#interplay of light and life

[tootyjesus]

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[everythingisconfetti]

what is the best love song ever written and why is it Fair by The Amazing Devil?

[almostbeautifulicreator]

[freshthoughts2020]

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Morning Kisses.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!!

authors note - happy birthday to my one true love, honestly, can’t put into words how much he, his music and just his being has had an effect on my life. here’s to thirty-one!! 🥂

word count - 700.

in which, it’s the morning of harry’s birthday and what better way to wake him up then with kisses.

The early morning light seeps through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. The world outside is still quiet, the city not yet stirring, but here, in the warmth of your shared bed, time feels suspended.

You wake first, your body instinctively curling closer to his before your eyes even open.

Harry lies beside you, his breathing slow and steady, his face softened in sleep. His curls are tousled against the pillow, a few stray strands falling over his forehead.

The faintest shadow of stubble dusts his jaw, and in the gentle light, you can see the way his lashes fan against his skin. His lips, slightly parted, hold the trace of a peaceful dream.

Thirty-one today.

A thought that lingers in your mind as you take him in, memorising every detail, as if you haven’t done this countless times before.

His bare shoulder peeks from beneath the duvet, the curve of it strong yet relaxed in slumber. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, reassuring. The warmth of him radiates beneath the covers, a familiar comfort that has long since become home.

You reach out, barely brushing your fingers over his arm, the heat of his skin meeting yours in a silent connection.

Carefully, you reach up and brush a stray curl away from his forehead, your touch featherlight, not wanting to wake him just yet. But you can’t help yourself—the quiet adoration swelling in your chest demands to be expressed.

Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his temple, lingering just a second before moving down to the bridge of his nose, then his cheek, your lips barely grazing his warm skin.

You’re just about to press a kiss to his lips when a deep, raspy voice interrupts you.

"Are my lips going to get a kiss as well?"

His voice is thick with sleep, slow and heavy, his words melting into the quiet of the morning. His lips curve slightly, eyes still closed, but there’s a teasing lilt to his voice, like he’s been awake just long enough to feel you moving against him, to soak in the affection you so freely give.

Your heart stirs at the sound of him, the warmth of him, the way his presence alone can make you feel like the safest, softest thing in the world. He shifts slightly, his body stretching beneath the duvet, muscles flexing as he sinks further into the pillows, waiting.

And, of course, you oblige.

There is a softness in your embrace, a tender interplay of delicate touches that transcends the need for words. The gentle rustle of sheets accompanies every subtle movement, as you press your lips against his ones.

The closeness of your bodies creates an intimate cocoon, where the only language is that of touch—a language that tells of love, adoration, and the beauty of shared vulnerability.

Time seems to dissolve in the cocoon of this quiet moment, as you explore the contours of his face with soft, lingering kisses.

The intimacy of the make-out session evolves naturally—a slow, meandering journey through the realms of affection and desire.

Every soft, deliberate caress of your lips, every tender press against his skin, feels like a silent vow to cherish him on this day and always.

In these moments, the world beyond the confines of your bed fades away. There is only the gentle interplay of warmth, the quiet murmur of your heartbeats, and the soft interplay of skin and breath.

The morning air, cool and crisp against the heat of your shared passion, lends a surreal quality to the experience, as if the very elements of nature have conspired to celebrate the love that fills the room.

As you lose yourself in the blissful intimacy of the moment, your heart overflows with gratitude for this shared life—a life where each birthday becomes a gentle reminder of the love and tenderness that defines you both.

With every kiss, every soft, lingering touch, you reaffirm the silent promise of devotion and the timeless beauty of being in each other’s arms on this, his special day.

“What do you want to do for your birthday, sweet boy?” You muse, pressing one last kiss to his lips.

He smirks at you. “— I have a few ideas.”

[please1mistress]

WARNING Flashing IMAGE and HYPNOTIC COVERT language

Inductions

Hypnosis, a fascinating and complex phenomenon, has captivated human interest for centuries. It's a state of focused attention, heightened suggestibility, and vivid fantasies. People often think of hypnosis as a deep sleep or unconsciousness, but in reality, it's more about a trance-like state where the individual is actually in heightened awareness of suggestion. Often used for therapeutic purposes, hypnosis can aid in various issues such as stress, anxiety, pain management, and certain habits like smoking. However, it's not a magical cure-all; its effectiveness varies from person to person.

Hypnosis can also be a form of entertainment, where stage hypnotists perform shows that demonstrate the power of suggestion. Despite its many applications, hypnosis remains a subject of debate among scientists and psychologists. Some view it as a powerful tool for mental health, while others caution against its potential to create false memories or its use in recovering memories, which is a controversial area within the field. It's important to approach hypnosis with a critical mind and understand that it's a complex interplay of psychological and physiological factors. If you're considering hypnotherapy, it's crucial to seek out a qualified and certified professional to ensure a safe and beneficial experience, someone like me.

You find yourself reading these words and as you read they seem to take on a life of their own, almost like magic. Your mind slows as you red larger more complex words and you may feel a soft tingle of arousal as you FOCUS on my words and feel dreamy. It's quite fascinating how the complexity of words can influence our cognitive processes. When we encounter larger, more intricate words, our brains need to work harder to decode the meaning, which can sometimes slow down your reading speed. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; it allows for deeper processing and understanding of the messages I am pushing softly into your mind. It's easy to relax and follow the words you read. It's easy to feel dreamy as your mind accepts that it wants to drop deeper.

Dropping deeper feels good, as you touch yourself and keep reading you can let go of any inhibitions or control. it's so easy to sink into a light trance, after all entering a light trance can be a simple, yet profound experience. It's a state where the conscious mind takes a step back, allowing the subconscious to surface and express itself more freely. This can happen during various activities that engage the mind in a repetitive, rhythmic manner, such as listening to music, meditating, or even during a long drive. In this state, people often find their thoughts flowing more smoothly, their creativity heightened, and their stress levels reduced. It's a moment of introspection and connection with the inner self that can provide clarity and insight. While in a light trance, the mind filters information differently, prioritizing internal dialogue and sensation, which can lead to a deeper understanding of one's thoughts and feelings. It's a natural and accessible state that can offer a respite from the hustle and bustle of daily life, and a gateway to greater self-awareness.

You are not even aware of how deeply into the trance you are, your fingers stroking your arousal for me as you read and feel a dreamy warmth spreading from your fingers into your whole body. Aware but unaware that you could stop at anytime, but you don't want that, you want to keep reading and sinking deeper and deeper as you feel arousal growing more for me. It just feels so good to give in, the very act of giving, whether it's time, resources, or kindness, has a profound impact on your well-being. It transcends the material value of what is given and touches the very essence of human connection. When you give, you're not just passing on a physical item or a piece of advice; you're sharing a part of yourselves, creating a bond that reflects your shared humanity. This act of generosity can be deeply satisfying, as it often brings joy and relief to others, which in turn enriches your own life. It's a beautiful cycle of positivity that reinforces the best parts of being a good submissive.

Giving has been shown to activate regions in our brain associated with pleasure, social connection, and trust, creating a warm glow effect. It's no wonder that the phrase "it's better to give than to receive" has resonated through the ages. This isn't just a moral suggestion; it's backed by science. Studies have found that giving to others can increase our happiness more than spending money on ourselves. This might be because when we give, we feel a sense of purpose and meaning, knowing that we've made a positive impact on someone else's life.

Moreover, the act of giving doesn't have to be grandiose to be effective. Small acts of kindness can ripple outwards and have unforeseen positive consequences. Just as a pebble creates waves when thrown into a pond, a simple gesture of generosity can spread far and wide. It's the intention behind the act that matters most, the recognition that even the smallest offering can make a significant difference.

In a world that often emphasizes individual achievement and accumulation of wealth, it's important to remember the value of generosity. It's a reminder that our interconnectedness is a source of strength, not weakness. By giving, we acknowledge that we are part of a larger community, one that thrives when its members support each other. It's a powerful acknowledgment that we are not alone in our journey through life, and that by helping others, we are also helping ourselves.

So, when we say it feels good to give in, it's not just about the act of giving up or surrendering; it's about embracing the joy of generosity. It's a celebration of the human spirit and its capacity for compassion and empathy. Giving is an affirmation that, despite the challenges we face, there is goodness in the world, and we have the power to contribute to it, one act of kindness at a time. It's a simple truth that enriches our lives and the lives of those around us, creating a legacy of goodwill that can endure beyond our own existence. Indeed, to give is to receive a gift of immeasurable value—the happiness and satisfaction that come from knowing we've played a part in making the world a little brighter.

You want to give in more deeply, message me and tell me how much you need deeper brainwashing NOW!

[marsprincess889]

Intuitive messages

Random and symbolic. This may or may not be for you, trust your intuition.

Disclaimer: I start to channel with images, feelings/vibes and random symbols, then I see storylines and then other messages come too. These might be ??? to you in the beginning but please, trust that if you truly think that you picked your group correctly, then there is, most likely, a message there for you, even if it's not obvious at first.

Note: I have a lot of love for all of these three groups and collectives, a lot😭 I think we'd get along really well irl if it's not weird to say. Sending all of you compassion and love. Wish all of you luck🤍

Picture 1:

Signs: lizard, iguana, Slavic, name Irina, "The Great"(2020-2023), candles, Eastern Orthodoxy, Orthodox Christmas(happy late Orthodox Christmas guys🤍), "Slavic bimbo" aesthetic, goose/geese, pine tree forest, mandarin orange, Barbara, a barber?, brown colored desserts, Claire/Clarisse/Clara, Tchsikovsky, berries, Alina, Shadow and Bone(the whole of Grishaverse but specifically the S&B part of it). Nakshatras of Shatabhisha, Ardra, Ashlesha, Dhanishta, Vishakha.

"Oh Irina..."

Hello Irina.

If you're not named Irina or something similar, it might be the name of a person relevant to you or this reading. Or maybe you just like the name/it means something to you.

I'm seeing darker colors of Winter. I got a distinct Slavic vibe for this group, but might be somewhere else.

Now I'm getting the word "malina", which means raspberry, and the name Alina.

I think I'm seeing Alina and being reminded of "Shadow and Bone" so that I can channel the message...

It does not have to be relevant to you.

Anyways, Alina is the protagonist of "Shadow and Bone"(book trilogy and a show), for those who don't know, and she's the Sun summoner(only one of her kind), representing light that is eventually going to fight the darkness. That theme of light and dark and their interplay is the perhaps the most obvious theme of that work.

Spoiler alert😭 sorry.

Alina repressed her powers in the beginning, while being tested, so that she would not be discovered, fearing that if she did in fact have powers, she would be taken away from her best friend from the orphanage, not wanting to be apart from him. They were children then.

For context, she could have had any power but the power of the Sun Summoner had been prophesized and highly desired, not only by grishas(basically, people with powers in that universe) but for also saving the kingdom of Ravka(Slavic coded) from the fold(it's a wall/passage of void and darkness). So, she gave up a life in the palace, that grishas get, to stay in the orphanage with her best friend, unknowingly depriving the nation of the Sun Summoner for years as a result😭.

There might be a theme of willing or concious concealment, most likely of yourself.

There are many variations of this: some of you are doing it for noble reasons, some of you do it for survival, some of you do it just... because, reasons.

A version of this is that you have hidden your views, opinions, preferences, thoughts, feelings and/or small actions, because you think people around you will harm you? This sounds intense, I'm sorry if this is true. Maybe not physically harm you, but you guys just have a concious need or desire for extreme privacy and secrecy. It looks to me like you're doing this to reach a specific goal.

For some of you, most likely a minority, I'm getting that this is a pregnancy, and that it's not from a committed relationship or a marriage.

For others, it's a course you decided to take in life, maybe about choosing a degree or wanting to learn something(literally taking a course for a skill) on your own.

For the rest, this might be just passivity and silence around others when there might be a tense situation. This is probably the only instance in this group where I'm guided to say that that is not the best choice at all, in fact, it might be setting you back.

"Don't assume when you don't see"

"Don't express what you don't know"

Interesting... I think you guys are not only concealing your truths, but also sharing things that mean little to you. You might be speaking a lot about politics, for example, when it's of little interest to you, and your opinions might be strong too. Or you might partake in gossip about people you don't care about at all. You might be wasting your energy on outside things that keep the life around you going in some way, but deep down you feel ignored and jaded, keeping your world a secret. A feeling I'm getting while writing this is exhaustion, and a string of hope, fleeting, barely there. It's like you have a little eagerness and enthusiasm for sharing your opinions/choices/reality(whatever you're hiding) all the while it's getting trampled on over and over and over...

This is torturous. You should be able to feel included in the life around you. Your values are imperative and they should reflect on your outward reality. I know that you are concealing them in hopes of working on making them manifest in reality, but no. Your struggle is not worth whatever can be achieved by this. It might make things way worse...

Trust yourself and don't listen to me if you think I'm wrong, especially if your situation does concern pregnancy or a huge life choice, but please, hear me out too if you can.

"There is a sign" is what I've got. You might be given a sign about where you will be heard, valued and supported. Something about the letter U and nuts is what I'm getting already😭. These, and the sign you might get can be signs of a place or a person, of where or to whom you should go to if you're tired of pretending and in need of a relief.

"Your mother loves you". This is definitely for someone. Most likely a feminine. Maybe for Irina.

I'm hearing "you have everything". There is so much that is a treasure around you, even if it seems like everything surrounding you only restricts you. You have that passion inside, and other people have not managed to erase your dreams completely, have they?

You might be close to reaching the finish line of whatever you're trying to achieve. This is an encouraging and proud sign that you are on the destined path, driving on the destined road. Keep going, it's right there...

Picture 2:

Signs: Shakespeare, drama, existentialism, period movies/tv, longing for love and passion, medieval fantasy/history/films/cosplay/comedy/anything, Aidan, Gwen/Gwyn, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, USA, The Witcher, Ciri from The Witcher, daydreamer, Phantom Of The Opera, past life regression attempts(successful or not), 124, Jack, Jackson, "liar liar", emotional/intense music, poems, boarding school?, "Jack and the beanstalk", rainy weather, Monty Python, quiet kid, bug/bugs. Nakshatras: Pushya, Bharani, Mula, Krittika.

Jack, this is the pile of Jack.

I don't know who this is. Jack might even be a character. It might be something different for everyone.

Ohhhh I got "Jack and the beanstalk", okayyy...

Someone here is non-binary, I'm also getting gay men in their younger years.

Middle child or youngest child?

Some of you love theater, but that's an obvious explanation of the images I'm getting. There's a flavor of dramaticism and theatrical behavior.

But the soul of Jack or whoever is reading this is that of a dreamer. And the dreamer that they are, dreams big. You have a wonderful, rich, spectacular mix of stories, feelings, aspirations inside of you, and that world is the highest, most precious thing for you.

Jack climbed the beanstalk, went higher and higher than his mundane world. And I think that's what the theme of the message is, in a way.

There's something fiery with the way you guys present yourselves, something filled with passion and real, intense but self-aware care. You seem aware of your nature and delight in it. There's something airy and "larger than life" about you, but at the same time_ aware and grounded. I don't think I'm describing it properly but that energy feels very beautiful to me.

Might be off topic but the images I'm getting here are: a redhead young woman with blue eyes(or is she blonde?) with her hair flying and she has a very present/aware but dreamy expression, red and black plaid, Scottish highlands, rainy/gloomy/misty weather in mountains, fire, colors red and green in general. Someone here might be from Scotland, have Scottish ancestry or maybe they just love the country to the point where it means a lot to them. For the rest, you might have been getting signs about it, or seeing Scotland as a sign? Anyway, it's a sign you're being given now.

"Jack and the beanstalk" is a fascinating story because it's describing an ambitious but mostly go-with-the-flow, relaxed boy, and him climbing the beanstalk and believing the person who gave him the beans can make people describe him as having his "head in the clouds", and also having the fiery drive to just climb it😭. Aries energy is just like that, so maybe you have Aries(sidereal, but ig can be tropical too) as an important placement. But I'm also getting air signs, and earth signs, and Pisces.

So when Jack came back from the land of the giants, he brought gifts. Gifts that he had stolen btw but let's not dwell on that😭

Weirdly I don't think this is a message about "be true to your dreams, believe in them and share their results with your loved ones" as sweet as that is, because you're way past that like that is not your focus at all. It's also not the message of "you have to ground your dreams somehow in the practical reality". I don't think that's an issue for you. Even if it is, I think there's a different message here and I'm not sure what it is yet...

Someone realized something that made them have clarity. It's you. You have seen/heard/realized something. I'm getting you laughing about it, maybe from relief, happiness and/or irony.

I'm getting a situation that concerns a person you know. They either helped you or you want to help them/have helped them. I don't think you're super close with them. They don't seem like a family member. But the situation is close to your heart, spirit and soul... You might think this is karmic, something you have to do. Like, if you help them you'll be rewarded and free of a burden.

"Jack is in their head"

That was said to me from my intuition. Why are you in your head? (All of you are Jack now for a second ok?😭 all of you are named Jack, for all intents and purposes)

"Jack is a good kid"

I know. You are. Maybe you needed to hear this.

Why is this connected to your "head in the clouds" or your character though? Maybe I needed to get into your energy.

I'm getting names Mabel, Mary, Harley and Holly now. Ok. Got them quickly. Might be you or someone else, maybe that person. Isla? Something about a cage, a secret understanding between you and that someone?

Are you worried? You are trapped somehow, feeling sad about it? But you were not harmed, at least that's not how you see it. You might feel guilty or sad for someone, and a lot. Oh I so did not expect this to go here. It's like a very engaging story.... which I got in the beginning. The drama, the story, the realization. What is happenning?

Did that happen already? And then you realized something and were done with it?

(Note: so I got up and walked around, hoping to get more info. This is what came to me, some of these details nay resonate with you but the message stays:)

"Jack is a kid(you might be in your early 20s at most). He lives in Scotland, has an older brother and a younger sister. Jack has great leadership potential and a character that suits it inside him, but he's too "over it" and has a grounded but high perspective that prevents him from engaging or caring too much, and makes him more deatched, kind if like you(so Jack is like me huh). Jack saw something he shouldn't have seen, realized something he shouldn't have known. He went and apologized to whomever it concerned and then left that situation. Now Jack feels even worse, worn out and guilty. In his mind, that situation is over, he does not want to go back to it, and he does not have to, but he must have peace of mind. Jack is a good kid. That girl(maybe that other person is a female. I'm getting Isla or and S name that has I in it?) will talk to you and give you relief. Don't worry Jack."

Wow. So that already happened. You might have any of the pronouns btw, I just wrote "he". So you know what happened and most don't. Maybe, in that situation, someone from your family has wronged that person or you indirectly/unknowingly harmed them, or thought you did. You went to explain yourself and be rid of it. I think it has really worn you out, made you think too much. And that situation is also a secret that you were not supposed to know.

If you have not resonated to a single thing in this reading yet, idk what to tell you. But here's the theme: you have a high perspective and understanding, against your will, but you also like it most times. You will reach success?? I'm getting success for you, congrats, mainly in self-development/dreams/career for some. Some of you might be on your way to fame actually, minor or major, but only take this if it makes sense for you. It might be unexpected though. You have to stop thinking too much about whatever that situation is that dragged you down energetically. If that part of getting invloved in a secret mess resonates, then that other person is going to, most likely, say thanks/apologize/acknowledge your actions.

You can take that experience as a lesson and a turning point. You might remember it with a lot of feeling in the future, reminiscing on it with quiet comtemplation or vivid memory.

I still don't know the whole story of this. Is there a secret child involved? Let me know maybe...

Either way, I hope you have a good day, Jack😉🤍

Picture 3:

Signs: clean white sheets, linen, horses, color white, green meadows, wired earphones, clear blue skies, cloudy evenings in summer, youth/childhood, 33, rivers, washing clothes in a river, nymphs, lambs, calf, distrust of older males, visible joy, hidden suspicions/fears, Annie/Annika/Anne/Anya..., golden brown/ light blonde or long and dark brown/black hair, white tea, Bern(Switzerland)(big sign), Geneva(Switzerland), Lorraine(Germany), white flowers, Jasmine(name or flower), Elizabeth/Liz, initial T(might be of anything). Nakshatras of Punarvasu, Jyeshta, Uttara Bhadrapada.

I'm getting something about a rural environment, maybe about a family home there. It's in the mountains and there is a lot of green there in the summer.

This is most likely a memory or a previous wish/dream. I'm hearing now it was something that has happened and something you have a clear/vivid memory of, still.

I'm getting a sense of a (extended)family gathered together somewhere. I'm seeing it's in Summer months but it could've been anytime. It seems like a happy and carefree occassion. There might have been a man/male, someone older who raised hair or set off a silent alarm within you. You, the person reading this, might have noticed something or just gotten a gut feeling about him that gave you an ick, a huge ick actually. What's interesting is that I think only you noticed it, there certaiy was not much validation from others when it came to that.

"You were not imagining it"

"Someone was wrong"

"Children notice a lot"

I am so sorry but I am getting creepy and disgusting energy from that person. An older female(maybe a male for some of you) in your family/in that group might have defended him or told you you were being silly, imagining it, making things up from little evidence. But you were not. I am getting, strongly, that you were right. I have no idea why this is coming up though. For most of you, I'm getting this is not something traumatic to you, at least not really, but if it is, I hope you get your justice, however much you need. You should not doubt your childhood self is the message for you.

Validation from wherever I'm hearing this messages(😭my intuition?) is here. I think you're revisiting that time in your life or just remembering how you felt then and realizing you're not so different from that version of you. This is going to give you a lot of validation and true confidence. When others ignored or doubted you, you held on to yourself. Good for you. But I have to say that you were most likely around 12-13 at most, for most of you, which makes your self-respect even more impressive. There were so many attempts, councious or not, at killing the trust you had for yourself. Maybe the years after tried to do it again but wow, even though you almost slipped, everything arrayed against you just fell away, on its own. And now you have come back to that place of an untainted perspective.

This message was for you if you had longer, brown hair then, or very light blonde, and/or if your or some other person's name there was Anne, Annie, Annika, Anya, or any variation of it. Even if not, that still might've been for you, but that was just confirmation for a collective.

(Added note: when I wrote "might've been" just now, I wrote "might've bern" at first. Bern, Switzerland might be of relevance to this, or the whole country of Switzerland, actually. Adding that to signs😄)

"Annika, you are spot on"

I'm going to feel embarrassed if none of you are named Annika or a similar name but that's what I got😶 maybe that name means something to you, even if you do not have a real-life person in your life who is called that.

Another name I'm getting is Liz, or Lizzie, Eliza... you get it, any variation of it. If someone here is named Elizabeth, then they most likely get addressed by a shortened version of the name, or were then.

I'm getting Annika and Anne names much more strongly though.

So going back to the message, anyone who invalidated you, made you feel like you were insane, they do not know what they are talking about, and never did. At least regarding your perspectives and your inner world in general. It is hard when family makes you feel unseen, alone and abandoned, but give yourself a break for a moment and realize, that you have been the one with the clear vision all this time, you are the one who has the best awareness.

I feel something like irony and calm reminiscing. You have grown so much, only to become the same person you were that time. And I still call that growth.

(Another note: when I wrote "same" I wrote "sane" at first. You ARE sane, have always been.)

I am truly sorry for those people who made you feel insane because they are going to be really put through an experience. Not that you care for it much. I think you guys are good at having a "birds eye view", a high perspective that allows you to see the whole picture clearly. You are not petty at all, and prefer peace and calm as your vengeance against those who wronged you. Those people are about to have the rug pulled from under their feet. They are going to feel like the earth has bern opened beneath them. A blessing that they have never gotten_ the truth revealed. You have known it all along.

I think you guys forgot about that situation, and now, going back to it emotionally or mentally, or even psychologically, might feel like you're yourself again, whole.

If you guys have not hit a milestone yet, then I'm seeing success for you. At the very least, I'm seeing mental assuredness and spritual security in you, calm(on the outside) passion and contentment in general, a lot of independence too. True freedom from unecccesary imposter syndrome is also there. A momentum is going to be picking up in your life, like a ball rolling and getting bigger, picking up more as it goes. Independence, validation, balance, peace💕 and you're looking good I see, you're feeling fresh, healthy and true, natural.

Do not go back to anyone who has wronged you, even if they want to apologize and want your forgiveness. It's rude not to do so for some people, but your momentum cannot bear to be affected by that familiar, harmful energy. Try to be as distant with them as possible, and try to spend as little energy on them as possible, preferrably, none at all.

I'm seeing travel for you guys and I want to congratulate you. Do not know why, but maybe the fact that you have arrived in this flow is enough.

👑 here, for you.

Please comment or reblog to let me know if and how this resonated. I'd love to know more.

[covid-safer-hotties]

You're becoming oddly ableist.

Talking about medical reality isn't ableism

One of the most striking findings was that post-COVID deficits in hospitalized patients look similar to 20 years of normal aging. The team also found that people who had been hospitalized with COVID had reduced brain volume in key areas and abnormally high levels of brain injury proteins in their blood.

Our findings indicate that COVID-19 is associated with molecular signatures of brain aging and emphasize the value of neurological follow-up in recovered individuals.

The pandemic has highlighted the complex interplay between viral infection, immune aging, and brain health, that can potentially accelerate neuroimmune aging and contribute to the persistence of long COVID conditions. By inducing chronic inflammation, immunosenescence, and neuroinflammation, COVID-19 may exacerbate the processes of neuroimmune aging, leading to increased risks of cognitive decline, neurodegenerative diseases, and impaired immune function. Key factors include chronic immune dysregulation, oxidative stress, neuroinflammation, and the disruption of cellular processes. These overlapping mechanisms between aging and COVID-19 illustrate how the virus can induce and accelerate aging-related processes, leading to an increased risk of neurodegenerative diseases and other age-related conditions.

"COVID-19-induced microhemorrhagic lesions may exacerbate DNA damage in affected brain cells, resulting in neuronal senescence and activation of cell death mechanisms, which ultimately impact brain microstructure-vasculature," says Dr. Muralidhar L. Hegde, Ph.D., a professor of neurosurgery at Houston Methodist and a corresponding author of the review. "These pathological phenomena resemble hallmarks of neurodegenerative conditions like Alzheimer's and Parkinson's diseases and are likely to aggravate advanced-stage dementia, as well as cognitive and motor deficits."

Covid results in brain damage. Brain damage results in shifts in behavior and/or personality. This is something that must be discussed.

Signed,

Someone who experienced life-altering brain damage three times as a teenager

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (3/20)

Hey, babes!! I'm so happy with the proportion that this story is taken! I really love the characters and their personalities, and I think I should take advantage of my lack of not having an older woman for myself and write about that ( and having two older woman hehehe 😈)

So, I fucking love this chapter, my favorite chapter (for now)

It's midnight over here! Good dawn, gays! and hold your hands to yourself.

Enjoy it <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Finally the women stop of pretending for themselves and understand you can be something bigger than they know.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

Lust

Rio Vidal’s life was a succession of extremes. When she created, it was as if the world around her ceased to exist—colors and textures consumed everything, and each brushstroke was as visceral a necessity as breathing. But when she wasn’t immersed in her art, the void swallowed her with equal intensity. She oscillated between creative fervor and suffocating stagnation, and lately, the latter seemed to be winning.

She would never admit it out loud—pride had always been her greatest virtue or, depending on whom you asked, her most fatal sin. Rio had achieved what she wanted. Exhibitions in Paris, auctions in New York, murals signed in cities she barely remembered visiting. She was a revolution in the art world—the woman who defied rules, who turned canvases into war, who imposed her aesthetics and made critics swallow their bitter opinions. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

It never was.

Her relationship with Agatha had settled into an odd calm. They still shared intense moments, passionate arguments, and glances that spoke more than words. Agatha was made of controlled tides, while Rio was a storm that never knew when to stop. They loved each other, and sometimes that was a problem. But somehow, the spark that used to set everything ablaze between them felt distant.

When Agatha announced she would start mentoring young artists at the university, Rio saw a light in her that she hadn’t seen in a long time. There was something about Agatha’s energy, the way she dedicated herself to new talents, that reminded Rio why she had fallen in love with her in the first place.

That was why, that morning, instead of sending someone to fetch Agatha’s coffee, she decided to go herself. Not because she liked the coffee shop—the place was small, unremarkable, nothing that stood out. But perhaps that was precisely what made it stand out. The ordinary had always fascinated Rio in a way she didn’t fully understand.

And then, she saw you.

It wasn’t like admiring a work of art. There was no perfect composition, no interplay of light that made the scene worthy of a painting. It was something else. An alluring imperfection. Your slightly loose uniform, your worn-out apron, the way you tried to appear confident as you asked what she wanted. Rio knew immediately.

You needed to be seen.

And at that moment, Rio decided she wanted to look.

When you adjusted your apron and asked what she wanted, your voice wasn’t firm. No, it wavered, full of hesitation. Rio should have ordered the coffee, taken it, and left. But instead, she let her gaze wander over you. Meticulous. Maybe even cruel.

Then it happened. The subtle tremor of your hands made the cup slip, the hot liquid spilling onto Rio’s pristine white blouse. The sting of the coffee on her skin didn’t even make her flinch. Physical pain was insignificant to someone like her. But your embarrassment, the hurried sound of apologies spilling from your lips—that was what truly caught her attention.

And then came the moment that marked her more than it should have. In the bathroom, as she removed her stained shirt, Rio realized that your nervousness had a different taste. It wasn’t the kind of fear she saw in young journalists or insecure subordinates. It was almost… innocent.

She stood before the mirror, observing her reflection and the coffee-stained blouse. Her expression was unreadable, but inside, something roared like a caged animal. An unsettling sensation, long forgotten, stirred within her, something that made her skin tingle, a familiar shiver running down her spine.

"I… I’m really sorry," you said, your voice hesitant as you pulled a clean shirt from your bag. "This was totally my fault. Here, please, you can wear this."

Rio turned slowly, accepting the garment with long, elegant fingers. When her fingertips brushed against yours, the air seemed to shift slightly. A subtle displacement, an imperceptible instant in which everything became sharper. Her gaze narrowed slightly, as if she could see something that wasn’t supposed to be there. A fleeting moment, and then everything returned to normal.

With deliberate movements, Rio began unbuttoning her blazer, then her stained shirt. Every gesture was calculated, almost theatrical. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing the skin reddened by the coffee—a faintly pulsing mark, though perhaps it was just a trick of the light in the bathroom.

You looked away, flustered, but Rio sensed your hesitation, the way you held your breath. A nearly imperceptible smile curved her lips. This—this raw, vulnerable intensity—was what stirred something inside her. For years, Rio had believed that feeling was gone, but there it was, so close it felt within reach.

"Do you always get this nervous?" Rio asked, her voice low and rich, filling the tight space like a whispered secret. There was something in her words—a pull, a tension you didn’t know how to resist.

"I… Maybe," you murmured, averting your gaze as you handed her the clean shirt. But when Rio’s fingers touched the simple fabric, a light, natural scent reached her. It wasn’t artificial but something that evoked nature—wet earth, wildflowers, fresh air after the rain. Something alive. Almost primal.

Rio slipped the shirt on slowly, but her eyes never left yours. As she adjusted the collar, she felt a restlessness in her chest, as if something inside her was being pulled beyond her control.

The silence between you was thick, heavy with something unspoken. As she pulled the fabric over her head, she caught that same scent again—faint, familiar. Not perfume, but something purer. Wet earth. Wildflowers. The scent of an impending storm.

Vida.

It was dangerous.

She knew that.

But she couldn’t resist the impulse.

"You apologize too much," Rio commented, her tone enigmatic. "Especially when you don’t even know what for." Her words were a whisper laced with intention, an echo of something hidden between the lines.

She took a step forward, invading your space, watching as your eyes widened slightly, as the heat crept up your cheeks.

Before leaving, Rio pulled a black card from her pocket and handed it to you. "When the shirt is ready, bring it to this address." The words were simple, but they carried something deeper, like an invitation to an unknown fate.

When the door closed behind her, Rio took a deep breath, trying to quiet the silent tempest within. She could still feel that strange sensation lingering in the air, a trace of whatever had just happened.

But she chose to ignore it.

For now.

Agatha Harkness had been a force of nature since the day she took her first breath. What set her apart was not just her beauty and intelligence, but the intensity with which it pulsed inside her—wild and untamed.

Growing up under the watchful eye of Evanora, a rigid and cold matriarch, shaped Agatha in ways she would never admit. It was not a childhood of love, but of expectation. Every success was demanded, and every failure was punished.

There was no room left for innocence. From the very beginning, she walked alone, carrying the weight of her difference and the certainty that if the world wanted her to be a monster, then she would be the best of them.

In her youth, Agatha discovered the power of cinema—and it was Nosferatu that ignited something dangerous inside her. The vampire’s opaque eyes, his spectral presence, the way he stalked the young and innocent Ellen not just with hunger but with a visceral obsession, awakened an unsettling fascination in Agatha. He did not simply take—he corrupted. There was no gentle seduction or empty promises, only an inevitable fate.

She saw herself in that creature, in the way he moved through the shadows, always present, always in control. The scene of Count Orlok slowly ascending the stairs, his body distorted by expressionist lighting, seemed to echo something within her—a certainty that no matter how hard they tried to stop him, he had already won. That stayed with Agatha. The inevitability of power. The fear that precedes submission.

It was then she understood: true horror is not in the monsters, but in what they make people feel. In the terror that seeps in before the touch. In the eyes that never look away. In the slow, patient game of someone who already knows they will win.

Illusion, absolute control over a story, and the power to manipulate the emotions of millions—this had always been a part of her. She started with small independent projects, but soon her name became synonymous with brilliance and psychological terror.

Her works were disturbing, impactful. Each film seemed to unveil a dark fragment of the human psyche, something the audience could not ignore. It did not take long before her shelf was filled with awards: Oscars, Golden Globes, BAFTAs. But acclaim came at a cost. Every step in Agatha’s rise was marked by manipulation and control—traits she mastered both in life and in work. She built an empire but made few allies along the way.

Rio was different. Intense, passionate, with a fire that reminded Agatha of herself in her early years. They had distinct views on power and creation. Where Rio saw passion, Agatha saw strategy. And yet, something about Rio’s near-obsessive determination touched something deep inside her—a part Agatha tried to ignore: the need for connection.

Their marriage was a union of forces, but also a battlefield. Rio was the only one who dared to challenge Agatha, and even so, she loved her with an intensity that made Agatha hesitate. Loving Rio was easy; showing it was another story.

And when Agatha read your script, all of this seemed to resurface. She picked up the paper with long, precise fingers, as if it held something more than words—something she could manipulate, like the invisible strings of her influence. Her gaze traced the title, and something flickered in her eyes, though no one else in the room could see it. Something there called to her, pulling her like a distant echo.

As she read, the words on the page began to fade for Agatha, transforming into images of the past. Memories she preferred to bury. Her mother’s face appeared in her mind—rigid and severe—uttering words Agatha no longer wanted to remember.

The memories—everything returned like a torrent of shadows Agatha had long learned to carry. She knew darkness was her fate, not because she chose it, but because something in her had always led her down that path. There was no redemption for someone like her. There never had been.

And yet, something in you seemed to defy that. Your energy—so young and vibrant—seemed to radiate from the page you handed her, as if each word you wrote carried a fragment of something impossible to ignore. Agatha felt it. A warmth, almost uncomfortable, that seemed to contradict everything she knew—everything she was.

She pressed her lips together, holding the page with firm fingers, and murmured, almost inaudibly, “Interesting.” Her voice was neutral, but inside, a storm of ideas was already forming. It was not just the text that captured her.

It was you.

Agatha watched you closely. Every small gesture, every restrained breath, seemed to confirm her suspicions. Your energy was rare—pure, yet untouched by the corruption of the world or the ambition that had consumed so many within that glamorous universe. You were something she had not seen in a long time: a fragment of purity, something that could be harnessed.

Shaped in scorching fire. Like a raw and precious gem.

And yet, you did not hate. Not your mother, not your past. That unsettled her. How could someone not hate after being abandoned? To Agatha, hatred was inevitable—a natural consequence of pain. She could not comprehend your choice, your resilience, and perhaps that was exactly what drew her in.

“This is… rare,” she said, more to herself than to you. The word sounded like a riddle, but also like a verdict. Agatha felt the weight of that realization solidify inside her.

There was something about you that could not be ignored.

[...]

The kitchen was bathed in the twilight gloom when Agatha heard the door open. The golden light of the setting sun slipped through the closed blinds in slivers, streaking the marble countertop like scars.

She held a glass of red wine, her pale fingers gripping the crystal with a force that threatened to shatter it. The sound of Rio’s footsteps echoed down the hallway—heavy, familiar, yet carrying a hesitation that made Agatha’s heart beat faster. Something was wrong.

Rio entered the kitchen like an uneasy shadow in her own home. The scent filled the space before Agatha even turned around: melted caramel, bitter coffee, and lemongrass. A sweet, unfamiliar aroma that did not belong to the wife she knew. It wasn’t Rio’s scent—amber and smoke, like incense burning in secret.

No.

This was intrusive.

Feminine in a fragile way.

Agatha turned slowly, like a panther scenting blood. Her blue eyes, usually so calculating, gleamed with a coldness sharp enough to cut diamonds. Rio stood in the doorway, illuminated by the last light of the day spilling through the window. The blouse she wore was a faded shade of pink, too tight around the shoulders.

Rage rose like poison in Agatha’s throat.

“What the fuck is this?”

Her voice was a razor blade, slicing the air between them.

Rio frowned, but her fingers twitched involuntarily against the seams of the blouse, as if trying to conceal it.

“It was an accident. Someone spilled coffee on me at the studio. I borrowed a blouse.”

“Oh, of course.” Her voice came out low, almost gentle, which only made the threat more evident. “And the scent? That’s part of the accident too?”

Rio let out a heavy sigh, her tense shoulders making it clear she was too exhausted for an argument.

“Whose blouse is that, Rio?” Agatha pressed, each word a bullet.

“The waitress. She just wanted to help.”

Agatha laughed—a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, sure. Help.” She stepped closer, invading Rio’s space until the intrusive scent—sweet, cheap—made her wrinkle her nose. “You smell like a third-rate brothel.”

Rio stiffened, her jaw clenching. “For fuck’s sake, Agatha. Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Agatha took another step, her wine nearly spilling over the rim of the glass. “You come home, reeking of someone else, wearing clothes that aren’t yours, and expect me not to ask questions?”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Rio raised her voice, but there was a crack in it, like she was too tired to defend herself. “It was just a blouse, Agatha. A borrowed blouse because I was drenched in coffee. Why are you making this bigger than it is?”

“Because it’s not just a blouse!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing off the kitchen walls. “It’s the scent, it’s the way you’re looking at me right now, like I’m the crazy one!”

Rio stepped forward, a raw, burning anger swelling in her chest.

“I’m trying, Agatha. Trying to be better, trying to fix this—if there’s even anything left to fix. But you… you won’t let me. You keep searching for ghosts that aren’t there.”

Agatha glanced at her wine glass, as if the answer lay at the bottom. “Maybe ghosts are all we have left.”

The silence that followed was thick, laden with all the words left unspoken. Rio caught her own reflection in the glass door—her borrowed blouse itched against her skin—then turned back to Agatha. “Do you want me to take it off? Burn it? Swear I’ll never borrow anything again? Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

Agatha didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were locked onto Rio, but they seemed to see past her, as if they were living a lie—every lack of affection, every night they slept with their backs turned to each other.

“I want you to tell me the truth.” She finally said, her voice breaking. “The whole truth, no edits, no half-measures. Because I can’t keep living in this fog, Rio. I can’t keep wondering if you still love me or if you’re just waiting for the right moment to leave.”

Rio closed her eyes, as if Agatha’s words were physical blows. When she opened them again, they were filled with tears. “I love you, Agatha. So fucking much. But you never let me in, you never let me get close. You build walls and then complain that I’m on the other side.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her wine glass trembling in her grip. “I—” She started, her lips quivering, not even knowing what she was about to say. “Maybe this is just who I am.”

The brokenness in Agatha’s voice shattered something inside Rio.

“Agatha...” Rio reached out, hesitating, but the older woman straightened her shoulders, as if something inside her had shut down again.

The walls were back up.

“I’m sleeping in the other room. Goodnight.” Agatha’s tone was sharp, but her eyes betrayed something deeper. Something even she didn’t want to face.

She turned without waiting for a response, taking with her the scent of wine and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Rio stood there, unmoving, watching Agatha disappear down the hallway like a ghost. Like she had been leaving for a long time already.

So, when you’re in Rio’s living room, holding the bag in your hands, the older woman is surprised that you actually came—and so quickly.

She was in the living room, leaning over the canvas before her, hands stained with paint as she brushed colors onto the surface. But despite the painting demanding her attention, she knew you were there before even hearing your hesitant footsteps on the other side of the door.

When the door opened, revealing your shy silhouette clutching the carefully prepared bag, Rio felt an inexplicable tightness in her chest. Since the day of the spilled coffee, there had been something about you that unsettled her—a peculiar energy, a silent game between hiding and exposing yourself in the smallest gestures.

You.

Small, fragile, holding a paper bag as if it carried something sacred. Your wide eyes scanned the studio with a curiosity Rio hadn’t seen in years—not in critics, not in buyers, not in lovers. It was the purity of someone who still believed art could save.

“Oh. Look who decided to grace us with her presence. Butterfingers.” Rio’s voice was smoother than she had intended. Her smile was a trap, but something about the way you blushed—a warmth rising from your neck to your cheeks—made her own pulse quicken.

You extended the bag, hands trembling. “I-I came to bring your blouse. And… again, I’m sorry.”

Rio took the bag with calculated indifference, but her fingers betrayed a sudden interest at the weight of the fabric. The blouse was pristine, folded with military precision, infused with lavender—a scent that didn’t belong in her world of amber and woody.

You washed it. You ironed it. You cared.

“Lavender?” Rio held the blouse against the light, pretending to examine the seams, but really, she was studying you.

You shook your head silently, lips parted slightly, like a child waiting for approval.

Something inside Rio tightened.

Innocent. So innocent.

"You’re so attentive, aren’t you?" The teasing in her voice was automatic, a reflex to keep her distance. But when you blushed again, lowering your gaze, Rio felt a pang of guilt. The bag was set aside, but her attention wasn’t.

And then you looked at the canvases.

Rio watched, fascinated, as your eyes scanned each piece. You didn’t hide your reactions—tilting your head, furrowing your brows, smiling unconsciously at a particularly wild brushstroke. It was like watching someone decode a language even they didn’t fully understand.

"What do you think of my work?" The question came out softer than Rio had intended.

"They’re… impressive."

Impressive. A hollow word, used by lazy critics. But from your lips, it sounded like a genuine compliment. Rio almost laughed. Almost.

Then you pointed at the darkest painting in the studio—the one no one dared to mention. The one that bled green and brown, chaos and stillness, desire and fear.

"I really like that one."

Rio stepped closer to the painting, her fingers grazing the frame as if stroking a dangerous animal. "This piece is about desire," she explained, her voice lower, as if sharing a secret. "The line between control and surrender."

You stood still, but your eyes—your eyes—shone with an understanding Rio hadn’t expected. As if you saw beyond the paint, beyond the layers, straight into the raw heart of it.

The artwork was an open wound on canvas. Shades of green—the green of trampled leaves, of hope rotting—fought against the brown of damp earth, as if the painting were devouring itself. Brutal strokes tore across the surface, but in the corners, almost hidden, were delicate details: wilted flowers painted with surgical precision, gold threads sutured into the darkness. It was violence and vulnerability in a perverse balance, and you felt, deep in your stomach, that it was a mirror.

"It’s about the moment before surrender. The hesitation before the inevitable." She stepped closer to you, her eyes locked onto your face. "I like that stage. Where everything is anticipation."

Her gaze held you, and there were no more masks. There was hunger there. The hunger of someone who sees a pristine porcelain vase and wonders how high it can fall before it shatters.

Rio’s hand touched your wrist, her fingers wrapping around it with a pressure that was neither gentle nor threatening—it was an experiment.

Your breath hitched. The air smelled of paint and something else—Rio’s woody perfume, now tinged with sweat. You tried to step back, but your body didn’t obey. You were paralyzed, not by fear, but by the morbid curiosity of seeing how far this would go.

Agatha Harkness didn’t believe in coincidences. To her, life was a series of calculated moves, like chess played in slow motion. But when she stopped at the studio’s doorway and saw you—so young, so awkward—with Rio’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, she felt something rare: surprise.

The scene was almost comical. Rio, always so composed, leaning over you like a vulture over fresh prey. You, frozen, wide-eyed, uncertain whether to run or surrender. And the smell… God, the smell. Cheap lemongrass perfume mixed with the scent of coffee and nervous sweat. Agatha almost laughed.

"I hope I’m not interrupting… anything intimate," she said, her voice as sharp as the heel that echoed against the wooden floor as she stepped inside.

You turned, and Agatha saw the exact moment your heart stopped. "P–Professor Harkness?" The stutter was delicious. Raw innocence. She studied your flushed face, your parted lips, your trembling hands still holding the hem of your dress as if it were an object of comfort. A speck of dust in her immaculate world. And yet…

Why do you shine so brightly?

Rio stepped in between, as she always did, but Agatha didn’t look at her. Her blue eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every microexpression. The way your fingers clenched your fabric, the slight tremor on your lips, your short breath and too deep for it to be just fear.

Excitement. You were excited—like a puppy wagging its tail after being praised. And Rio, of course, knew.

"So you…" Agatha tilted her head, her sharp smile that of someone who had already foreseen checkmate before even making a move. "Are responsible for the coffee stain that ruined her favorite blouse?"

You were no threat. Not yet. But there was something there… But there was something there… Something that made her own fingers itch to pick up a pen and rewrite you. Her way.

"Interesting," she murmured, crossing her arms. The fabric of her purple suit whispered with the movement, reminding her that she was always dressed for war. Her gaze traced your figure— a blue dress made of cheap fabric, sleeveless, the fit went to your knees and your white sneakers, but with worn soles, gave you a refreshing look. Jovial. A student. A nobody. And yet, Rio looked at you as if you were the last unfinished masterpiece of a master.

What is it about you?

Agatha stepped closer, ignoring Rio. Her perfume— white jasmine—wrapped around you like a veil. "Well, gem," she whispered, the syllable rolling off her tongue like poisoned candy, "I hope your disastrous talents are compensated later, hmm? After all, you’re supposed to impress me today, aren’t you?"

The threat was disguised as teasing, but you understood. She saw the shiver run down your spine, the way your throat contracted as you swallowed.

Good girl.

When you fled, Agatha didn’t move. She listened to your hurried footsteps in the hallway, the silence that settled like smoke after a fire. Then, she turned to Rio.

"Who is she?" Rio cut her off before she could say anything else.

Agatha was still staring at Rio when she smirked. "One of the students in the project. A nobody. But she has the potential to be something."

Rio felt a shiver run up her spine at Agatha’s words. A nobody. She knew that tone. Detached on the surface, but brimming with submerged possibilities.

And the worst part was that she understood.

She understood because her own blood was still running hot from the moment your eyes met hers in the studio. From the instant she saw that glimmer—the curiosity, the hesitation, the desire disguised as innocence.

"Potential, huh?" Rio twirled the brush between her fingers, a lazy smile on her lips, but her eyes were sharp, noticing how Agatha now gripped the strap of her bag. The slight tremor, the way the older woman avoided her gaze a second longer than necessary.

"You saw it too, didn’t you?" The question hung in the air, its tone almost condescending, mysterious, carrying more meanings than either of them could express.

Agatha remained silent.

But Rio didn’t need a verbal answer.

Because she saw it.

She saw how Agatha looked at you—sideways, feigning disinterest, yet registering every detail. The way your mouth parted when you were nervous, the way your hands hesitated before touching anything, as if asking the world for permission.

Whatever that spark was, that unsettling warmth that arose whenever you were around, it didn’t belong to Rio alone.

"Funny..." Rio drawled, savoring each syllable, "you always say you don’t like children."

Agatha narrowed her eyes. "And I hate them."

"Then tell me," Rio stepped forward, leaning against the counter, "what happened here, Agatha?"

The older woman inhaled slowly. "Nothing happened."

"That’s not what I asked."

Agatha closed her eyes for a second—perhaps searching for patience, perhaps trying to silence something within herself. But Rio saw. She saw it in the way Agatha’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, in the way her breathing became imperceptibly deeper. She felt the weight of the moment—the weight of a name, a face, the memory of your presence in the studio.

"She has something, doesn't she?" Rio murmured, her voice dropping a tone lower.

Agatha opened her eyes, a crease forming between her brows. "What are you talking about?"

Rio chuckled, the sound rough, almost amused. "Her energy."

And then something shifted.

The way Agatha’s shoulders stiffened. The way her breath faltered for a minuscule, almost imperceptible moment. As if Rio had touched exactly where she shouldn’t.

"She has this... purity." Rio continued, unhurried. "But not that naive, childish purity kids have. No. It’s different. It’s as if she hasn’t been shaped yet, as if she can still be twisted and bent until she takes a form even she doesn’t understand."

Agatha remained silent, but Rio saw.

She saw it in the way her jaw clenched. In the way her fingers adjusted her perfectly positioned glasses, as if that alone could keep her in control.

Rio stepped closer, almost touching Agatha, almost whispering against the edge of her mind. "And it gets to you, doesn’t it?"

With a laugh—trembling, incredulous—Agatha tried to regain control.

"You’re being insane." She laughed, running her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

Rio savored the moment. Agatha’s hesitation was rare, precious, like a glimpse of the sun on a stormy day. She watched as Agatha ran a hand through her hair, her long fingers moving too fast through the strands, an almost impatient motion.

"Insane?" Rio murmured, tilting her head. "Or just right?"

The provocation was delivered with surgical precision. Rio didn’t need a direct answer—the silence spoke for itself.

Agatha scoffed, looking away for an instant, but Rio was too close for her to truly escape. And when Agatha’s eyes returned, there was something there. Something dark and pulsing, like a veiled threat.

"You think you know me that well, Vidal?"

Rio smiled, her lips curling slowly, as if tasting the name in her mouth. "I’ve watched you for so many years, Agatha. Every detail. Every reaction." She stepped close enough to feel her wife’s unsteady breath. "For longer than you can imagine."

The tension was unbearable, and Agatha couldn’t take it. She took a step back, her legs blindly searching for something to lean on.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. "You’ve always been arrogant."

"I don’t see you contradicting me."

And then came that heavy silence—dense, electric. A silence that was not just the absence of words, but an invisible current between them, a battle waged on a level neither dared to name.

Rio took advantage of it.

"You feel it." She said, her voice low, drawn out. "Even if you don’t want to. Even if you hate it. You feel it."

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could push away what was taking root there. "She’s just a fucking girl! I’m old enough to be her mother."

Agatha felt the weight of confusion in her bones, a tension that wouldn’t dissolve no matter how much she tried to suffocate it. There was something in her that repelled—and at the same time, gravitated toward—you. A magnet, a force that refused to be denied.

Her body knew before her mind did. The way her fingers involuntarily clenched around the edge of the counter, as if she needed something to hold onto. The heat rising beneath her skin, a latent discomfort that refused to dissipate. The way her breathing wavered, as if her very existence was being challenged by something as simple as your presence.

It was ridiculous.

You were young. So young. Not in the superficial sense—not just in years—but in the purity within you that made her shudder. It wasn’t blind innocence, it wasn’t ignorance. It was malleability. It was the absence of cynicism, the freshness of someone who still believed. You were not like them. You were not corrupted.

And that’s what destroyed her.

Because if Agatha were another woman, if she were like Rio—so free to embrace her own desires, so fearless in her provocations—perhaps she would have already given in. But within her, there was something fiercer, something more deeply ingrained, fighting against it.

It was unacceptable.

Every time her gaze met yours, every time she noticed your sincere curiosity, your wonder at things she had long considered gray and worn-out, something in Agatha wavered.

And it infuriated her.

Because she shouldn’t waver. She shouldn’t feel this hunger. She shouldn’t be sinking into this abyss from which she wouldn’t escape unscathed.

Rio tilted her head, her eyes alight with something between fascination and triumph. Ah, so that was it. The truth had slipped out in a moment of weakness, a lapse Agatha would never have allowed if she had been in control. But there she was, exposed, fragile in just the right places.

But Rio laughed—a low, intimate sound that made Agatha’s stomach twist. Her fingers traced an imaginary line in the air, between Agatha’s chest and the door through which you had fled. "That’s just a number, darling. And you know that’s not what this is about."

Agatha felt anger mix with desire—a dangerous combination that was driving her insane. Her body betrayed her: the weight of her breasts beneath the impeccable fabric of her suit, the dampness between her legs, the tingling in her fingertips with the need to touch, to grasp, to possess. It was unbearable.

Agatha let out a dry laugh, a bitter sound that died too quickly. She tried to mask the tension, but Rio saw. Saw it in the way her fingers gripped the counter behind her, as if she needed something solid to anchor her.

"This is so fucking pathetic."

Agatha’s body trembled in uncontrollable spasms.

Rio smiled—a wicked, confident smile. She knew Agatha better than anyone. She knew the woman was off-balance, vulnerable, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Rio tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with challenge. Suddenly, she closed the distance between them, her hands pressing into the marble on either side of Agatha’s body, trapping her. "Let me tell you a secret, Aggie." The nickname came like a sweet stab. "Nothing is more pathetic than denying what makes you feel alive."

Rio leaned in, her hand slowly rising to Agatha’s face, tracing the curve of her jaw with cold fingers. "Want to know what I think?" she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of Agatha’s ear. "You want to use her. You want to mold your little gem."

Agatha swallowed hard. It was the truth. Every word. She could lie to the world, but not to herself—not here, not with Rio’s fingers now twisting into her hair, tugging hard enough to hurt.

Agatha closed her eyes, a trembling sigh slipping from her lips. Her head fell back, her rigid posture finally dissolving.

"Fuck…" she murmured, feeling a wave of heat rush through her body, her nipples hardening beneath the linen blouse.

"And what do you want?" Agatha countered, her voice a rough whisper. "To watch me fall? To destroy my fucking reputation over a girl?

Rio smiled, her white teeth gleaming under the dim studio light. "I want to see you and that proud stance of yours fall. I want to see you burn with desire for this."

The kiss was inevitable.

Violent. Chaotic. A disaster of teeth and tongue and pent-up rage. Agatha grabbed Rio’s collar, her fingers twisting the fabric, while the other hand buried itself in the dark hair, pulling until a rough moan escaped between them. It had been so long since this fire, since they touched. It was delicious. It was all wrong—the taste of Rio was coffee, caramel, and defiance, and Agatha hated how much she drowned in it.

When they pulled apart, Agatha’s red lipstick was smeared on both their lips, like fresh blood.

"Why gem?" Rio asked, her voice laced with malice as her hand snaked around Agatha’s waist, sliding down until pressing firmly between her legs, the expensive fabric of her skirt nothing but an obstacle.

“B–because it's precious. Raw.” Agatha gasped, her voice rough and hesitant. “And it needs to be shaped.”

Rio smirked, her eyes flashing with predatory desire as she felt Agatha's arousal growing under her touch. “And you want that, don’t you? To control everything about her until she’s nothing but yours?”

Rio’s touch intensified, her movements skilled and meticulously calculated to elicit more reactions from the woman who was always in control. Agatha couldn't stop the low moan that escaped her lips, heat building in waves that almost made her lose balance.

The control she so cherished seemed to be dissolving under Rio’s touch. But somewhere in her mind, the image of you remained, flickering like a beacon Agatha couldn’t ignore.

Rio noticed the exact moment Agatha gave in. The subtle tremor in her tense shoulders, the ragged breathing, the way her hips shifted—almost imperceptibly—in response to the touch. It was rare to see the mighty Agatha, a woman so powerful, unravel like this.

And Rio loved every second of it.

"Hmmm… You’re so quiet," Rio teased, her voice low and thick with desire as she increased the pressure between Agatha’s thighs. "What happened to that dominant stance? Not going to tell me how irritating I am? Or are you going to admit that I’m right?"

Agatha opened her eyes, her icy blues darkening into stormy depths, desire sparking in her irises. She hated herself for being so vulnerable, but there was something hypnotic about the control Rio wielded over her.

Rio’s touch wasn’t just physical; there was power in it, the kind that stole her breath. Agatha tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a muffled moan.

Rio chuckled softly, her mouth finding Agatha’s neck, kissing and nibbling at the sensitive skin as the other arched into her. "Ah, so that’s it," she murmured, her voice vibrating against Agatha’s skin. "The great filmmaker, the queen of West Hollywood who manipulates everything and everyone... is at my mercy."

"Shut fuck up!" Agatha finally managed to say, but her voice was weak, failing to carry any authority.

"Shut up?" Rio repeated, feigning offense as her free hand slid up Agatha’s torso, finding her breasts beneath the thin blouse. Her fingers squeezed gently, earning a shaky sigh. "You know you love it when I talk. When I tell you exactly what I want to do to you. And to her."

The name wasn’t spoken, but it lingered in the air like a forbidden promise.

You.

Always you.

Even in that moment, between desire and surrender, the image of your innocent expression, the purity that seemed to radiate from you, invaded Agatha’s mind.

"She has nothing to do with this." Agatha whispered, but it sounded more like a desperate attempt to convince herself than Rio.

"Oh." Rio laughed, the sound low and deliciously dangerous. "She has everything to do with this. You feel it too, don’t you? That raw energy, almost untouched. It’s like a magnet, pulling you in, making you want..."

"Enough!" Agatha cut her off, but her body betrayed her when she pressed herself even closer to Rio’s hand.

Rio smirked, triumphant, as her lips found Agatha’s in another kiss, one filled with all the emotions neither dared to name. The control Agatha always possessed seemed to have vanished completely.

In that instant, she wasn’t a renowned filmmaker. She was just a woman consumed by desire, surrendering to the touch of someone who knew exactly how to disarm her.

The kiss between them was fierce, a battlefield where all the emotions they refused to name clashed and intertwined. Rio held Agatha tightly, as if needing to anchor her in the moment, while their lips met in a dance of control and surrender. It was impossible to tell who was leading and who was yielding; there was only the burning heat consuming them both.

When they finally pulled apart, the air felt heavier, thick with the tension still lingering. Agatha ran a hand through her hair, trying to regain her composure.

"I need to get back to work." She murmured, adjusting the collar of her blouse. Her fingers hesitated at the top button, which she unfastened in a quick motion. Her body was hot, almost feverish, and she hated the loss of control she felt.

Rio tilted her head, watching her with a lazy smile, but her eyes burned with something more intense. "Of course you do." She replied, her voice low, a purring provocation. She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. "But this isn’t over."

Agatha shot her a sharp look but didn’t respond. She knew Rio was right—this was far from over. Without another word, she walked away, the sound of her heels echoing through the room.

Rio stood still for a moment, the smile gradually fading as her thoughts wandered. The empty space Agatha left behind felt unbearable. It wasn’t just about Agatha—it was about you.

She tried to refocus on her work, sitting at the table, but her eyes couldn’t stay on the words in the report she held. Her mind drifted to you, to the brief touch of your hands, the nervous way you spoke, the wide, bright eyes that seemed to overflow with a purity Rio hadn’t seen in a long time.

Too innocent. Too pure. That was exactly what fascinated her—and tormented her.

Rio abruptly stood, pacing like a caged predator. Her mind painted scenarios of what it would be like to hear you laugh, to breathe in the scent that still lingered on the bag you had brought, to taste the vulnerability in you and explore it to its limits.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but it was impossible. The restlessness grew, turning into something unbearable.

Then, Rio decided.

If you wouldn’t leave her mind, she would go to you.

Grabbing her coat, she left the apartment without even checking the time. The thought of seeing you again ignited every fiber of her being. Driving through the busy streets only fed her anticipation, as if the destination was something far beyond the address she knew by heart.

You were there, behind the counter, serving someone with a shy smile—the same smile that had captured her attention the first time.

When Rio finally arrived at the café where you worked, she paused outside for a moment. The glass allowed her to see inside, the warm lights, the customers coming and going, and then—there you were.

Rio smiled, slow and triumphant, as she placed her hand on the door and pushed it open. She finally had you within her reach again.

When Rio stepped into the café, it was as if she could finally breathe for real. The aroma of fresh coffee mixed with a scent that seemed to emanate from you—something she couldn't quite name. Innocence, maybe, with a hint of sweetness that made her feel both restless and strangely at peace.

Her eyes found you immediately. She noticed you standing behind the counter, your rehearsed smile lighting up your face. Rio caught the small crease in your cheeks when you smiled, the dimples that appeared briefly before vanishing. It was almost disarming.

And that was what unsettled her. There was something about you that threw her off balance. Your purity, your naivety—something she couldn't quite name, but that made her want to stay close, to watch, to test the limits of everything you represented.

Rio felt a tightening in her stomach as you approached. Your presence seemed to fill the space between you in a way she wasn’t prepared to handle. She watched the shape of your lips as you spoke, the slight flush in your cheeks when your eyes met hers. Every small detail of you pulled her into an abyss she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape.

Sitting there, the ignored menu in front of her, Rio tried to regain control. But her mind kept drifting, back to the images that had haunted her the night before—memories of Agatha in her arms, whispering words of desire, both of them knowing exactly who was truly between them.

Her heart pounded as she thought about what she could do. The possibilities were endless, and each one of them wrapped around her like a suffocating heat. She could feel the contrast between the sweetness of the setting and the intensity of her own thoughts, like a slow-burning fire beneath the surface.

Rio drummed her fingers on the table, her body restless, unable to ignore the ideas forming in her mind. Her thoughts created scenarios—accidental touches, encounters that could seem casual but were planned down to the finest detail. She wanted to test the limits of your innocence, to see how you would react to each provocation.

When you returned to the table, balancing the tray with precision, Rio barely managed to suppress the smile that threatened to curl her lips. Just watching you move was hypnotizing. Everything about you seemed designed to captivate—even though, judging by the look in your eyes, you had no idea of the effect you had.

There was a slight tension in the air as you walked away again, and Rio leaned back, crossing her arms. She knew she was being consumed by something she shouldn’t feel, but the desire was growing like a wave, uncontrollable. The idea of you was sweet and tempting, and no matter how hard she fought it, Rio couldn’t look away.

A palpable tension lingered as Rio watched you, a faint smile curving her lips. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed in a relaxed gesture, but her eyes betrayed her apparent calm. Internally, Rio felt the discomfort of an internal battle—something about you awakened emotions in her that should have remained buried. She knew she shouldn’t allow herself to feel this, but the desire was growing, irresistible and relentless.

You were a mystery, something sweet and tempting, and Rio was losing control. The contrast between your vulnerability and your obvious effort to maintain composure fascinated her. Every movement of yours seemed laced with a hesitation that only heightened the intensity of the moment. Rio studied every detail, from the shy flush creeping up your cheeks to the way your hands clenched the cleaning cloth, as if controlling them could help control what you were feeling.

When Rio called you little gem, it was almost a test—a deliberate provocation. She saw the immediate impact of the words, the flicker in your eyes betraying the confusion and nervousness you tried to hide. Something about how the nickname unsettled you left her deeply satisfied, almost as if she had found a key to understanding you—or perhaps to controlling you.

When you mentioned that Agatha also used the nickname, Rio felt something ignite inside her. It wasn’t jealousy, but something darker, more possessive. Her smile deepened, her gaze taking on a sharp, almost predatory glint. I know, she thought, and in that instant, she realized she saw you as a rare gem—precious, but still unpolished. Someone who needed to be shaped.

The thought was dangerous but irresistible. There was a dark satisfaction in the idea of being the one to mold you, to be the one who transformed you into something even brighter and more valuable. And yet, no matter how much she wanted it, Rio knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She was crossing a line, but she couldn’t—or perhaps didn’t want to—stop.

[...]

"This is our new intern," one of the subordinates said, pointing in your direction.

And when Agatha saw you, she was struck by an unexpected sensation. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something deeper, more unsettling. There was something about you, in your nervous and almost submissive presence, that intrigued her in a way she couldn’t rationalize.

She, who had always maintained total control over her emotions, felt momentarily unsteady. That irritated her deeply. She couldn’t allow a mere intern to have such an effect on her, especially in her workplace—her territory, her kingdom.

So, like a queen on her throne, she maintained the flawless façade of authority and distance, even as her mind kept searching for answers about what it was in you that had thrown her so off balance.

When Agatha saw you waiting for the bus, something inside her hesitated. She wasn’t the kind of person who cared about other people’s conveniences, but at that moment, the idea of leaving you there felt absurd. She needed an excuse to watch you more closely, to understand the strange pull you had over her.

As she let you into the car, she felt the tension in the air thicken, fueled by her own need for control and the evident vulnerability you exuded.

Agatha felt a quiet satisfaction as she observed every one of your reactions. Behind the cold smile and the casual posture, her mind was a controlled storm.

There was something fascinating about the way you tried to maintain your composure but failed, betraying yourself in nervous gestures and trembling words. She noticed every detail—the slight tremor in your voice, the flush in your cheeks, the way you hesitated before answering. It was as if you were an open book, and Agatha had all the patience in the world to explore each page.

When she heard your awkward attempt to justify your concern, a spark of cruel amusement passed through her. It wasn’t just the uncertainty in your words, but the way you seemed to struggle against yourself – between wanting to please her and keeping a safe distance. Agatha savored this internal battle like a game she already knew she would win.

When she parked in front of your building, Agatha felt a pang of discomfort seeing the place. It was simple, without the grandeur she was used to. Yet, this simplicity seemed like an extension of herself, something she couldn’t help but notice with growing curiosity. Agatha had always despised ordinary things, but there was something intriguing about you, something that made her want to explore a more raw and honest side of the world.

The leather of the steering wheel was cold under her fingers, but Agatha didn’t feel the chill. Everything in her body was on fire — a silent blaze, consuming her from within. She watched you, sitting beside her in the car, with the same intensity with which she studied an ambiguous piece of art. Innocent. Fragile. And yet…

When she asked about your "boyfriend," the word came out acidic, disguised in a casual tone. Her blue eyes fixed on you, capturing every microexpression: the blush on your cheeks, the tremble in your hands, your wavering voice. You were an open book, and she hated how much she longed to read every page.

"I don’t like these. Men, I mean."

The answer hit her like a shock. Agatha slowly turned her face, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Ah. The syllable escaped like a poisoned sigh. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. You were confessing something she already knew, something your body had been screaming since day one: you were like her. Like them.

But you didn’t have their malice. You didn’t have their scars.

The silence that followed was a battlefield. Agatha felt your gaze like a knife peeling away her layers — the jasmine perfume she wore to mask the emptiness, the pendant she wore as armor, the control she kept like a religion. You saw her. Too much.

And maybe she wanted to strangle you for it.

Your answer exposed you, and Agatha realized it immediately. She could have explored more, could have pressed until you admitted things you might not even know about yourself, but instead, she decided to prolong the game. The enigmatic smile that formed on her lips was more than just a gesture of amusement; it was a veiled promise that this wouldn’t end there.

"And what do you like, then?"

The question was a sharp thread of silk. She already knew the answer. She wanted to hear you groan. She wanted to see you struggle with the words, with the desire that made you tremble.

"Women who are... powerful."

Agatha tilted her head, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel until the knuckles turned white. Powerful. The word echoed in her skull like a profane verse, and it carried a meaning greater than you could imagine. You looked at her as if she were a deity — not of goodness, but of fire. And she wanted to burn you until only ashes remained in her hands.

"Did I… impress you today?"

Your voice came out like a thread of silk about to snap — hesitant, trembling, full of a vulnerability that made Agatha’s chest tighten involuntarily. The question was so fragile, so childlike, that for a moment, Agatha felt like a predator facing prey that didn’t even know it was being hunted.

She looked at you, her blue eyes scanning every detail: the parted lips, the hands twisting the fabric of your dress, the blush rising from your neck to your cheeks. You were a paradox — a lost child in a woman’s body, seeking approval as if it were a sweet to be won.

Pathetic.

The word echoed in her mind, but it didn’t come out with the force it should have. Instead, Agatha felt something strange gnawing in her stomach, something she wouldn’t admit. It was like watching a flower bloom under a storm — fragile, yet stubborn in its beauty.

And she hated how much it fascinated her.

"Maybe you should try a little harder, little gem," she replied, her voice as smooth as a sharp blade. The nickname came naturally, as if it already belonged to you. Little gem.

Fragile. Valuable. Hers.

She saw you swallow hard, your eyes wide, and felt a perverse triumph. You wanted to please her. You wanted to be worthy. And she wanted to rub your nose in that submission until you begged for more.

But there was something else there, something that disturbed her. The way you looked at her — not with fear, but with an admiration that bordered on devotion — made something inside her twist. It was as if you saw her not for what she was, but for what she could be.

And that was dangerous.

"Good girl." She said, her voice laced with approval, but also with a veiled threat. There was something in that compliment that made you feel small and, at the same time, powerful.

The scent of your shampoo — something sweet, innocent, like ripe strawberries — invaded her nostrils. Agatha imagined burying her face in your neck, biting the skin until it marked, until you knew exactly who you belonged to. Her heart raced, not with desire, but with hatred. Hatred for how her body responded. Hatred for how you made her feel…

Human.

The words came out before Agatha could stop them.

"You have potential. But potential is nothing without direction. Without… control."

She felt the sentence slip from her lips like an involuntary sigh, and immediately wanted to take it back, swallow it. It was a sentence that hadn’t been calculated, hadn’t been measured or polished for the desired effect. It was raw, direct, and — worse — sincere.

Agatha always calculated. Every word, every gesture, every glance was carefully planned to maintain control, to keep the world at a distance. But there, in that moment, with you so close she could feel the warmth of your body and the sweet scent of your shampoo, something inside her gave way.

She leaned in, her fingers trembling slightly by her side, as if fighting the impulse to touch you. Her blue eyes, usually so cold and calculating, shone with an intensity she couldn’t disguise. It was like a part of her — a part she kept locked away — had slipped out, even if just for a moment.

Potential. The word echoed in her mind, heavy with meaning. You had something she hadn’t seen in years: a flame that hadn’t been extinguished by the world’s cynicism. And that drew her like a moth to the light, even knowing it might burn her wings.

But Agatha wasn’t a moth. She was the storm. And storms don’t surrender to fragile lights.

Still, in that moment, she let herself fall. Moved closer, the scent of jasmine wrapping around you like a veil, and felt the thin air between you. Control. The word was a mantra, a reminder of what she was, what she needed to be. But there, with you so close, it seemed so distant.

"And what do you want me to do?" The question sounded weak, your doe eyes showing her how needy you were for it.

For her attention.

Agatha felt the air leave her lungs in a subtle but brutal way. A small death. As if something inside her had silently collapsed, without witnesses, without glory. Just the internal chaos of someone who shouldn't feel what she felt.

You.

You said it as if you didn't know what you were doing, as if the question was innocent, as if you weren't holding a match over a wick soaked with desire.

But Agatha knew. She knew that, even without fully understanding, there was something inside you that picked up on the tension, that responded to it instinctively, like an animal sniffing out a danger it also longed for.

Her body responded before her mind did. The heat accumulating in her abdomen, an uncomfortable pulse between her thighs, an imperceptible flush burning beneath her pale chest. She shifted in the leather seat, adjusting herself as if escaping the sensation was possible, as if physical discomfort could calm the storm raging inside her.

There was something sick about the way she wanted to test how far you could go. How much she could mold you, bend you. There was something terrifying about the way her body tightened at the sight of your slightly parted lips, your hesitant breath, your gaze locked on hers as if searching for something—a guide, a permission, a ruin.

She couldn't answer. She couldn't even think about it.

When you finally got out of the car, Agatha stayed still for a moment, her fingers still gripping the wheel. The scent of your shampoo still lingered in the air, and she felt a pang of something she didn't want to name.

But it was too late. And Agatha was hungry.

[...]

The door clicked shut softly, and Rio sighed deeply, the weight of the long, exhausting shift still heavy on her shoulders. She dropped her bag on the floor, massaging the back of her neck as she walked through the silent house. But when she reached the living room, she stopped instantly.

Agatha was there, sitting in the leather armchair with a glass of red wine in her hand, the dark liquid reflecting the soft light of the lamp beside her. Her blue eyes were fixed on Rio, piercing, almost glowing. There was no sign of fatigue in her, only something voracious and dangerous that made Rio feel a shiver run down her spine.

"Are you awake?" Rio asked, trying to hide the surprise in her voice. It was rare for Agatha to wait for her this late, especially like this, with a look that seemed ready to strip her soul bare.

Agatha didn't answer right away. Her fingers slid along the stem of the glass, her gaze never leaving Rio's face. Finally, she stood, slow and deliberate, every movement exuding control.

"How was the meeting?" she asked, her voice low, almost silky, but there was something dark in her tone, something that made Rio hesitate before answering.

"Tiring." Rio murmured, unsure of how to act. "You should be sleeping."

Agatha laughed, a short, dry sound. "Oh, darling, there are things that keep me awake."

Before Rio could ask what she meant, Agatha was in front of her, cold hands gripping the sides of her face. There was no warning, no chance to prepare for what came next: Agatha's lips met hers in a kiss that was neither gentle nor sweet, but possessive and violent.

Rio gasped, surprised, but soon found herself giving in, her hands instinctively gripping Agatha's waist, trying to make sense of what was happening. The kiss was like a storm, full of urgency and intensity, Agatha's teeth scraping Rio's lower lip as she pulled her body closer.

"You can't just show up like this and act like you're my mistress," Rio said, trying to catch her breath. Her voice, firm, wavered just enough to betray the turmoil inside her.

Agatha took a step forward, her presence dominating the space between them. "I don't need to act." she murmured, her voice low and laden with intent. "You know as well as I do that this is so much more than possession. It's... need."

Rio laughed, a short, nervous sound. "Need? You think that explains everything? That we can just—" Her sentence died as Agatha moved even closer, her cold fingers touching her jaw.

"Yes," Agatha interrupted, her voice now only a whisper, her lips dangerously close to Rio's. "Because that's what's eating at us. And you know it."

Rio didn't answer. She couldn't. Instead, her breath became even heavier, and in an impulsive gesture, she grabbed Agatha by the waist, pulling her against her with force. The shock of their bodies made them both exhale softly, and in seconds, their lips met again.

This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was a fierce clash, a battle of wills and desires that neither seemed willing to lose. Rio's hands climbed up Agatha's back, feeling the fabric of her fine dress and the warm skin underneath, while Agatha tangled her fingers in Rio's hair, pulling it hard enough to elicit a moan.

"What happened?" Rio stared at the woman with hooded eyes.

Agatha ran her tongue over her lower lip, still damp from the intense kiss. She seemed as disbelieving as she was consumed by the memory that haunted her.

“She looked at me,” Agatha replied, her breathing uneven. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to describe it was insufficient to convey what she had felt. “With eyes too innocent. Wanting attention... and not even realizing what she was asking for.”

The tension between Rio and Agatha was unbearable, a wild and furious electric current binding them together. Breathless, their foreheads still pressed together, they seemed on the edge of a dangerous precipice, unable to pull back.

“You completely lost it, didn’t you?” Rio whispered, her lips brushing Agatha’s in a gesture that wasn’t a kiss but a delicious threat. “Fuck, Agatha... Were you delirious for her? Tell me.” Rio groaned softly, pressing her forehead against Agatha’s.

Agatha took a deep breath, her lips parting as she tried to form words that simply wouldn’t come. It was useless to hide, not when Rio was this close, this relentless, forcing her to confront what she had been trying to deny.

“I—” Agatha stopped herself; she wasn’t going to admit it.

“I can imagine… her sitting in your car, those eyes begging you to ruin her. And you, Agatha… You got wet just thinking about how you’d make her scream.”

Agatha choked, her hips pressing involuntarily against Rio.

“Stop.” The command sounded fragile, broken.

“No.” Rio pulled her hair back, exposing her neck. “You wanted more. You wanted to shove your hand into that innocent mouth and force her to swallow every pathetic word. You wanted to see her squirm, beg…” A calculated pause, her fingers sliding down Agatha’s throat. “…just like you are now.”

Agatha let out a guttural moan, her nails digging into Rio’s back.

“I wanted to ruin her,” the words came out in a growl, her teeth clenched. “Until she couldn’t remember her own name. Until there was nothing left in her head but me.”

Rio laughed, low and wild, her hand sliding under Agatha’s dress.

“But who’s ruined here, Agatha?” Her fingers pressed, brutal, where the heat betrayed her. “You’re dripping because of a look. Because you know she’ll never give you what you really want…” A cruel nudge, her lips brushing Agatha’s ear. “…which is someone strong enough to break you.”

Agatha screamed, a raw, desperate sound, her legs giving out.

“Shut. Up.”

Rio traced Agatha’s jawline with her fingers, deliberately provocative. “You look beautiful like this, broken,” she murmured with a dangerous smile. “I bet she’d think so too.”

Agatha gasped, her eyes darkening. “Rio...”

“Don’t deny it.” Rio interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You want her to see you like this, don’t you? You want her to know the power she has over you.”

Agatha closed her eyes, a shiver running through her body. “I want her to never find out.”

Rio leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of Agatha’s mouth, teasing. “Liar.” She whispered against the heated skin. “You want her to know. You want her to burn with us, until there’s nothing left but ashes.”

The air around them felt thicker, almost suffocating. The heat between their bodies hadn’t dissipated; if anything, it had only intensified.

“She’s not ready.” Agatha murmured, trying to cling to some shred of sanity in her mind, but there was hesitation there, a thin thread of doubt.

“And neither are we.” Rio replied honestly. “We’ll teach her. I know she’ll love it. She loves being good for us, doesn’t she?”

In a reckless move, Agatha pushed Rio against the wall with force, her body pressing completely against hers, as if she wanted to merge—while her hands roamed Rio’s body with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to touch.

Rio moaned, her eyes closing as her fingers gripped Agatha’s shoulders, holding her as if she were her only anchor. “Fuck, Agatha!” she murmured, but there was no conviction in her voice, only surrender.

They moved together, stumbling toward the bed, their mouths never parting for long. Each kiss was an explosion of need, a wordless declaration of everything they felt and couldn’t—or didn’t want to—control.

When they finally fell onto the bed, their bodies entwined, the tension became unbearable. Agatha was on top, her eyes burning as she looked down at Rio, who stared back with the same voracious desire.

“Damn you…” Rio whispered, her fingers slowly unbuttoning Agatha’s shirt, leaving a trail of kisses on the exposed skin. “You want her as much as I do.”

Agatha gasped, her body shivering against the touch. “I want... I want everything,” she replied, her hands gripping Rio’s waist, guiding her as the other continued her teasing, their control slipping away completely.

In that moment, there were no doubts, no barriers. Just two women consumed by a corrosive and overwhelming need, unable to stop until every trace of self-control was reduced to ashes.

Agatha leaned over Rio, her eyes blazing with the intensity of her desire, but there was something deeper behind that gaze—a hunger that went beyond the physical. She wasn’t just there for Rio, but for what they both felt for you, for the way your energy drew them in, almost like a curse.

Agatha murmured, her lips hovering over Rio’s neck before brushing lightly, sending shivers through her skin. “She’s between us. Even when she’s not here, she’s here.”

Rio gasped as Agatha’s teeth grazed her skin, a mix of pleasure and provocation. Rio’s hands slid up Agatha’s back, gripping her shoulders with almost desperate strength. “It’s like she’s in every thought,” Rio admitted, her voice hoarse, almost surrendered. “I see her in everything, Agatha. It’s unbearable.”

Sun down on the sorry day

By nightlights the children pray

I know you're prob'ly gettin' ready for bed

Beautiful girl, get out of my head

Agatha smiled against Rio’s skin, a smile that was more predatory than anything else. “She’s too pure for this,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down Rio’s body with torturous slowness. “And yet, that’s what makes her so... irresistible. You want to mold her, don’t you? Take the youthful life in her before the world corrupts her.”

I'm so tired of the same old crud

Rio closed her eyes, her body yielding to Agatha’s touch, but her words echoed in her mind like a challenge.

Agatha pressed her body against hers, hands gripping Rio's wrists and pinning them above her head, taking control. "Maybe I want this," she confessed, her voice tinged with something dark. "Actually, maybe I want everything. Her purity, her energy... I want to see her cry and beg for more. I want to control her until there's nothing left but what I desire."

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Rio gasped, not from Agatha's strength but from what those words ignited inside her. The corrosive desire was mutual, and they both knew it. "You're not the only one, Agatha." Rio murmured, her gaze burning with intensity. "I want it too. So much it scares me."

Agatha loosened her grip on Rio's wrists, but the closeness between them remained unchanged. Their eyes never wavered, the tension in the air growing thicker. "So what will we do, my love?" Agatha asked, almost in challenge. "Destroy ourselves for what we want from her? And... share?"

The proposal lingered between them like a forbidden secret, but no words were needed to confirm the answer. Rio leaned forward, her lips capturing Agatha's with wild intensity, her hands finally free to explore the woman's body above her.

"You've never wanted to share anything because you're a selfish fucking bitch." Rio murmured against Agatha's lips, her hands sliding lower, teasing. "But maybe this time... maybe for her... you'll make an exception, won't you?"

Agatha laughed—a low, dangerous sound—before leaning in again, capturing Rio's lips with a hunger that was nearly insatiable. "Careful, my love," she whispered, her voice hoarse and full of promises. "I always play to win."

And with that, the bed became a battlefield of desire, control, and surrender as both let their barriers fall, surrendering to the intensity of something they knew was as wrong as it was inevitable.

The moon shines in the autumn sky

Growin' cold, the leaves all die

I'm more alone than I've ever been

Help me out of the shape I'm in

Rio pulled Agatha closer, their lips colliding forcefully, the kiss anything but gentle. It was a battle of wills, full of teeth and tongues—a fierce confrontation that spoke more than any words could. Rio gripped Agatha's neck firmly, forcing her to lean further in, to submit to the moment. But Agatha never surrendered without a fight.

"You think you can control me?" Agatha whispered against her wife’s lips, her voice a hissed challenge. Her body was tense, the heat between them almost unbearable.

Rio laughed, a rough, low sound, as her hands slid along Agatha's waist, pulling her closer. "Control you? No," she answered, dark eyes gleaming. "But I know you're just as broken as I am."

The name neither of them dared to say hovered between them, a shadow darker than the desire they already shared. The confession in Agatha's gaze made Rio grip her hips tighter, pushing her down onto the bed.

Their bodies pressed together, slick and aching. Agatha, on top, massaged her own breasts, imagining you sucking on her until she came.

"You're no different from me," Agatha murmured, her face so close to Rio's that their breaths mingled. "You want to break her too."

After the fires, before the flood

My sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Agatha smiled—a crooked, dangerous smile—as her hands trailed down to knead her own breasts, hardened nipples under her fingers. "Then don't stop." She whispered, eyes locked on Rio, as if seeing directly into her. "Moan her name for me. I want to hear you say it."

Rio hesitated for a moment, eyes closing as if trying to shield herself from the confession. But then, as if torn from her, the name slipped from her lips in a pained whisper.

"Y/n..."

The sound echoed through the room, charged with an intensity that made Agatha shudder. Rio repeated it, louder this time, voice broken by desire. "Y/n, make mommy come. Be good for her."

Agatha froze, her body still throbbing with pleasure, but her mind spiraled into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The word "mommy" echoed in her head like thunder, awakening something primal and uncontrollable within her. It was both delicious and cruel, a blade twisting in her mind.

"Rio..." Agatha called, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire. But Rio was beyond restraint. Her body moved in perfect sync with Agatha's, seeking something deeper, more visceral.

Rio opened her eyes, wild and provocative. "Oh, don't play innocent, my lady." She responded, voice low and husky. "You want to hear those words... because deep down, you want to shape her into that for us. Someone who obeys us, who trusts us blindly. Someone who needs us."

Agatha choked, hips pressing involuntarily against Rio. "That's not..." she tried to protest, but the words died in her throat. Her mind, against her will, conjured images of you—your innocence, your vulnerability—and the contrast between that and what they wanted was like a drug, corrosive yet irresistible.

"I just want to use her." Agatha whispered against Rio's mouth, but her voice sounded fragile, as though trying to convince herself.

Rio laughed—a low, rough sound that made Agatha shudder. "Liar," she murmured, lips brushing Agatha's ear. "You want to possess her. You want her to be yours, to depend on you, to look at you like you're the center of her universe."

Agatha's blood boiled. Rio's words were sharp, cutting straight to truths she tried to bury. And yet, the heat in her core became unbearable, a living force demanding more.

Whatever trepidation you may feel

In your heart, you know it's not real

In a moment of clarity

Summon an act of charity

She leaned forward, lips capturing Rio's with a violence that felt more like warfare than a kiss. It was a declaration of power but also palpable desperation, as though trying to burn away the memory of what she'd just heard.

Agatha's mind—against her will—summoned images of you. The contrast between your innocence and what they desired was like a drug, corrosive yet irresistible.

Their movements became frenzied, almost brutal, the room filled with sounds that blended pleasure and raw need. Agatha's mind flickered, pulsing to the rhythm of desire she could no longer contain. Rio gripped her wife's hips tightly, tilting her head to bite Agatha's shoulder, drawing a sharp moan that nearly became a scream.

Agatha let out a rough moan upon hearing the name they both tried to avoid, now filling the air like an electric current. "That..." she whispered, voice heavy with almost animalistic desire. Her hips moved more intensely against Rio, the frantic rhythm reflecting the chaos within them. "Say it again. Tell me how you want her."

"Y/n..." Rio murmured, the name slipping from her lips like a forbidden confession. Her fingers dug into Agatha’s waist, guiding her wife’s movements with an urgency that burned them from the inside out. “I want her on her knees. Humiliated for us— Oh, fuck!”

Agatha lowered her head, biting Rio’s bottom lip before dragging her tongue along the curve of her neck, savoring every gasp that escaped.

“You're so pathetic.” Agatha taunted, her voice a wild whisper. “Just as desperate for her as I am.”

You gotta pull me out of this mud

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood

“Oh—FUCK! Agatha!”

The climax that seized them was like a storm—brutal and devastating. Their bodies arched together, muffled screams swallowed by intense kisses as their combined magic filled the room with an almost unbearable energy. When they finally collapsed onto the bed, their bodies still trembled, and the name that had bound their minds hovered in the air like a curse.

Agatha collapsed on top of Rio, breathless, their bodies still trembling from the wild, destructive wave of pleasure that had overtaken them.

Rio turned her head to the side, eyes half-closed, breath uneven as she ran her fingers through Agatha’s disheveled hair. Agatha rested her forehead on Rio's shoulder, her body still pressed against hers, a mix of sweat and desire radiating a near-intolerable heat.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, laden with everything that couldn’t be spoken. Then, with a falsely casual tone, Agatha lifted her face, eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of amusement and curiosity.

“So…” she began, voice lazy, lips curving into a mischievous smile. “‘Mommy,’ huh? What was that about?”

Rio squeezed her eyes shut, letting out an exasperated sigh, though she couldn’t stop the flush rising to her cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Oh no, my love,” Agatha countered, her hand sliding lazily over Rio’s torso in a possessive yet teasing touch. “You can’t just drop something like that in the heat of the moment and expect me to ignore it.”

Rio tried to sit up, but Agatha’s strength—both physical and emotional—kept her pinned. “It was just…” She hesitated, searching for the right words and failing miserably. “It was just what came to mind.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Just what came to mind?” Leaning closer, she nipped at Rio’s earlobe before whispering, “So you want her to call us that? 'Mommy Agatha.' 'Mommy Rio.' I have to admit—it does have a certain charm.”

Rio groaned, but this time it wasn’t from pleasure—it was pure frustration. “Agatha...”

“I’m kidding.” Agatha said, though the smile on her lips suggested otherwise. She slid to the side, lying beside Rio, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as her fingers traced lazy patterns across Rio’s exposed skin.

For a moment, silence reigned again, but this time it was lighter, more intimate. Agatha turned her head, watching Rio with a gaze that was both soft and penetrating.

“I really missed this.” She murmured, her voice low, almost vulnerable. Her lips found Rio’s shoulder in a tender kiss—a gesture starkly contrasting the intensity they’d just shared.

Rio turned to face her, eyes still hazy but now filled with a deeper emotion. “It’s been a while since we were like this.” She admitted softly, almost in a whisper. “Really connected.”

Agatha nodded slightly, her fingers still drawing circles on Rio’s skin.

Rio laughed softly, though a shadow of concern flickered in her eyes. “Maybe we should do something about that.” She suggested hesitantly, testing the waters.

Agatha remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but her hand found Rio’s, fingers naturally intertwining. “Maybe.” She agreed, her voice soft yet weighted with meaning.

Rio turned her face, brushing her nose against Agatha’s tangled hair. She wanted to respond, to say she felt the same, but words seemed inadequate. Instead, she simply tightened her arms around her wife, pulling her closer as if she could hold her there forever.

And maybe she could.

Maybe this was a new beginning.

Or perhaps it was the start of something even more dangerous.

Because deep down, both of them knew.

The reason that had brought them to this moment.

You.

~*~

911, what's your emergency?

Tag List <3

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[focusonkayjay]

Wildly Wealthy Koreans (final + epilogue); inspired by Crazy Rich Asians

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: photographer/ filmmaker! jungkook, rich girl/ fashion designer! reader, established relationship, angst, fluff, smut

Series summary: When you invite your boyfriend, Jungkook, to accompany you to your brother's wedding in your hometown, Daegu, he’s overjoyed, eager to meet your family and experience a side of your life you’ve never shared with him. However, once he uncovers the truth about who you really are, he’s unable to grasp the full extent of your reality. The situation becomes even more complicated when a certain someone makes him feel profoundly unwelcome, leaving him to question not only your world, but also his place in it.

Disclaimer: This series is heavily inspired by the movie Crazy Rich Asians, with the storyline closely following the original film's plot. However, I wanted to reimagine it as a fanfiction, where Jungkook and OC take center stage as the main protagonists. While I’ve kept the core elements and themes from the movie, I’ve added my own touches here and there, such as altering certain character dynamics and incorporating a few original settings. Some scenes are directly inspired by the movie, and I’ve worked to recreate them in a way that it hopefully resonates with the fans of the movie. Hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 9.7k+

Chapter Warnings: your mother, talks about culture, roots etc, cultural jabs (??), some dialogues taken straight from the movie.

A/N: AHHHH, I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS SERIES IS FINALLY OVERRRRRR 🥺 i still remember debating whether writing this series was a good idea or not, and i’m so incredibly glad i decided to go for it. seeing it through to the end has been such a rewarding journey. a quick reminder (as always) to those who haven’t watched the movie, PLEASE DOOOO. it’ll help you truly capture the essence of this series and catch all the little references sprinkled throughout the story. thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to every single one of you who stuck around and read through the entire story. your unwavering support means the absolute world to me, and i hope the ending left you feeling as fulfilled and happy as i feel right now. thank you again, endlessly, for being a part of this journey. love you guys <333

final

Jungkook's eyes roam around the serene interiors of the photography museum. The space is dimly lit, with soft spotlights highlighting the carefully curated photographs mounted on minimalist white walls.

The polished wooden floors gleam under the subdued lighting, their faint reflections adding warmth to the otherwise cool and modern design.

Large floor-to-ceiling windows on one side let in streaks of natural light that mix with the artificial glow, casting gentle shadows across the room.

A faint hum of classical music plays in the background, blending with the quiet murmurs of a few visitors who walk slowly, lost in thought as they admire the exhibits.

Each photograph is encased in sleek black frames, their details brought to life by the perfect interplay of light and shadow.

Jungkook’s gaze shifts towards the entrance. His eyes narrow slightly as he spots a familiar figure entering. Her presence commanding, with large, oversized sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose and a crisp sky blue suit that speaks of meticulous tailoring.

Her posture is poised but guarded, exuding both authority and apprehension. She glances around, as though searching for something... or someone.

When her eyes finally land on him, she stiffens slightly, her polished demeanor faltering for the briefest moment.

There’s a pause, a moment heavy with wordless tension, as their gazes lock. Then, as if deciding to confront the inevitable, she begins walking towards him. Her heels click rhythmically on the gleaming wooden floor, each step echoing faintly in the otherwise hushed space.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his fingers fidgeting in his pockets of his jecket, and forces a small, polite smile. “Thank you for meeting me here.” he says softly as he bows when she reaches him, his tone tinged with restraint.

Your mother lowers her gaze, the sharp lines of her expression softening slightly as she removes the oversized shades that had shielded her face. Her hands fold the glasses and tuck them into her blazer's pocket.

Her eyes flicker briefly to Jungkook before shifting to the museum’s visitors, who linger quietly in their own worlds. She crosses her arms, her movements calculated, and slowly begins walking further into the gallery, her gaze wandering over the photographs lining the walls.

Jungkook follows closely behind her, the faint echo of his boots blending into the quiet hum of the museum. His gaze flits from one photograph to the next and the air between them is heavy with the kind of silence that feels almost alive.

After a few moments, she halts abruptly in front of a large photograph, the sharp sound of her heels ceasing like the punctuation to an invisible sentence. Jungkook stops a few paces behind, watching as her eyes narrow, drawn to the image before her.

The picture is striking... a serene lakeside scene where the water glimmers under a golden sunset. At the heart of the image are a mother and her daughter, waist-deep in the water. The little girl throws her head back in carefree laughter, her hands splashing water toward the sky, droplets catching the light like tiny jewels.

The mother, her arms outstretched to steady the child, wears a wide, radiant smile... one that speaks of pure, unfiltered joy. The intimacy of the picture is palpable, the bond between them immortalized in the frame.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jungkook’s voice cuts softly through the silence, his eyes also fixed on the photograph. His tone holds a quiet reverence, as though he understands the story behind the image without needing to be told.

Your mother remains silent for a long moment, her arms still crossed. Her sharp eyes scan the photograph, lingering on the mother’s expression, as if she’s trying to decipher something beyond the surface. Finally, she breathes out, her voice low. “It is.”

As they walk side by side through the museum, Jungkook’s eyes linger on the photographs, each one a silent universe frozen in a frame.

His gaze stops at a photograph of a weathered lighthouse against a stormy sky, its beam cutting through the chaos.

“You know...” he begins, his voice low but steady. “Photography has this way of teaching you about life." he says, crossing his arms.

"Every shot is a lesson of patience, perspective, and timing. Sometimes, you’re staring through the lens, thinking you’ve got the perfect frame, but then you realize… it’s not right. The light’s too harsh, the angle's too narrow. That’s when you step back, adjust, and try again.” He pauses, his hand brushing lightly against the edge of a nearby frame.

“Life is a lot like that. The things we don’t understand... the moments that hurt us or confuse us, they start to make sense when you’re willing to shift your perspective, even just a little.”

Your mother remains quiet, her gaze briefly shifting to him before returning to the photographs, her expression unreadable.

“You called me here..." she says eventually, her voice sharp and direct, breaking the delicate quiet. “I assume it’s not for a photography lesson.” She glances at him over her shoulder, her tone laced with a challenge.

Jungkook looks down, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Well then…” His voice trails off as he walks past her taking a few steps ahead, his hands slipping back into his pockets. His eyes move over the walls, scanning each frame with a focus that seems both casual and intentional.

“I know the truth about my mother bothers you...” he says, his voice steady but quiet, his words carried by the subdued hum of the museum’s ambiance.

Your mother doesn’t respond immediately, but she follows him as her eyes settle on the photographs alongside his. Each image seems to hold its own gravity... a bustling street in monochrome, a child peering through a cracked window, a lone bird perched on a barren tree.

“But you didn’t like me the second I got here.” Jungkook continues, his steps slowing until he halts entirely. He turns to face her, his dark eyes meeting hers with an intensity that demands answers. “Why is that?” he asks, his tone calm but weighted, the kind of calm that conceals gallons of restrained hurt and confusion.

Your mother stops a few feet away as she looks at him for a long moment, her expression impenetrable. "You know..." she begins, her voice firm yet laced with an undercurrent of contemplation.

"As a photographer, I’m sure you've experienced those moments... when you’re behind the lens, capturing a scene so carefully, so purposefully, and yet, there’s just something... a detail, a shadow, or perhaps an element that doesn’t quite belong." She pauses, letting her words settle between them.

Jungkook furrows his brows, listening intently, trying to grasp the weight of her meaning, the cryptic nature of her expression.

"It disrupts the rhythm of the image... the frame." she continues, her voice almost detached now, as if the words have found their own path.

"No matter how perfectly you’ve set everything up, no matter how much you try to step back and adjust, it pulls your attention, ruins the flow, and shatters the harmony you so carefully crafted. It doesn’t blend in the way it should... it stands out, but not in a way that completes the image. It’s a blemish, an imperfection in an otherwise perfect picture."

She steps closer now, the silence between them dense, her gaze unwavering as she delivers her final words, her tone colder, yet still rich with intensity.

"You’re like that to me." she says, her eyes locking with his, the words biting with an unspoken finality. "You don’t belong in the frame."

Though the sting of her words cuts deep into Jungkook’s core, he forces a chuckle, his gaze dropping to the floor as if to shield the emotions threatening to surface. "Why?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, as though he’s not unraveling inside.

"Because I’m not rich? Because I didn’t grow up with extravagant tea ceremonies or grandiose parties? Because I wasn’t born into a family with old money?" His head tilts slightly, eyes lifting to meet hers with a quiet defiance.

Your mother’s lips curl into a thin, airy grin, shaking her head slowly as if dismissing him before he’s even begun to understand. "You’re a foreigner." she says with finality. "American." she adds.

Jungkook’s expression falters, confusion clouding his features as he tries to digest the weight of her statement.

She gazes at him, eyes sharp, as if everything is already clear to her. "You were raised in a world where detachment is a virtue. Detached from your culture, your traditions, from the things that truly matter. All you care about is your own happiness." Her words hang heavy between them, like a wall that she’s built with her own hands, each syllable an obstacle too high to climb.

Jungkook’s brow furrows in bewilderment as he tries to reconcile the disconnect. "But... don’t you want Y/n to be happy?" he asks, his voice tinged with desperation, as if the question could bridge the vast divide she’s creating.

She laughs softly, a hollow sound, and begins walking again. "It's an illusion." she murmurs, almost as if speaking to herself. Jungkook follows, each step heavy with the weight of her words, yet unwilling to retreat.

"We understand..." she continues. "... how to build things that last. Things that matter. Things with roots, with purpose... not just fleeting, ephemeral happiness.... Something... you know nothing about." She glances back at him, her eyes sharp.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, a storm of frustration rising within him. "You don’t know me." he says, his voice low but firm, a quiet challenge hanging in the air between them.

She stops in her tracks, eyes flickering to a large photograph on the wall. The image captures a fading sunset, its colors blurred and intertwined... beautiful but transient, as though it were about to disappear entirely. "I know you’re not what Y/n needs." she says quietly.

Jungkook stands there, a silent fury building in him, but her words cut deeper than he expected. He meets her gaze once more, eyes resolute. "Well, she asked me to elope with her yesterday." he says, his words sharp, almost defiant.

At this, your mother’s composed exterior falters, visibly cracking for the first time. Her eyes widen in shock, as though she had never expected such a revelation.

Jungkook watches her carefully, a quiet understanding crossing his mind that she had definitely not seen this coming. "She said she’d walk away from her family and you... for good." he presses on, his voice firm.

He watches her closely, observing how her shoulders tense, how her breathing catches, and how her eyes fall to the floor as she tries to process the weight of what he’s said.

A quiet chuckle escapes Jungkook’s lips, catching her attention. "Don’t worry..." he says, voice soft but tinged with something darker. "I turned her down."

At this, your mother exhales deeply, a sound of relief that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She takes a moment to regain her composure, trying to steady herself with a practiced sigh.

"Only fools fold a winning hand." she mutters, the words a hollow attempt to mask the vulnerability seeping through.

Jungkook shakes his head, a quiet frustration brewing within him. He glances at a photograph on the wall, a few feet away, its stillness contrasting sharply with the tension in the air.

"There’s no winning. You made sure of that." he replies with a nonchalant grin, though the words are heavy, laden with truth.

"Because if Y/n chose me, she would lose her family." he continues, taking a step closer to her. "And if she chose her family, she might spend the rest of her life resenting you."

She looks at him, her throat visibly tightening as the gravity of his words slowly settles in. It’s as if each syllable he speaks punctures the layers of her reality, sending ripples through her calm facade.

"So... you chose for her." she murmurs quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, almost like she’s testing the truth for herself.

Jungkook smiles softly, a tender yet sad curve of his lips. He purses them, his voice carrying the weight of something deeper. "I'm not leaving because I'm scared... or because I think I’m not enough." he says, his words slow, as though he’s carefully peeling back the layers of his own vulnerability.

Your mother tilts her head, and in the soft glow of the museum's lighting, her eyes shimmer slightly, betraying a crack in her usual strength.

"Because maybe for the first time in my life..." he pauses, his breath hitching ever so slightly. "I know I am." he continues, his voice a fragile admission of self worth.

Your mother looks at him, her expression hardened with forced composure, her gaze flickering between the raw honesty in his eyes and the vulnerability in his voice. She’s trying to hold herself together, trying to remain unshaken.

Jungkook’s voice falters, a soft sigh escaping him as he shrugs. "I just... love Y/n so much." he says, his tone thick with sincerity, tinged with sadness as his eyes glisten.

"I don’t want her to lose her family... her brother, her father, her grandmother. I don’t want her to lose you." he adds, his words dripping with the painful understanding of what it would cost you to choose him over them.

He shakes his head slightly, the words painful on his lips, each one a reminder of the battle between love and sacrifice.

"These past few weeks have shown me how much she cherishes everything she’s grown up with, and I would feel horrible if she walked away from all of that... for me." he says, his voice low but heavy with the weight of his own realization.

"I don’t want to snatch her away from her family..." he continues, his gaze locked with hers now, steady and unflinching. "I want to be accepted by her family instead." he says, his voice laced with an earnest desire to belong, not just to you, but to the life you've already built.

"So I just wanted you to know..." His voice trails off, thick with emotion, as he turns away, his gaze shifting towards the far end of the museum.

"That one day... when she marries another lucky guy... someone who’s enough... for you." he says softly, turning back to her, his eyes red-rimmed but steady.

"And you’re playing with your grandkids... when the orchids are blooming and the birds are chirping, that it was because... of me." A bittersweet smile curves on his lips, though there’s a sadness that lingers in his gaze, one that speaks of a future he knows he won’t be a part of.

"A poor, raised by a single mother, low-class, immigrant nobody." he adds quietly, the words cutting through the air with a finality that resonates deeper than anything spoken before.

Your mother stares at him, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear the fog that has settled over her mind. The weight of his words lands on her like an ice-cold splash of reality, each syllable reverberating through her, leaving her momentarily paralyzed.

She watches as Jungkook doesn’t give her the chance to respond. He turns on his heels, his back retreating from her, and walks away.

Her gaze follows him, eyes fixed on his retreating figure as he crosses the museum floor towards the exit, each movement seeming to echo the finality of their conversation.

//

Jungkook stands by the trunk of the car, his hands steady but his heart in disarray as he carefully places his luggage inside.

The conversation with your mother replays in his mind and despite the ache that seems to weigh down every fiber of his being, he knows he’s made the right decision... at least, that’s what he tells himself.

When you asked him to elope, Jungkook had nearly given in. The mere thought of a future with you was intoxicating, the idea of having you by his side every day, every night, a dream he had long held close.

For a brief moment, he was ready to throw everything else aside just to make it happen.

But the thought of you walking away from everything you’ve ever known... cut deeper than he could admit. It was unbearable.

He loves you too much, so much that the idea of snatching you away felt selfish, almost cruel. And so, despite the way it shattered him to his core, he had to turn you down, even as it tore him apart.

He remembers the way your face fell, the way tears streamed down your cheeks as you begged him to reconsider. The way your voice broke when you pleaded with him to choose you.

But deep down, he knew he couldn’t. Loving you meant protecting you, even from himself. It felt wrong... wrong to ask you to sacrifice so much, to leave behind the people and the life that shaped you.

Now, as he prepares to return to New York with his mother, the reality of his choice weighs on him. He feels the emptiness like a missing piece of himself, as if a part of his soul had been carved out and left behind with you.

But sometimes, he thinks, that missing piece is necessary. It’s a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of love, even if it feels like a gaping, unhealable wound. This pain... it’s the price of doing what’s right, even when every part of him wishes he hadn’t.

Jungkook hears the faint rolling of suitcase wheels as Yoongi emerges from the house, pushing his second piece of luggage with an exaggerated nonchalance.

Behind Yoongi, his family stands in a quiet semicircle, their expressions a blend of sadness and pride as they watch Jungkook prepare to leave.

"Good for youuu..." Yoongi drawls, his voice laced with his trademark sarcasm as he nudges the suitcase towards the car. A guard promptly steps forward to load it into the trunk, but Yoongi keeps his gaze fixed on Jungkook.

"Walking away from Y/n and her family's fat-ass property portfolio." he jokes, shaking his head dramatically. Despite the ache in his chest, Jungkook manages a soft laugh, his lips twitching upward for the first time in what feels like days.

"You’ve got no one, no net worth..." Yoongi continues, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity. He steps closer, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. "But you’ve got integrity. And that’s why I respect you."

The words hit Jungkook harder than he expects, and he blinks rapidly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. "Thank you for everything, hyung." he says, his voice low but steady as he steps forward, his arms extending towards Yoongi.

Without hesitation, Yoongi pulls him into a firm hug, patting his back once with a quiet kind of solidarity. "You’ll be fine, kid." Yoongi murmurs, his words almost inaudible but carrying a weight of belief that Jungkook hadn’t realized he needed to hear.

//

Your gaze is fixed on nothing in particular as you stand in your room's balcony, the evening sky painted in muted hues of twilight. The breeze brushes against your skin, teasing the hem of your nightgown, but you hardly notice. Your eyes, dry from crying, remain blank, and your cheeks still bear the streaks of tears long dried.

You feel hollow, like a shell of yourself, standing motionless as you think about how Jungkook's probably headed to the airport right now. The ache in your chest is so consuming that even the idea of moving feels insurmountable.

When you asked him to elope with you, you saw it... the flicker in his eyes that told you he was ready to say yes. In that moment, you felt hope surge through you, as if for the first time, the impossible was within reach.

But just as quickly, the hesitation crept in, dimming the light in his gaze. He told you he couldn’t do it, that he couldn’t take you away from your family, your roots, no matter how much he loved you.

He said he would feel wretched knowing you had severed ties with your mother, your brother, and everyone you held dear... all because of him.

And you understood.

Of course, you understood. That was the kind of person Jungkook was... selfless to a fault, someone who carried the weight of his decisions like stones in his heart. But understanding didn’t make it any easier.

You were desperate... desperate to keep him in your life, to promise him forever. After what your mother had done to him, after everything he endured, you were ready to walk away from her.

Was it a rash decision? Maybe. Impulsive? Certainly. But at the time, it felt like the only choice, the only way to salvage the pieces of your heart.

Until he said no.

Until he told you he couldn’t do it. That he was leaving. That he was going back to New York.

Suddenly, your sorrowful thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on your bedroom door. The sound feels like an unwelcome intrusion, pulling you out of the haze of your grief. You sigh heavily, already guessing who it might be.

“Tae, I don’t want to eat.” you call out, your voice hoarse and quiet. Turning away from the balcony, you walk back into your dimly lit room, expecting the footsteps to retreat.

But the knock comes again, a little firmer this time.

You click your tongue, frustration bubbling beneath your despair. “Tae—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as the door creaks open slightly, revealing a figure you weren’t expecting.

It’s not Taehyung.

It’s the person responsible for the ache in your chest, the reason your world feels like it’s crumbling.

It’s your mother.

Your eyes widen as the door opens further, revealing her figure standing there, clutching a box in her hands. You barely register what it is but whatever she’s holding doesn’t matter, because she's literally the last person you want to see right now.

Before she can speak, you turn away, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave. You retreat to the balcony, arms crossed tightly over your chest as if to shield yourself from the storm brewing within.

Your gaze locks on the horizon, though, once again, it lands on nothing in particular... just the empty expanse that mirrors the void in your heart.

“Y/n-ah...” she calls softly, her voice careful, like she’s treading on glass. You don’t answer. Instead, you shift your weight, maintaining your focus on the skyline.

You sense her hesitating, but she doesn’t leave. A few seconds pass, and then you hear her footsteps approaching. She stops at the edge of the balcony, leaving a deliberate gap between you. It’s as if she’s giving you space while still insisting on being near.

“Y/n.” she says again, her tone gentle yet resolute as she steps just a bit closer. You don’t turn, biting down on your lower lip to hold back the urge to ask her to leave.

She exhales softly, the sigh heavy with something unspoken. From the corner of your eye, you see her glance at you... at your tense posture, your clenched jaw. She knows you won’t meet her gaze, but she stands firm, determined.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me...” she begins, her voice wavering slightly. “But just hear me out. Let me say my piece, and if you still want me to leave, I will.”

You stay silent, your resolve teetering. When she continues, her voice carries a vulnerability you’re unaccustomed to.

“When you left for New York to chase your dream… I was terrified.” she admits, her words unsteady. “My little girl was going so so far away from home... from me and the thought of you forgetting everything... your roots, your family, it scared me.”

She hugs the box she's holding a little tighter to her chest, her gaze shifting to the same skyline you’re fixated on. “I thought if you followed your happiness, you’d become… selfish. That you’d waste your potential, drift away from everything we worked so hard to build for you.”

Your jaw softens ever so slightly, though you remain silent.

“But your father and your brother... they consoled me every day.” she continues. “They told me about all the wonderful things you were doing, and I was grateful you were thriving, even though it hurt to be apart. And when you called off the engagement with Wooyoung…” She pauses, sighing deeply.

“I didn’t understand it then, but I see now that you just wanted something different... something that made you happy.”

Her lips curve into a small, bittersweet smile. “However, I thought once you came back after doing everything you dreamed of, we’d settle everything. I’d find you an eligible man, someone who was on your level. I wanted to make sure your life was perfect.”

At that, your posture stiffens.

“I wanted you to be the perfect daughter-in-law...” she adds, her voice cracking slightly. “Not like me… because, you know, I was never your grandmother’s first choice for your father.”

Your chest tightens at her words, the weight of her confession settling heavily in the room. Growing up, you’d heard fragments of the story... the disapproval your grandmother had shown, the rejection your mother had quietly endured.

Though she rarely spoke of it, the shadow of those memories lingered, unspoken but ever-present. You’d always wondered if it still haunted her, if the echoes of that rejection had ever truly faded.

“And then you came back home...” she says, her voice softening further. “But not alone. You brought Jungkook.”

Her eyes glisten as she looks down at the box in her arms. “He wasn’t what I expected. He grew up in the States, he was raised by a single mother… He didn’t fit the mold I’d envisioned for you. And it scared me. It felt like you were slipping away, choosing someone who couldn’t possibly measure up to what I thought you deserved.”

“Jungkook deserves me.” you interject sharply, finally turning to face her. Your voice is cold, your gaze piercing. “He deserves every bit of me.”

Your mother doesn’t flinch at your tone. Instead, she smiles faintly, almost wistfully, before continuing. “I see that now.” she says, her voice steady but laced with emotion.

“But at the time… I didn’t. Somewhere along the line, I started projecting all of my own insecurities onto him. My disapproval, my disdain... it wasn’t about him. It was about me.” Her voice cracks slightly, and she pauses to steady herself.

“I realize now that I was projecting the rejection I faced all those years ago. The way your grandmother looked at me, the way she thought I wasn’t good enough for your father… I passed that burden onto Jungkook.” she explains.

"I know it doesn't justify my actions..." she adds quickly, her voice trembling as she struggles to hold onto the last threads of composure. A bitter smile curls at her lips, but it falters almost immediately.

"But... I was worried about you, Y/n. And..." She hesitates, the words catching in her throat. "A part of me was dealing with my own ego... the part that never healed."

Her confession hangs in the air, heavy and raw, and you can feel your chest tighten as you process the vulnerability in her voice.

Slowly, you blink, your eyes fixed on her face. For the first time, you notice the fine lines around her eyes, the weariness etched into her features, and the way her usually composed expression is now a fragile mask threatening to crack.

"I know what Grandma did hurt you..." you begin softly, your voice carrying an edge of gentleness you didn’t know you could summon. "But, Mama..." You step closer, just enough for her to notice but not enough to touch.

Her eyes dart to yours, unsure but yearning for something... acceptance, forgiveness, or maybe just the chance to be heard.

"Dad loved you..." you continue, your voice steady now, though the emotion behind it swells with every word. "He loved you so much that he went against everything Grandma wanted. He fought for you. He chose you."

The faintest glimmer of a tear shines in her eye, and her lips part, as if to say something, but she stays silent.

"And just like Dad loves you..." you say, your voice softening, "I love Jungkook. I love him with everything I have."

Her breath catches audibly, and you can see the weight of your words settle deeply within her. The truth you’ve spoken reverberates through her, leaving her visibly shaken, even though she had always known it in her heart.

"But what you did to him... how you treated him..." Your voice falters, your throat tightening as you remember the pain, the humiliation he had to endure and a tear slips down your cheek. "It didn't only hurt him... It hurt me too, Mama. It hurt me more than I ever thought possible."

The sight of your tear breaks something in her. Her face crumbles, and she reaches out instinctively, her trembling hand brushing your cheek as she wipes it away.

Her touch is hesitant, as though she fears she no longer has the right. "I know, my sweetheart." she whispers, her voice quivering as her own tears begin to fall, mirroring yours. "I know..." she repeats. She exhales shakily, her tears now streaming freely. "And I’m so, so sorry. To you. To Jungkook. To both of you."

Her hand falls away as she takes a step back, clutching the box in her hands like it’s the only thing holding her together. She inhales deeply, her shoulders trembling under the weight of her confession.

"I met him earlier today." she says a few seconds later, her voice breaking as she glances at you with tear-streaked cheeks.

Your eyes widen in shock, but before you can process her words or form a response, she continues. "I spoke to him, and it was like seeing everything I had refused to see all this time." Her voice cracks, and she presses a hand over her mouth as if to hold back a sob.

"Speaking to him made me realize just how blind I’ve been. How cruel. How selfish." She sniffs, lowering her hand as her gaze drops to the floor.

"I was ruining something beautiful, something so pure. And I let my own pain, my own insecurities, take control. I was so afraid of losing you that I never stopped to see I was actually driving you away myself."

Her words, raw and trembling, cut through you like a knife.

"You and Jungkook..." she continues, looking back at you, her eyes brimming with remorse. "What you have is rare. It’s the kind of love people search for their entire lives. And I almost destroyed it because I couldn’t let go of my own scars."

Her voice cracks again, and this time, a sob escapes her lips while her shoulders shake as she cries openly in front of you, a sight you never thought you’d witness.

You stand there, tears streaming down your own face, as you watch your mother unravel under the crushing weight of her own guilt. It’s as if the full gravity of her actions is only now sinking in, as if she’s just beginning to grasp the depth of the pain she’s inflicted on her own daughter.

Several seconds pass and then her voice wavers, but there’s a quiet urgency as she interrupts your thoughts. "You should go to him."

Your breath catches, your teary eyes snapping up to meet hers. "Mama—"

"I won’t stop you anymore." she interjects, but there’s a newfound resolve in her tone, her trembling lips curving into the softest, most bittersweet smile, though tears continue to spill down her cheeks.

"I see it now... the depth of the pain I’ve caused you." she confesses, her voice quivering with regret. "I can’t keep standing in the way of my own daughter’s happiness. I can’t be the one to destroy something so real, so pure, and so beautiful."

Her words shake you to your core, and you feel something inside you shatter... walls you hadn’t realized you’d built around your heart crumble under the weight of her sincerity.

"Go to the airport, Y/n." she whispers, your name breaking on her lips. "Go to him, right now."

Her words are a lifeline, pulling you out of the despair you’d been drowning in for so long. Relief floods your chest, overwhelming and liberating, as tears continue to stream down your face.

You nod frantically, your breath hitching as emotions surge through you like a tidal wave.

You don’t bother to change out of your nightgown or worry about your disheveled appearance. You turn towards the door, ready to bolt out and make your way to the man who holds your heart.

But then, just as your fingers graze the doorknob, her voice calls out again. "Wait!"

You freeze mid-step, turning back to her with wide, glistening eyes. She strides towards you, holding the box she’d been clutching tightly to her chest all this time.

"Take this..." she says, her voice soft yet trembling as she extends it to you. Confused, you glance down at the box, then back at her. "What… what's this?"

Her gaze softens, her expression a poignant blend of pain and tenderness. "It’s something he needs to see..." she murmurs, her voice trembling yet resolute. "Just give it to him, sweetheart. He’ll understand."

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the box as uncertainty flickers in your chest. But the quiet urgency in her voice, coupled with the way her hands linger on the box as though letting go is both a release and a plea, pushes you to act.

Nodding, you take the box from her, its weight pressing against your chest as if carrying not just its contents but her unspoken regrets and hopes.

Without wasting another moment, you turn and run... your feet carrying you down the hallway, your heart pounding as you descend the staircase in a blur. The house feels suffocating, every second urging you to escape its confines and race towards the love of your life.

The moment you spot the guard outside, you request him to call the driver and within minutes that feel like eternity, your car pulls up. The headlights slice through the darkness, illuminating your urgency as you slide into the back seat, clutching the box tightly.

The car hums to life, gliding down the long driveway that stretches like an endless thread leading out into the world beyond your home. The city looms ahead and you press your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Your tears continue to fall, but this time they carry a different weight. They’re not born of despair but of something else entirely... a release, a hope, a fragile kind of determination.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you dare to believe that maybe, just maybe, this road will lead you home. To him. To a love worth everything.

//

The hum of activity in the airport lobby surrounds Jungkook, the soft murmur of voices blending with the gentle tapping of suitcase wheels on the polished floor.

The bright fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow across the vast, open space, while the large windows showcase the sprawling tarmac outside.

The quiet rush of people moving in all directions adds to the atmosphere... passengers checking in, families hugging goodbye, and the occasional call over the loudspeaker announcing boarding times.

It’s a place filled with anticipation, yet for Jungkook, the air feels heavy, weighed down by a deep ache that refuses to be soothed.

The large screens hanging from the ceiling flicker with departure times, the destinations glowing in bold text. His flight is soon, but the seconds seem to stretch endlessly as he watches the planes taxi down the runway in the distance.

Each passing minute only deepens the knot in his stomach, the looming uncertainty of what’s to come gnawing at him.

Sitting beside him, his mother watches him closely. Her gaze is gentle, understanding the turbulence within him even if she can’t fully share it.

She leans forward slightly, her voice soft and filled with concern, "Kook..." she calls, her words breaking the silence around them. "You're sure you want to leave?"

His heart aches at the question, the temptation to stay and resolve everything with you pulling at him, but he knows deep down, that this is something he must do.

He exhales deeply, glancing at his mother, forcing a small smile. "Yes, Ma." he says, the words coming out slower than he intends. "It’s the only right thing to do."

But even as the smile touches his lips, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They’re distant, clouded by the pain of knowing he’s about to walk away from something that means more than just the world to him.

The silence settles back around him, a heavy weight pressing on his chest as his thoughts inevitably drift back to you. He can't help but wonder if he’s making the right choice, if walking away from the love he's known for so long is really the only answer.

But before he can sink deeper into the spiral of doubt, a sudden commotion at a distance pulls him from his thoughts. Loud footsteps echo through the terminal, and the sound of frantic running cuts through the usual hum of voices.

Without thinking, his head swivels to the source of the noise, his eyes narrowing as he instinctively watches the movement. What he doesn’t expect, however, is the sight of you... familiar, yet out of place, desperately scanning the crowd, your gaze flickering from face to face, frantic and lost.

His heart skips a beat. Confusion floods his senses as he watches you weave through the standing passengers, your steps quick. You’re clutching something tightly in your hands, a box, perhaps.

His feet move before he can stop them, standing up from his seat, his eyes not leaving you for even a second.

His mother, sensing the shift in his demeanor, stands up as well, her eyes following his gaze. “Kook, what happ—” she starts to ask, but her voice trails off when she sees you too. A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips, though Jungkook doesn’t notice it. He’s too lost in the storm of emotions as he watches you... his heart racing now.

You’re moving erratically, your gaze darting around as you stop by random chairs, still searching, still looking. The urgency in your movements is unmistakable, and Jungkook’s confusion only deepens.

But then, your eyes lock with his. The moment freezes in time.

“Kook!!” Your voice shatters the stillness of the moment, cutting through the noise of the airport like a beacon in the chaos, a lifeline thrown with every ounce of desperation and hope.

The urgency in your cry tugs at his heartstrings, and in that instant, Jungkook feels everything... the hurt, the longing, all rushing toward him, sweeping him into a wave of raw emotion. It’s in the tremble of your voice, the frantic search in your eyes, the way you seem to need him like air itself.

He instinctively steps forward, reaching out, but you’re already running, your feet light and swift, propelled by a determination that can only come from a heart that knows exactly what it wants.

When you stop just a few feet away, everything hits him... the disheveled state of you, the tears streaking down your face, the nightgown you haven’t changed out of, as if you’ve left everything behind, every comfort, just to be here.

His heart aches at the sight, his need to protect you overwhelming him. But before he can speak, you beat him to it.

"Kook, I'm flying back to New York with you." The words burst from you, each one carrying the weight of everything you’ve held inside, every thought, every feeling, every breath you’ve taken since he left. You’re breathless, your chest heaving with the strain of the words, and your eyes never leave his... desperate, yet filled with a certainty that makes his heart ache deeper than it already does.

Jungkook’s breath catches in his throat. This is the last thing he expected to hear. This is the last thing he ever imagined he would face at this moment, but the emotion behind your words... the sheer depth of it, strikes him like a tidal wave.

His eyes flicker to his mom, standing just behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder, as if silently telling him to breathe.

"I'll be in the washroom, okay?" His mom’s voice is soft, distant, but Jungkook barely registers it. His mind, his heart, is consumed by you. He doesn’t even notice when she slips away, leaving the two of you in this fragile, raw moment, suspended in time.

His heart races, torn between the pull to stay with you and the reality of the life he's supposed tp have without you. "Y/N... please..." he whispers, his voice thick with the weight of everything he’s trying to say and everything he can’t.

"Please, don’t make this harder than it already is." His voice cracks, betraying the vulnerability he’s trying to hide. The truth is, deep down, he knows he can’t keep you away anymore.

He knows you’ve made your choice, just as he’s made his.

But you shake your head slowly, tears glistening in your eyes, and the steady resolve in your voice pierces through the pain that’s been festering between you both.

"Kook, ever since we started dating, not a single day has passed where I haven’t imagined a future with you. Not a single day where I didn’t wonder what our lives could be like, what we could build together."

You take a step closer, and he can feel the gravity of your words pulling him in, the sincerity behind every syllable. "Since day one, you’ve been the only thing on my mind, Kook. Every single day, you’re the first thought when I wake up, the last one before I fall asleep." You let out a soft laugh, though it’s laced with a sob, and his heart breaks all over again.

"You’re all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever dreamed of. You’re the one I’ve imagined growing old with, the one I’ve pictured beside me through every storm, every moment, every day. You’re the only one I see... now, tomorrow, and forever."

His breath hitches, and he feels as though the ground beneath him could collapse at any moment. You reach out, your hand trembling, and he steps forward instinctively, his hand brushing against yours in the most delicate touch.

"I want everything with you, Kook. I want the quiet mornings in our cozy little apartment, the smell of coffee filling the air, the sound of our laughter echoing through the walls. I want our own little family... maybe even a dog... a Doberman, just like you’ve always wanted." You smile, and the tenderness of it catches him off guard, but the tears that shimmer in your eyes tell him everything.

He smiles back, though he can’t hide the way his eyes glisten.

"I want the mundane moments, the everyday life, because those are the moments that make everything else worth it. And I want it all with you." You pause, your voice breaking, but your eyes never waver, never falter in their devotion.

"Because to me, Kook, you are my future. You are everything I’ve ever needed. And wherever you are in the world, that’s where I belong." You smile, caressing his cheek, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Jungkook feels like he’s home.

"And no matter who wants to get in the way, no matter who tries to break us apart, I’m not going to let that happen." You whisper, your voice low and fierce with the love that burns between you.

And as the words hit him, Jungkook feels every bit of his own resolve crumble. The only thing he’s certain of now is that you are his heart, his everything. And nothing, no one, could ever change that.

"Really?" he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet filled with a fragile kind of hope. It’s as if he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he speaks too loudly. He takes a cautious step closer, his eyes searching yours for any trace of doubt.

But there isn’t any. None at all.

You nod, the certainty in your small gesture lighting a spark in his chest. His lips curve into an airy, disbelieving chuckle, the sound tinged with a kind of relief he hadn’t known he needed.

"Really." you affirm softly, a small laugh escaping you... a laugh so full of love and promise that it unravels him completely.

That’s all it takes.

Before he even realizes it, his hands are cradling your face, his palms warm against your skin, his touch reverent, as though you’re something fragile, something precious. And in truth, you are.

When his lips meet yours, it’s as though the world around him disappears... the hum of the airport fades, the distant announcements and the shuffle of hurried footsteps dissolve into nothing.

In this moment, there is only you.

He kisses you with everything he has, everything he’s held back, and everything he didn’t know he was capable of feeling. It’s not just a kiss... it’s an unspoken promise, a confession of the depths of his love, a bridge over the years of pain and longing.

Every part of him, every fiber of his being, is poured into this moment, because now, nothing else matters.

Because at this point, Jungkook knows... he wants everything with you, too. He’s always wanted it. A future where your laughter fills the air, where your shared dreams come to life.

A home that feels alive because you’re in it, your warmth lighting every corner. A family that grows in love and chaos, where his mornings start with you by his side and his nights end the same way.

It’s you... only you. The only constant in every vision he’s ever had of his future. The one person who makes him feel like he’s enough, like he’s whole.

As the kiss deepens, Jungkook’s hands slide to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading gently through your hair. It’s as though he’s anchoring himself in this moment, desperate to make it last forever, to ground himself in the reality that you’re here, with him, choosing him.

But then, you pull back, your hands pressing lightly against his chest, breaking the moment. “Wait…” you breathe out, your voice trembling slightly. The sudden shift leaves Jungkook momentarily dazed, confusion flickering in his eyes as his hands hover near you, reluctant to let you go entirely.

You bring up the box in your hand, holding it out to him. “Mama…” you start, swallowing hard as if the weight of the moment is catching up to you. “Mama told me to give this to you.” you say, your voice soft.

Jungkook’s brows knit together as he glances at the box, his confusion deepening. The mention of your mother makes his posture stiffen. “What is it?” he asks softly, his voice cautious as he hesitantly takes the box from you.

“I don’t know.” you admit, shaking your head. “But she said… it’s something you need to see.”

Jungkook lets out a shaky breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he stares at the box in his hands. A storm of emotions brews inside him... apprehension, curiosity, even a flicker of hope but mostly, there’s a gnawing sense of dread.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but his mind is already spiraling. Is this going to be another sign of disapproval? Another way to remind him he’ll never measure up, never truly belong?

He forces himself to stop, shaking off the intrusive thoughts as he carefully lifts the lid. His heart pounds in his chest, his breathing shallow as he peers inside. And then his breath hitches.

Inside the box is a photo frame. The wooden edges are simple but elegant, smooth beneath his fingertips as he picks it up. His eyes fall on the picture encased within, and his lips part in quiet disbelief.

It’s a photograph... a snapshot from the day of the tea ceremony, the first time Jungkook met your family.

In the picture, he stands slightly stiff beside you, surrounded by your family. At the center sits your grandmother, her expression serene yet proud, flanked by your parents on either side. Beside your mother stand Taehyung and Miyeon, their bright smiles radiating warmth.

On the opposite side, next to your father, it’s you and Jungkook. You’re beaming at the camera, your joy evident and infectious, while Jungkook offers a softer smile, his hand resting securely in yours.

Jungkook remembers that day vividly. How awkward he’d felt, how he’d hesitated when you asked him to join the family photo. He’d insisted it wasn’t his place, that he didn’t belong.

But you had convinced him, tugging him to your side with a reassuring smile that melted his defenses. Even then, he had been aware of your mother’s watchful gaze, uncertain if his presence in the frame would be seen as an intrusion.

His gaze lingers on the photo now, taking in every detail. But it’s not just the image that strikes him... it’s the frame. The way it borders the picture, enclosing the memory within its sturdy embrace.

The frame, with its polished wooden edges, doesn’t trap the image but preserves it, making it whole. In this small, simple structure, he sees the way this memory is safeguarded, cherished, and elevated.

And in that same breath, it strikes him... this is what belonging feels like. This frame doesn’t exclude him… it includes him. It holds him within its bounds, just as you do, just as your family does, and now, even your mother.

And it hits him all at once.

He belongs. He belongs inside the frame.

The realization washes over him like a tidal wave, a flood of warmth and emotion that he can’t contain. The photograph isn’t just a picture... it’s a symbol. A message from your mother.

It’s her unmistakable way of telling him that she no longer sees him as a blemish or an imperfection in an otherwise perfect picture... that he’s no longer an outsider.

This was her approval, her apology, her final affirmation that he belongs... to you, to your family, and to everything that makes you who you are.

His throat tightens, his chest swelling with an overwhelming mix of emotions... relief, gratitude, love. His eyes, brimming with unshed tears, flicker to yours. You’re watching him intently, your own emotions mirrored in your gaze.

“I belong…” he whispers, the words trembling on his lips, as though uttering them aloud might shatter the delicate truth he’s only just beginning to grasp. His gaze meets yours, and his soft, incredulous smile carries the weight of disbelief, hope, and a longing he can finally put to rest. “I… I belong.”

You nod, stepping closer until your hand gently covers his. “You always have, Kook. You’ve always belonged.” you whisper, your voice tender but certain, as though sealing a promise he hadn’t realized you’d made long ago.

In an instant, he shifts the frame and box into one hand, his other arm pulling you tightly into his chest. The embrace feels like a shield, a cocoon against the noise and chaos of the world around you.

You wrap your arms around him in return, holding on as though you might never let go. The distant hum of airport announcements fades, muffled and irrelevant, as the two of you become the center of each other’s universe.

“I love you, Kook.” you say softly, your voice barely audible against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He nods, pressing his cheek against the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair.

“I love you too.” he whispers and when he pulls back, it’s just enough to look into your eyes. Without hesitation, he leans down, his lips capturing yours in another kiss.

But this kiss is different. It’s not just a declaration of love... it’s everything. It’s the apology he never got to fully say, the gratitude he feels for your unwavering faith in him, and the silent vow that he’s yours, now and forever.

When you finally part, your cheeks are damp, and so are his, but neither of you care. You smile up at him, teary-eyed but radiant, and he mirrors your expression, his face soft with wonder and relief, as though the final piece of the puzzle has clicked into place.

“God...” you laugh suddenly, breaking the moment with a sheepish grin. “I just realized…I’m still in my nightgown. I probably gave everyone a show running like a maniac through the airport.”

Jungkook blinks, suddenly becoming aware of your surroundings. “Shit, baby, you should’ve changed! Aren’t you cold?” His hands instinctively move away from you and within seconds, he’s shrugging off his coat.

“Kook, I’m fine.” you protest lightly, but he’s already draping the thick fabric over you with careful precision, his brows furrowed in concern. “Still...” he mutters, stepping back to adjust the coat around you. “You could’ve caught a cold. What were you thinking?”

You slip your arms into the sleeves and laugh. “I wasn’t thinking. I just had to get to you.”

From a short distance away, Jungkook’s mother watches the two of you in silence, her luggage resting by her side. Her lips curve into a faint smile as she observes her son, who had been so weighed down by sorrow just days ago, now standing tall and glowing in your presence.

Relief floods her heart, seeing him laugh, seeing him love, and most of all, seeing him be loved in return.

The sharp crackle of the intercom shatters the stillness, the announcement of your flight echoing through the terminal. “Wow...” he murmurs, exhaling deeply. The reality of it all is finally settling in. “This is it, huh?”

“We’re going back to New York together.” you remind him with a smile, and he nods, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Wait, though...” he says, his brows knitting together in sudden confusion. “Where’s your luggage?”

You grin, a mischievous twinkle lighting your eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have it arranged.” you say. He laughs, shaking his head in affectionate disbelief because he had momentarily forgotten who is girlfriend really was. “Of course, you will.” he says.

As the two of you turn to walk towards the gate, your hand in his, you spot his mother by the seats. She holds her luggage now in one hand, her posture relaxed, her expression warm. You offer her a shy, almost apologetic smile, and she returns it with one of quiet approval.

Just before Jungkook can lift his bag, you pause, tilting your head towards him with a playful smirk. “Kook...” you begin. “You know my family has ties with the airline, right?”

“Yeah…?” He narrows his eyes, already sensing where this is going. “So…” you drawl, dragging out the moment. “I might have upgraded our seats to business class again.”

epilogue

7 months later;

"And you may now kiss the bri—"

The words barely leave the officiant's lips before the room erupts into cheers and applause as Jungkook steps forward with a wide, boyish grin, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you into a kiss that’s nothing short of passionate.

The world around you blurs as he leans you back ever so slightly, his lips molding perfectly to yours, and the crowd’s whoops and claps grow louder, egging him on.

You can’t help but giggle against his lips, your bouquet clutched tightly in one hand while your other arm winds its way around his shoulders.

“Woohoooo! My baby sister is finally married!” Taehyung’s voice booms above the commotion, his excitement cutting through the noise like a firecracker. His dramatic declaration sends a ripple of laughter through the room, the joyful energy bouncing off every corner of the hall.

Jungkook pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughs softly, clearly enjoying the infectious joy of the moment.

You smile radiantly at Jungkook before intertwining your fingers with his and walking down the aisle together. The flower petals fall gently from above, catching the golden light like tiny, delicate whispers of a blessing, creating a dreamy haze that feels almost surreal.

The crowd's cheers and laughter are like a harmonious melody, and you can’t help but laugh softly as you wave to your friends and cousins, who coo and awe over the two of you.

Playfully, you lift your hand, wiggling your fingers to show off your ring, earning exaggerated gasps and more cheers. Jungkook chuckles beside you, squeezing your hand affectionately as his eyes scan the sea of familiar faces.

His gaze lands first on his mother, seated near the aisle, her hands clasped tightly together as she watches her son with pride. She’s smiling... a smile so genuine and full of love that it makes his heart ache in the best way. He smiles back, his lips curving into something soft, something grateful, and then his attention shifts.

He spots Yoongi next, standing amidst the crowd, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a grin. Yoongi raises his hand, offering Jungkook a thumbs-up with a playful holler that has the people around him laughing. Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head slightly but appreciating the support from his closest friend.

Then, his eyes drift to the other side of the room, and they find your mother. She’s radiant, as always, with an elegance that commands attention without effort. But what truly catches him off guard is her expression.

When their eyes meet, it’s not the cold, scrutinizing gaze he once feared... it’s warm. Her smile is soft, genuine, and holds something he never thought he’d see... acceptance.

The world seems to slow for a moment as she dips her head slightly, a silent gesture of approval, a mother’s quiet way of saying... Take care of my daughter. Always keep her happy.

Jungkook feels his throat tighten, emotions bubbling to the surface as he nods subtly in return with his own silent promise... I will. Always.

<-part 7

—fin. ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

series masterlist

my masterlist <3

series taglist: @mirinaeii @taetaecatboy @tsukiesimp @lovingkoalaface @taekrve @jaytheatiny @loverofannabeth @jaerisdiction @whoa-jo @parkinglot-nights @reneeblack6230 @rrosiitas @shellyyy177 @majesticjung-97 @wobblewobble822 @primadonnasdream

permanent taglist: @rpwprpwprpwprw @kimyishin @somehowukook @allie-in-the-moon @nightappple @jksoftii @mimi1097 @yooforeaa @jkaxl @jinglthembalslikethat @puppybunnyjkay @jiijeon97 @ninisica @rerefundslocals @kgamboa11 @lizzikoo @madussthoughts @kelsyx33 @mafersame @yoonstaar @autumnbear @taetaecatboy @goldenjeonkoo @dragonflygurl4 @fairypjminie @claudialemusr @kooko007 @matryoshka-poetry @strawberrymangoshortcake (let me know if you wanted to be added !! <3)

[infimace-blog]

Thinking about rap as a technical artform and rap as a cultural artform, with respect to Tumblr's incompetence at dealing with either. Tumblr can just barely grasp the former because, like all forms of Black music, it's been repackaged in various ways that are more palatable to to white audiences. I talked last month about how what Tumblr was calling rap while trying to defend its taste in music is more akin to filk songs, but I should admit, sometimes Tumblr cites people who actually rap. It doesn't fix the problem or absolve them of their bullshit, but it is true.

The failure then becomes an inability to recognize or care about how rap functions culturally.

People on Tumblr will take Dungeon Meshi and intricately pick apart how a single chapter connects back to real-world neurodivergence issues and the cultural differences between the West and the East when it comes to handling them, and then look at any given rap song and assume it's skin-deep. Unless it's Hamilton back in the late 2010s, before we all decided it was cringe, in which case they'll gladly dig into the history of the early USA and, like the play itself, sidestep the racism whenever possible.

Take Weird Al, one of the many names that's been thrown around in Kendrick and Drake's wake. Weird Al is technically a rapper. He has done rap. We cannot ignore that as a factual statement. He's not even that bad as a rapper. But he has no engagement with rap as a cultural object; he engages with the artform as a parodist. "Amish Paradise", probably Weird Al's most popular rap parody, doesn't say anything; it's here to riff on a religious minority. But you dig into it just a little and you can see the kind of complexity that Tumblr usually loves to talk about. The song is, after all, a parody of Coolio's Grammy-winning "Gangster's Paradise", which is literally about being a black man in an environment dominated by organized crime and fearing the constant threat of death in that life, but was also created specifically for the movie Dangerous Minds, a middling white savior movie about Michelle Pfeiffer teaching a bunch of bad stereotypes of what people think inner city non-white students are. A movie that was, in turn, based on a white woman's memoirs about teaching in a bad school near San Francisco. You've got this interplay between a white woman's real-life efforts to teach her black and Latino students (I can't speak to how effective she was, mind you), a fictionalized version of that same woman being shown as the sole guiding light for her underdeveloped gangbanging students - and a white actress's crappy Kipling-ass 5/10 film getting Coolio his Grammy. It was tailor-made to be Coolio's big hit with white audiences, getting the push of Michelle Pfeiffer, having slow and deliberate rapping, and lacking the swearing in most of Coolio's oeuvre (Stevie Wonder mandated no swearing in return for letting Coolio sample his music). And, though I suspect this was unintentional, the song plays into the same narrative that the movie does, how this rapper is doomed to his life because "nobody's there to teach [him]", with dramatic choir and strings underscoring the dire fate that awaits this rapper if some charitable white person doesn't help him - the same dramatic choir and strings that Weird Al uses for comedic effect by comparing it to Amish farmwork.

I put that last paragraph together with two or three hours of Wikipedia, and you can do the same kind of analysis with a lot of hit rap songs (and Genius is right there if you need a helping hand - I wouldn't have understood much of Kendrick's Euphoria without it), and I think this drives a lot of my frustration? Tumblr loves to see something cool and then take a few days to write an in-depth post about how cool it is under the surface. So the lack of this when it comes to rap does show a deep disinterest in thinking about it when it isn't fun. And there's so much cool shit to learn about rap. Did you know that Baby Got Back was inspired by the anti-black fatphobia Sir Mixalot's model girlfriend was dealing with in her industry, and was pushing back against the media's general preference for skinny white women? Did you know that there's a Turkish hip-hop scene specifically in Germany because, as a minority that was brought to the country for cheap labor and then forced to exist as second-class citizens, they ended up relating a lot to the music? Just. Dig a bit. There's so much.

[headlinxr]

( 瘋狂的 ) HEADLOCK, P. SUNGHOON ، ݃ •

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ʾpassion is a positive obsession. obsession is a negative passion. . ㌐

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ you are sung-hoon's muse ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 photographer!sung-hoon x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ reader is jake's girlfriend, jake is a little red flag, reader wants to be a model 𓏲

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

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

Okay, I'm going to make a wild prediction about Adar and Galadriel in Episode 8, so strap in.

An overarching the/major motif of the Rings of Power from the very first episode has been, obviously, the interplay between darkness/light.

"To find the light, we must first touch the darkness." / "Before light, darkness must flee, etc."

Adar and Galadriel together are a manifestation of that duality between light and dark and accordingly, I think there's a compelling case for them to team up against Sauron at the end of Season 2.

Here's my attempt at this argument:

PARALLELS BETWEEN ADAR AND GALADRIEL

The show has established a few strong visual parallels between the two of them.

Mourning ritual. Galadriel mourning for Finrod in S1Ep1 is echoed by Adar's mourning of the Uruks in S2Ep7. They even mirror the single tear.

What's more, Galadriel bears WITNESS to Adar's funeral ritual, enforcing the connection of this moment.

Seed planting. Frankly, my jaw hit the floor when S2Ep2 had Galadriel planting seeds in the memorial garden in Lindon, because the shots/framing were almost IDENTICAL to the seed planting Adar does at the beginning of S1Ep6. The sentiments of both instances are the same "life over death," though the words do differ.

Flip sides of the same coin/mirror to one another. The show has also presented us with many instances where they function as mirrors to one another. If not signficant, why do?

Barn scene. The barn scene in S1Ep6 is a PRIME example, when Adar literally calls Galadriel out for the hypocrisy of her hatred of the orcs.

The dinner scene. Adar once again holds up a mirror to Galadriel, pushing back against her notion that "you yielded to him. I resisted." Then they have the shared acknowledgement that without Sauron, the world seems a "dull grey" (GREY, interestingly, a halfway point between dark and light). Adar's face in response to her admission will live rent-free in my mind forever-- it's like he's been SEEN for the first time in his life.

So while Galadriel sees herself as a warrior of light, and views Adar as a creature of darkness, the show does a pretty superb job of showing that both of these characters have light and dark within them in equal measure.

They were both tempted by Sauron and succumbed.

So there is a clear, thematic link between these two from that standpoint.

ADAR'S JOURNEY TOWARD THE LIGHT

Next, I think it is clear Adar on a path toward light/redemption as an elf, and it tracks in a VERY LITERAL SENSE.

First time we see Adar, he is bathed in an angelic light. As he performs the funeral ritual for Magrot, light streams into the Uruk tent.

The shot at the end of S2 Ep1, when the camera lingers on Adar as Gil-Galad's call to the Eldalie commences. Adar feels the undeniable call to his elven past. That camera shot was NOT A COINCIDENCE, and I'm FOREVER FERAL ABOUT IT.

Cavalry charge at the siege of Eregion. Adar is OBVIOUSLY backlit:

There is a dividing line between light and shadow an Adar is RIGHT on the border of it.

When he steps up to take possession of Nenya, the sky behind him is split between a darker side and a lighter side. (You can argue that it's a CREEPY light, but it's still light. There is almost no all-black coloring on him in that second frame when he actually has the ring. For a character that's been head to toe in black the entire series, this is Significant.)

So where does that leave us for the big Sauron smackdown?

My first wild prediction: In an INSANE reversal, Galadriel will be the one to bring Morgoth's dark crown to the confrontation, while Adar will wield Nenya, a symbol of light.

It's not inconceivable that Gal could have smuggled it out of Adar's camp somehow under her oversized Uruk cloak. And Adar, OBVIOUSLY now possesses Nenya at the end of S2Ep7.

I think the fight between Galadriel and Sauron is ACTUALLY a three-person fight; we just haven't seen Adar in the promos because

1. Obvious plot spoilers and

2. HE WILL BE FIGHTING IN A FAIR FORM BECAUSE NENYA WILL HEAL HIS CORRUPTION.

My second wild prediction: This three-person fight is telegraphed in The Last Temptation. There's a new motif (not musical, so unclear if this is the correct term??) that starts around 1:07. It sounds like an aggressive children's choir. Interspersed, we get some of Gal's themes and Sauron-flavored music. I think this new bit could be either a combined theme for Gal/Adar fighting side by side, OR a new motif for a changed/elven Adar. It's aggressive, which to me tracks with Adar's fighting style that we saw through S2Ep7, and it builds and gets more voices added to it as the song progresses. At one point, it blends perfectly with Gal's theme.

Third wild prediction that I hope I'm wrong about: Adar will likely get fatally stabbed during this fight. I could see him giving Galadriel the ring at a crucial moment, in as a redemptive act, which would forfeit any protection it might have offered him, and I think he'll receive a fatal blow from Sauron, but not before we get a much clearer picture of EXACTLY who Adar is. IF they do it this way, it will be a deeply satisying end to Adar's story arc, IMHO.

Last thoroughly unhinged thing I will leave you with:

Nolwa Mahtar translation (from S1), according to Bear's blog:

Finish the war, the darkness, end this suffering

Impossible to pursue, deep in shadow, follow light

Finish the war, the darkness, end this suffering

Bright warrior against darkness.

Obviously this theme plays a HUGE role in S2. I believe the lyrics are different; we don't know what they say yet.

But I have contended all along that this piece has always applied in some way to BOTH Adar and Galadriel.

Galadriel is the bright warrior standing against Sauron's darkness, yes, that image is obvious.

But Adar, a figure who lived deep in shadow, follows light, ultimately finishing his own war and ending his own suffering.

[drdemonprince]

do you have any advice on navigating a friendship with a former abuser? they are pretty open about their past when asked although not incredibly initially forthcoming about it, which I think is understandable if maybe not the most,, idk,, straightforward I guess. But I do truly believe they’ve mended their ways and try really hard to do right by themselves and other people, but they’ve garnered a lot of vitriol from their former community (and with reason!!) but that community tries to, rightfully, make sure everyone knows about this person’s past, and I have a lot of guilt around being friends with them even though I do believe that they’re different now, I wouldn’t be friends with them if I didn’t believe that. Anyways, I guess im curious if you have any advice or experience with how to navigate any kind of relationship with someone who has done a lot of prior harm, while also trying to honor and respect the people who they have harmed?

I think that people in that situation are in really desperate need of community, most of the time. It is very difficult to work on yourself when pressure to excise you from every social group follows you everywhere you go, and the stories of what you've done have morphed into an entity that exists entirely outside of you, your victims, or anyone who was actually privy to the abuse that you committed.

It's very reasonable for people affected by the abuse & their allies to want nothing to do with such a person, of course. But there sometimes becomes a broader community norm of penalizing anyone who associates with the abusive person in any way whatsoever, and when you're already struggling with entitlement, boundary issues, loneliness, impulsivity, and self-hatred, as so many abusers do, it's hard not to spiral out further from being rendered that radioactive.

I think by being friends with this person you're doing something important. It is far easier for people to grow when they have social incentives to do so and emotional support. In the care of other people, we see our worth reflected. We learn more about who we are and who we *can* be through the interplay of ours' and others' various selves.

I think the best thing that you can do is to offer a space to this person in your life, if you continue wanting to, and building small spaces for them to find connection with people who are okay with that and feel comfortable doing so. Bring the person along with you into new spaces where they can help people and receive help in turn, without constantly being defined by their most horrible actions. Bring this person along with you to somewhere they've never been, with people who have no issue with them -- do a shift together at the local mutual kitchen or community garden, for instance, or a book club, or include them in a cultural practice that you participate in, and share that with them. Do jail support together, or mail books to prisoners. Take both of you outside of your everyday social context and allow them to exist in a new way, in new relations to others -- including people who, like them, have experienced social ostracism and struggle.

While you're doing that, observe them and see how they're doing. Talk with them afterward about how they feel, and anything they're finding difficult. I will trust your judgement here that the person seems fundamentally changed. Just being there and involved in activities alongside them will help you be on the lookout for any red flags, and I do think there is a degree of responsibility on your part to ensure you're not putting anyone else in danger by being around them, but you can do this in a light, nonjudgmental way, and let them grow into that trust that you're offering.

I have witnessed firsthand how healing it is for people like your friend to slowly realize that suddenly there are people that like them, now, and open up to them, when everybody shied away from them or hated them before. I do think that if someone is committed to no longer being abusive or boundary violating around others, they eventually do need to feel that they are accepted by some community, and seen as on par with anybody else. They can't be treated as lesser or more suspect for their entire lives in every social context. The communities they've already harmed shouldn't have to provide them with that acceptance and room to grow. But I think somebody should.

As always, keep an eye on your own feelings and make sure that this isn't too exhausting for you. By keeping the formerly abusive person separate from the groups they've harmed, you should be able to minimize the blowback you get for spending time with them. Not all of our friends need to be friends with one another, and not every social group in our lives has to make contact. It's okay to include your friend in a running group with a few other people you met volunteering but then keep their name off the guest list for your birthday party because associates of their victims will be there. If your friend is truly contrite over their actions, they will understand and respect that some people will never want to be around them -- and most reasonable community members should understand that who you associate with independently of them is not their business.

There may be some people who take a really hard line stance and expect everyone to ostracize the former abuser no matter what, and so you might be criticized or lose friendships with such people. But so long as you are helping to give the former abuser some social connection that is separate from anybody they've hurt, and you're not pressuring anyone to be around them or doing any apologism for them (which it sounds like you have no interest in doing), then you are not doing a thing wrong, and I think it's beautiful to give someone that space in your life. Navigating this stuff with grace, respect, and compassion is a skill that a lot more of us will eventually have to develop than we realize, I think. Life is long, and over the course of it, people change a great deal and do a great many things they regret. We need to be able to move through these things together somehow.

[sepublic]

Adding to the whole Colonizer/Immigrant interplay in TOH, this does remind me of how while Luz wants to learn magic, it isn't just immediately, freely handed out to her all willy-nilly. She has to learn to respect the Demon Realm's inhabitants and the Titan herself, Luz has to learn on their terms too.

Her first glyph, Light, came when Luz realized she needed to pay more attention to King and respect him as a demon, encouraging his own fascination with the demons of the isles, and by extension valuing a part of this culture that she initially dismissed and did not care for.

And for her second spell, Luz needed to show she was willing to be patient and learn from the Titan on his terms, rather than just taking the training wand and calling it a day. Luz still has to prove herself, the isles and its people aren't just obligated by the narrative to immediately hand this out to her just because she asked; Luz isn't entitled to their way of life, it's up to the isles to choose to share things with her. And while she does want to learn, Luz also prioritizes respecting and caring about other people, too.

And I dig that, especially since Luz is following off of a white colonist who DID seize and colonize the resources of the realm without any respect; Philip acts salty that the Titan hid magic from him, but what would you expect when you demand and appropriate with the most racist intentions? There's no work in brute-forcing your way through another culture's boundaries, that's just being an impersonating thug.

Amity goes on a whole rant during the Covention about how Luz doesn't really respect the practice of being a witch, that she's treating this as some game she can just walk into and own immediately, when this means a lot to the native witches and demons... And Luz definitely acknowledges that this is an important thing to consider, while showing Amity that she understands this and HAS put in the work.

Again, it's about respecting another culture and its inhabitants if you want to participate in it, instead of expecting them to be automatically open and handing over everything. Luz has to earn Amity's trust before they can be friends, and eventually lovers. Even after earning one glyph, she still has to earn the remaining spells, one at a time, before finding the combos is put into Luz's hands.

[animehideout]

Jobs JJK Men would have In Real Life (IMO) Part I

part II here.

Geto Suguru: Tattoo Artist.

• Geto would clad in black from head to toe, exudes an air of mystery and creativity.

• A cosy tattoo and piercing shop, with a strong ink and cigarettes scent.

• Enjoys the way he brings to life the visions and narratives that people carry within them, leaving an indelible mark on their bodies.

Megumi Fushiguro: Guitarist / Musician.

• Conveys his feelings through the instrument he plays.

• His energy translates in music.

• His fingers adorned with silver rings, dance across the cords. Would play guitar late at night.

Ino Takuma: Gamer / Streamer.

• Obsessed with his setup. His room full of vibrant led lights.

• Sits on his comfy gaming chair, dressed in casual baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants.

• Posters of his favorite games, pixel arts decorate his walls reflecting a passion that extends beyond the screen.

Mahito: Fashion Designer.

• Mahito's studio is a canvas of creativity, bathed in natural light. Sketches and fabric swatches cover the walls.

• The air is scented with the subtle interplay of fabrics and a strong vanilla aroma.

• Always dressed in the most elegant and luxurious brands.

Nanami Kento: Elementary School Teacher.

• Known for his kindness and patience, Nanami creates an environment where every child feels seen and valued.

• Nature-themed decor brings a touch of the outdoors into the learning environment. As nature brings him comfort especially the beach.

• Story telling. He loves it when he shares his favorite books and reads them for his students.

• His love for children goes beyond academics; it's a genuine open hearted connection.

• No over time.