beloved. Would cost a fortune but could you imagine.

the entire revolution arc ripped off Hamilton, we all know that, I think we can afford to have a stagehand step forward in that frozen moment in time when Tommy and Dream have that duel, grab the arrow, and carry it slowly across the stage right into Tommy’s eye. For morale.

throughout the execution scene Techno keeps slipping out of poetic meter, especially when he sees/is worried about Phil. After the totem (which would be freaking amazing as some sort of stage effect with like lights and red and green streamers or smthn dude-) he stops speaking in poetry. The scene with Quackity is entirely spoken dialogue. Chat is silent. It’s only when he gets back and sees evidence that his house has been tampered with that Chat starts up again (kill, blood, death, hunt, hunt, hunt-) and he starts speaking in rhythm again.

Every canon death, Dream marks a tally on something in the background. Maybe it’s in his arm? Like a personal scorecard. Or maybe it’s on the person themselves, a little set of three hearts he marks through with a dry-erase marker or something.

phil and techno have a lot more eastern design elements and musical influences than the rest of the cast, except for Techno’s war theme which is just choir, bagpipes, and some sort of rhythmic ticking or thumping. Phil’s also got a choir sting but it’s a lot harsher, the ladies are higher and them men lower, and the chords are really dissonant (think murder of crows)

Tommy’s theme has a lot of drums, but its core is actually a piano melody. The inverse of Tommy’s theme is Tubbo’s, but Tubbo’s is usually played on a ukulele. Wilbur is guitar, obv, and Niki’s is on viola.

Quackity is a little saxophone lick. He and Schlatt both have a strong big band/jazz influence.

None of the instruments that play dream’s theme play anywhere else in the music. I’m thinking harp, music box, and some kind of low wind instrument.

[echoesofolympus]

DIONYSUS; A GUIDE TO WORSHIP

TEXT BELOW;

Dionysus;

Greek Name: Διονυσος

Transliteration: Dionysos

Latin Spelling: Dionysus

Translation: Liber, Bacchus

Parents: Zeus and Semele

Consort: Ariadne (Cretan princess and goddess)

God Of: Wine, festivity, madness, vegetation, fertility

Symbol: Thyrsus (pine-cone staff)

Sacred Animal: Bull, Panther, Serpent

Sacred Plants: Grapevine, ivy, bindweed

Also called: Bacchus, Lyaeus

Epithets and titles;

Βάκχος (Bakkhos) - Of Bacchic Frenzy

Βρόμιος (Bromios) - Noisy, Boisterous

Νυκτέλιος (Nyktelios) - Of the Night

Λαμπτήρος (Lamptêros) - Of the Torches

Αὐξίτης (Auxitês) - Giver of Increase

Ληναῖος (Lênaios) - Of the Wine-Press

Θεοῖνος (Theoinos) - God of Wine

Διμήτωρ (Dimêtôr) - Twice-Born

Λύσιος (Lysios) - Of Release, Releasing

Ἐλευθερεύς (Eleuthereus) - Of Liberation, Freedom

Μύστης (Mystês) - Of the Mysteries

Χθόνιος (Khthonios) - Of the Earth

Κίσσιος (Kissios) - Of the Ivy, Ivy-Bearer

Σταφυλίτης (Staphylitês) - Of the Grape

Προτρύγαιος (Protrygaios) - First of the Vintage

Offerings and associations;

Stones & gems: garnet, ruby, amethyst, grape agate

Incense: Frankincense, Grape, Ivy, Fig, Fennel, Cinnamon, Musk

Colours: red, purple, green, burgundy, gold

Food & drinks: red wine, olive oil, water, fruit, honey, honeyed milk, meats, wheat, barley

Tarot: Hanged Man, The Hierophant

Other: images of the things he's associated with, leaves or curls from grapevines, ivy leaves, pinecones, wildflowers, apple seeds, goblets, leopard or tiger print objects, theatre masks, phalluses/phallic statues

Historical worship;

Patron of regions;

Boeotia; Naxos;

Edonia in Western Thrace

Holiest shrine;

Mt Kithairon (Nysa) in Boeotia, Greece (site of Bacchic orgies)

Other shrines;

Temples throughout Greece

& Asia Minor

Honoured in fertility & harvest rituals

Known festivals:

Great Dionysia - a large festival celebrated in Athens

Anthesteria - festival celebrated in Attica and lonia around the time of the January or February full moon.

Lenaia - a dramatic
competition held in Athens and in some places in lonia

Colour associations;

Red — Represents wine and the blood of life. Also linked to the wild, passionate, and frenzied nature of Dionysian rituals.

Purple — Represents royalty and divinity. Also may represent the dye made from Tyrian murex shells, used in clothing for rituals and celebrations honouring Dionysus.

Green — Represents fertility and lushness of the natural world. Also linked to Ivy and grapevine.

Burgundy — Represents wine in its fermented, mature form.

Gold — Represents luxury, abundance, and divine light. Also linked to the suns role in ripening grapes for wine.

[the-mortuary-witch]

DIONYSUS

WHO IS HE?

Dionysus is a god of wine, fertility, theatre, and ecstasy. He is the son of the god Zeus and the mortal Semele, and is often depicted as a youthful and handsome god with a penchant for revelry and indulgence. Dionysus is often associated with wild and untamed nature, as well as with the overturning of social norms and the celebration of primal instincts.

BASIC INFO: 

Appearance: Dionysus’ appearance can vary somewhat, but he is often depicted as a handsome, youthful man with long, curly hair and a wreath of grapevines or ivy on his head, symbolizing his association with wine and the theatre. He is often depicted wearing a flowing, loose-fitting himation (a type of cloak) and sometimes carrying a thyrsus, a staff topped with a pinecone that is associated with his role as a god of wine and ecstasy.

Personality: in terms of personality, Dionysus is often seen as a god who is passionate, vivacious, and sometimes unpredictable. He is also seen as a god who is not bound by social norms or conventions, and who is often associated with chaos and the overturning of established order. In his interactions with his devotees, Dionysus is often seen as a figure who encourages his followers to let go of their inhibitions and embrace their primal nature and deepest desires. He is also seen as a god who rewards faith and loyalty and inspires ecstatic experiences and a sense of connection to a higher power.

Symbols: thyrsus, ivy crown, grape vine, theatrical masks, and phallus

God of: wine, drunkenness, parties, wilderness, vegetation, fertility, ritual madness, religious ecstasy, theatre, LGBTQ+ Community, and fruitfulness 

Culture: Greek

Plants: grape, ivy, cinnamon, silver fir, bindweed, and figs

Crystals: amethyst, tiger’s eye, serpentine, leopard jasper, amber, green opal, jade, grape agate, rose quartz, garnet, carnelian, and bloodstone

Animals: leopard, tiger, goat, donkey, lion, snake, bull, and panther

Incense: cinnamon, ivy, grape, patchouli, fig, musk, fennel, and frankincense 

Practices: transformation, wine and herb magick, personal growth, art magick, nature worship, healing, and dance magick

Colours: red, purple, green, burgundy, and gold

Number: 5 

Zodiac: Sagittarius

Tarot: The Hanged Man The Devil, and The Hierophant

Planets: Pluto and Jupiter

Days: Monday, Thursday, Bacchanalia, Dionysia, Lupercalia, New Years, and Yule

Parents: Zeus and Semele

Siblings: several paternal siblings 

Partners: Ariadne, Aphrodite, Adonis, Ampelus, Hymenaios, Laonis, and Prosymnus

Children: Priapus, Hymen, Thoas, Staphylus, Oenopion, Tauropolis, Euanthes, Comus, and Phthonus

MISC:

Grapes: Dionysus was often invoked to ensure a bountiful grape harvest and the continued production of wine. Additionally, grapes themselves are often associated with life, fertility, and abundance, which further reinforces Dionysus' connection to them.

Wine: it was an important part of ancient Greek and Roman culture and social life, and was often consumed during religious rituals and festivals. As the god of wine, Dionysus was often invoked to ensure the fertility of the grape harvest and the production of wine.

Ivy: it’s a parasitic plant that wraps itself around other plants and trees, and was seen as a symbol of Dionysus' transformative power and ability to bring forth new life. In addition, ivy was used as decorations for Dionysia rituals and festivals, and was sometimes braided into crowns and wreaths worn by his followers, the bacchants.

Leopard: in Greek and Roman mythology, Dionysus is often depicted as being associated with leopards or having a leopard pelt. Leopards are agile, powerful, and stealthy animals, which may reflect Dionysus' wild and untamed, yet graceful and powerful nature.

Amethyst: according to legend, amethyst was originally white but was stained purple by wine, which was spilled on the stone of a statue of Dionysus. This transformation symbolizes the god's ability to turn something ordinary into something extraordinary, as well as his association with wine and the intoxicating effects of intoxication. In some interpretations, amethyst is also seen as a stone with protective and spiritual properties, which may be why it is often associated with Dionysus' divine power.

Theatre: Dionysus is often associated with theatre and the performing arts. He is the god of the theater and is believed to have transformed the tragedy and the comedy into the two main categories of the art, with his followers creating the first theatre plays. In the city-state of Athens, the theater was a major cultural institution and was often dedicated to Dionysus, with the theatre season beginning with the Dionysia, a festival in honour of the god.

LGBTQ+: in ancient Greece, Dionysus was worshipped as a god associated with liminality and the transformation of identities. This aspect of his cult is sometimes interpreted as a reflection of the acceptance and inclusion of LGBTQ+ identities, who, like the god, transgressed and challenged societal norms and expectations. Many followers of Dionysus, regardless of their sexual orientation, were known for their wild and ecstatic behavior, and for transcending societal boundaries. This has led to some modern practitioners of his cult to use him as a symbol of queer liberation and acceptance. Dionysus has also had both men and women as lovers

FACTS ABOUT DIONYSUS:

He’s honoured in fertility and harvest rituals. 

The maenads, the female followers of Dionysus, were known for their wild and ecstatic behavior, often indulging in drunken revelries, singing, and dancing.

The satyrs, the male companions of Dionysus, were often depicted as half-man, half-beast creatures with goat-like features, who were known for their sexual prowess and lasciviousness.

Sometimes he is referred to as Bacchus in the Roman pantheon.

The cult of Dionysus was one of the most important cults in the ancient world, and was associated with mystery and initiation rituals.

Dionysus was born twice, first as the son of Zeus and the mortal woman Semele, and then later, when Zeus sewed Dionysus into his thigh to protect him from Hera's wrath.

According to The Bacchae by the Greek playwright Euripides, the hero King Pentheus of Thebes opposed the introduction of Dionysian rituals and was torn apart by his own mother and aunts in a Bacchic frenzy.

HOW TO INVOKE DIONYSUS:

Set up an altar dedicated to Dionysus, and place offerings of wine, grapes, or other items that are symbolic of his domain on it, light a candle and some incense, and say a prayer or invocation to call upon Dionysus, close your eyes and enter into a meditative state, and focus on connecting with Dionysus. When you feel that you have established a connection, ask Dionysus for guidance or assistance, and wait for a response.

PRAYER FOR DIONYSUS:

Dionysus, god whose arrival is swift and certain, enduring friend of women and men whose welcome is warm, bringer of light, we see you in shadows. Dionysus, granter of great blessings, your presence is a heady wine.

Kind hearted god, to each  you give as is fitting, each vessel you fill only as we can bear, and yet with even a sip, we are drunk upon you, and our faith is affirmed. Awesome god, but our own will we drink deeply, with you we become lost, we wander, we are found. Hail to you, Lord Dionysus.

SIGNS THAT DIONYSUS IS CALLING YOU:

Having recurring dreams or visions of Dionysus or his imagery, such as grapevines, ivy, or wild animals.

Unexplainable desires for wine or other intoxicating substances, or a pull towards the arts and creativity.

Experiencing sudden and unexplainable changes in your mental state or mood, such as feeling a strong sense of ecstasy or passion.

Finding yourself drawn to images or symbols of Dionysus. 

Experiencing a strong sense of connection to nature and the world around you, or feeling a pull towards wild and untamed places.

Developing a sudden interest in ancient Greek mythology and rituals associated with Dionysus, such as the Bacchic frenzy.

Feeling a strong sense of liberation or empowerment, as if a heavy burden has been lifted, or a desire to explore and embrace your own wild side.

OFFERINGS:

Wine. 

Olive oil. 

Fruit. 

Water. 

Images of the things he’s associated with. 

Pinecones. 

Honey. 

Meats. 

Strong or spicy smelling incense. 

Wheat. 

Barley. 

Pinecones. 

Ivy leaves. 

Wildflowers. 

Goblets. 

Apple seeds. 

Masks. 

Alcoholic beverages. 

Honeyed milk. 

DEVOTIONAL ACTS:

Stand up for those that are marginalized. 

Write stories/plays for Him. 

Drink grape juice or alcohol (only if you can and want to).

Take care of your physical and mental  health. 

Go on wine tours. 

Attend festivals, parades, and parties. 

Wear faux leopard or tiger print. 

Learn about theatre. 

Practice acting/join a theatre club. 

Donate and support local theatre groups. 

Stay up late enough that reality shifts a little. 

Honour his children, Ariadne, and his companions. 

Do things that bring you pleasure. 

Take an improv class. 

Read/write more poetry. 

Attend pride and support LGBTQ+ groups. 

Wear fruity scents. 

Unapologetically blast your music. 

Stay hydrated. 

Take a writing class or continue your writing.

Go to a party. 

Eat grapes or drink grape juice. 

Be the light in the chaos. 

Find ways to add more ivy into your life. 

Get in the habit of asking for someone’s pronouns before assuming.

Use more vinegar in cooking. 

Work on your balance between chaos and organization (both are very important). 

Make crafts using wine bottles/corks. 

Dance. 

Watch an old musical. 

[ancientcharm]

Melpemone, The Muse of Tragedy.

Photography and text: Egisto Sani / CC BY-NC 4.0

This colossal statue may have been part of the decorations of the Theatre of Pompey in Rome. It was discovered without arms in 1496. In 1782, Giovanni Pierantoni restored the Muse’s statua as Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy, by adding forearms and a modern tragic mask. Four other Muses were found towards the end of the 16th century in the same space. Melpomene was undoubtedly part of a group of nine muses who decorated the theater or the portico of Pompey Theater, the first stone spectacle building in Rome. This statute is the only one to have kept its original head. Former the statue belonged to the Vatican Collections; it was confiscated during the Napoleonic era in 1803, and was exchanged in 1815 with the “Laocoon”, which had been returned to the Vatican after the defeat of Napoleon.  Marble statue H. 3.92 mC. 50 BC. From Rome, Campus Martius, Theatre of Pompey. Department of Greek, Etruscan, and Roman Antiquities Paris, Musée du Louvre – (Ma. 411)

[margaretkart]

Carnival (Απόκριες) is nearby here in Greece but sometimes i think how neat it would be instead of wearing the basic Halloween costumes, we instead had a ancient Greek masks parties, wearing those exaggerated theatre masks and colourful chitons while dancing.

Missed potential here 🤔

[the-nosy-neighbor]

The back of your head is ridiculous. (reaally old meme)

A mutual had an interesting idea that I wanted to write a little about. They mentioned that this is our first time seeing the back of Sally’s head.

This is the first time we’ve seen the back of her head, and to have given it to us twice? Strange. Have we seen the backs of other people’s heads? The characters seem to do “cheating out” like they do on stage (where you unnaturally face the audience and never turn your back on them). I couldn’t find any examples of other characters facing backwards, with the exception of Howdy in “Commercials,” which was more of a side profile. I’m going to say that it is the first time we’ve seen the back of anyone’s head (unless you guys have found an example that I missed.)

It's interesting, though, because why give us the back of her head now? This book has a lot of head on views with flat windows, so that could be the case, but there are some very specific arrangements that don’t seem to make much sense:

For example, here we have two instances of that same head on flat window look. The window in the background shows the neighbors as shadowy figures for the first time, and it is somewhat unsettling. And on the next page, rather than give us the backs of the heads again we only get arms. I would guess this has something to do with this code that is in the bricks. Or at least, I think it is a code, I am still stumped. With examples of so many head on shots in the book and omission of heads, it is strange.

This is kind of a side quest: This image of Sally is highly suspicious to me. Not only is it oddly faced forward and close, the distress on her face seems out of character for the experience it is in relation to. Poppy may be scared, but she doesn’t know that for a fact, and Poppy has given no indications of distress. In fact, as the viewer with further information, we know that Poppy is rather more pleased to not have to do another play.

Once again, my connection to the theatre colors my interpretation of Sally. This image here is very classically Greek chorus style mask (among other styles of mask). Edit: this may be Clown and co pointing out to us that this is a mask.

These are traditional style (ancient) greek comedy/tragedy masks. They wouldn’t have been fused like this obviously, but I chose this represetation of them because of the shapes of the eyes and mouth.

This is a mosaic representation of the masks. I feel like I may have written about this at some point, but some brief info:

The Greeks used masks in theatrical productions for many reasons, but a lot of it was practical. They had large, outdoor theatres, which made it difficult for the actors to emote and speak in a way that they could be heard and understood. The masks are large than the face, and stylized into a look that is easily recognizable for the audience. In the mosaic image, you can see she has wide eyes and an open mouth, which would have been an expression of shock that would have been easily identified by the audience. This is a stand in for tragedy, as the other mask is obviously comedy. Not only are they different facial expressions, but they are different styles. Both the top left and bottom right figures are intended to represent comedy, particularly the character Bacchus, most likely. Bacchus was a jovial, party god, and the god of theatre. In addition, these masks had amplification devices built into the mouths, which allowed for more easily being heard.

As stated, they helped audiences interpret the mood and tone of the piece. It was a common practice in theatre of the time to provide cues for the audience to respond to. The chorus, a group of actors who would come on and off stage, not only provided information about action off the stage (usually considered to be inappropriate to be represented on stage) but also provided instruction as to what the audience should be feeling at this point. According to Aristotle, a contemporary, theatre’s use to society was to provide a purging of emotion through experiencing the emotions presented by the show, which led to a feeling of catharsis (purged, resolved emotion.)

As you can see in the upper right mask, Sally is very obviously styled on a traditional tragedy mask. The eyebrows and the mouth are both dead ringers. I wouldn’t be surprised if Clown or another of the artists have theatrical roots, as many references as I find around.

Back to the back of Sally’s head:

Also, Poppy is dramatic as heck in this.

As you can see here, most of the action takes place through different sides of the window. It is showing us how they could have done it without showing us the back of a head.

This page is very striking, and it features each character’s color in the background of their window. I particularly like Frank and Julie’s window fading from her color to his. Is there another meaning to these windows? Also, I noticed Barnaby is eating at least twice in this book.

But back to the original point, none of these arrangements would require that Sally’s head be turned away from the audience, and in-universe awareness of the audience aside (because I don’t think Sally acknowledges us during this video) a theatre professional would never turn their back on the audience (without specific instruction or reasoning). I think this means that the creators wanted us to see the back of her head. This is for sure our first glimpse of it.

The back of her head was likely hidden from us before. When Q tests Wally’s interference on the original website, they give the instruction, “Reverse this image of Sally.” We really puzzled on that one before Wally answers it, thinking that we must be missing something. It wasn’t super clear if the instruction was to us or someone else. So there was a lot of theorizing on how that would go:

But I know I was certainly not ready to see the image flipped in a way that provides us an entirely new perspective:

Not only did Wally come through, he labeled the image “I did not understand you. Does this help you?" To be fair, we didn’t really understand it either, as most of us were flipping the image of the front side, since there is no back side available. I never really thought that this outcome made sense. If you were going to reverse the image, it would either be horizontal, vertical, or to the back of Sally’s figure. Keeping Sally hidden behind a curtain doesn’t really make sense. So my thinking is that Wally is hiding the back of Sally. edit: this could also mean that W is not only testing Wally, but is trying to out something specific about the back of Sally's form that Wally hides by giving us the curtain.

Now, why would he do that? I’m not sure why he is hiding her from us, as we can’t see what is in front of that curtain. However, based on clues from this and prior updates, I have guessed that there is a duality to Sally.

Let me come at it from a particular angle.