#just cynical and it really doesn’t matter

[lienguistics]

多芸は無芸

2023.12.25

私は心の奥底で本当に何者なのか。

と自問したとはいえ、諸々な経験をしたのに聞きかじった程度しか知らないやつだとしか自答ができなかった。

前世ではピアノを弾いたり詩文を書いたりするのを楽しんだとふざけるようにしょっちゅう言っているが、実はただ小学から高校までの期間だった。いかにも素朴で無邪気な子だったんだ。今や、練習の機会が一か二回しかない私はもう前と違ってショパンを滑らかに弾くことができないが、楽譜を見る���りにぎこちなくなんとかできる。母が十年間レッスンにお金を注ぎ込んでくれたのに、なんて恥ずかしいだろう。依然として弾けると告げる権利があるのか。「弾ける」と言うたびに「けど、しばらく練習していなくてごめんね」とも付け加えることになった。

家で両親とベトナム語を話して育ちながら、英語しか話さない国で学校に通って、大学に入る数年前に日本語の勉強も始めたが、「お前のベトナム語が訛りとか文法的には英語っぽい」「英語の話し方は遠回しすぎて、お前が何か言い出す前にいつも一瞬の間を置くのは、何も思いつけないアホではなく、ただ考えを纏めているだけだと時間がたつにつれてわかってきた」と直接に言われた上に「シャイすぎて日本語をあまり話さないけど、たまに何か書こうとすると…まあ、それはごく稀だけどさ」と、会話がギクシャクに進むと相手の戸惑う眼差しで察することができる。

今尚辞典を手許に置かないとこんな文章を書くことができないのは、言葉のうろ覚えの癖がある所為なんだ。「石鹸を風呂から流し台に移動しておいただけなのに、母に甲高い声で悲鳴をあげられた」というのは、元々頭の中でただ「石鹸を風呂から流し○に移動しておいただけなのに、母に甲○○声で悲鳴を○○られた」というだけだったが、辞典で登場してきた言葉を目の当たりにしたとっさに見出し語の中から言いたい単語を抜き出すことができる。日本語を勉強すると、意味・読み方・書き方という三つのことを覚えなければならないのだが、本を読んでばかりいる私は今まで意味と漢字を認められることでどうにかやっていける。その所為で会話でさえ、相手が構わない限りに、私は携帯を取り出して、読み方を忘れたのに何度も見たことのあるからなんとか書けるようになった漢字を指で描いて相手に画面を見せてあげてから、まるで言葉の読み方をそもそもずっと覚えたかように、話をさりげなく続けることが何度もあった。日本語を実際に話すことができるのか、この私は。こんな間抜けなことのために手間取るのはどれほど恥ずかしいのではないか、と毎回心の中で嘆くのに、異様な手段でさえ相互理解となっていくため、結局別にどうでもいいんだろう。

この間、手作りのクッキーをゆっくりと味わっていた彼氏がとろけそうな笑顔することで、私も最初は喜んだが、恥ずかしくて目をそらしてしまった。

料理が上達するように励んだ期間は元彼と付き合っていたときだった。仕事の後��一緒に晩ご飯を楽しむために、和食やフランス菓子の作り方を身につけて、自分の職場をたまに早く出て、予め夕食の支度をしてあげる習慣があったものの、別れるよりずっと前に、アイツの分が冷めてしまうまで放置させたことが何度もあった。私が悪くなかったのは、予定を守ることができなかったのが私の方ではなかったからだ。

今の可愛らしい彼氏を見つめながら、いつか私のことに飽きてしまうのは単に時間の問題だろう、とうっかりと口を滑らせた。彼がどんな優しい答えを与えてくれたか、私はさっぱりと忘れてしまったが、もう一回言ってくれるように頼んでも、彼は苛立つどころかおそらくあっさりともっと褒めたり慰めたりしてくれる。かまってちゃんでいたくないから、放置しておいた方がいいかもしれないが。

精巧なフランス菓子を作る経験で養われた手際が網膜下の注射のような顕微鏡下の手術にも当てはまることができると思っていた上司は、私がそんな技術もあっさりと身につけることができると最初思い込んだが、「投薬してもらうのは患者ならぬ単なるかわいそうなネズミなので成功率の七十％で十分ではないか」と結局ニヤリと突っ込んだ。どういうわけか網膜下の注射の講習を求める人にしょっちゅう頼まれているのは、きちんと教えてあげるかどうか疑問を抱かせてしまい、個人的に微妙な雰囲気をもたらすことになった。三十%の未熟という意味が仄めかされているなんて面白いんだろう。三回に一回ぐらいやらかしてしまう先生の指導を本当に仰ぐことができるの？とりあえず今のところは、たまに俄然ぞっとした手の震えを抑えかねる所為だと言い訳しておく。しょうがないと言わんばかりに。

大学院に必要な志望動機書は、ただ具体的に私が書いていたものであると同時に親友と恩師との間の競合を象徴した。私がこれまでどんな人生を送ってきたのか、これからどのように成長したいか、もっとも効果的で風流に伝える文章に取り組んでいた三人の藻掻き。親友は、私がどれほど大したことないと思った諸々な経験でも含めることにより、総合的な主観を与えることができると訴えかけたが、然るに恩師は、自分の専門知識を示すために実験の目的と身につけてきた技術と詳しく説明しようと言い聞かせた。読書会みたいな部活や趣味も付け加えさせてもらえる場合は定期的に開催されている限りだ、と。まるで私がそんなにあてのない子だから自分の能力に疑念を抱かれるのも無理はないかように仄めかした、と親友は非難した。私が手の二本でしかない上に、気になるゆえに少し試したことのある様々な経験がほとんど取るに足りないと言わんばかりだ、と私は思った。こんなバラバラで断片的な存在でどうしたらいいのか。自己同一性の修羅場にはすでに嵌っていなかったとしたら、もうすぐ陥りかねない。

だが、誰にも言えない気がした。ましてや親密な関係があるはずの両親に。

分別をわきまえた親は、父が何回も誇らしく言った通りに、父の方だったはずなのに、私が今や思わずにいられないのは、父は現実的に考える力量があると自慢に信じながら真実から執拗に目を背けているなんて情けないのではないか、と。

自由に行ったり来たりしていた父の姿をしょっちゅう見ていたのに、私もたまに出かけたい気分だと許可をもらわなければならないという矛盾をいつか認めていただけると嬉しいのだが。私が単純に十年以上食べていなかったお菓子を買いたかっただけだとわかった上に、一緒に買いに行けると約束したにもかかわらず、「あっ、実は、明日、明日行こう」と何日も繰り返していた父は、永久に先送りすることができないのもわかったはずなんだろう。

こんなに愚かなことで喧嘩を売り出すことにより、向こうの方がいかにも愚かであることを証明するのではないか。私は単純に父の機嫌の変わりやすさに対して自分の不安を言い表しようとしたが、言ったことを曲解され、ただをこねられる必要なんて微塵もなかった。ここ数日間の招待に対して実際に行きたくないとそもそも素直に拒んだ方が、そんな風に癇癪を起こして「余計に外食するのが結構好きだなぁ」と嫌味ったらしく私に言いがかりをつけるよりも、礼儀正しいと思うのだが、さあ、どうだろうね。私には何とも言えない。

「別に好きなわけではないけど、家から出るのがそんなにイヤだとしたら、早く言い出した方がいいじゃないかと思っただけだった。自分も自炊するための用事をちゃんとしておくよ」と言いながら、昼ご飯を作り始めたところで「材料を片付けろ。お前はそんなにたまらなく出かけたいのか？全部元に戻して、行け」と噛み付けられた。

「食ってかかっても役に立たないのよ。私が小さい頃から母にもずっとあんな風に八つ当たりしてるんだろう？」と何気なく聞いたら、「だから今や一人で暮らしていても、それがどうしたっていうんだ」と投げつけられた。

「もしかしたら、私も年に一回実家に帰る理由と一緒なのかなぁ」

「もう大人だろう。自分の車を買って、いつでもお前が好きなように行ったり来たりして。俺とは関係ないから、どうでもいい。お前を迎えに行くのが大嫌いだ」と最後に言ってから、謝罪しようとしたときに「確かに噛み付けるのは役に立たないけど、それが俺って人間だよ」と言い分したのはいかにもダサかった。

最近、口をきかない間柄になるほど幼馴染とも口論してしまったのは、思い��けないことだというよりも、起こるべくして起こってしまったんだ。父に対しての感情にそっくり��ったのは、私の考えをきちんと整えて視点を何回も言い返そうとしたものの、認めてもらわずに相手の主観をぐいぐい詰め込まれた。芯まで劣等感に冒された奴が相手をそんな風に自分より劣っていると見做し、辛辣に罵ったりすることにより、自分の立場を守ろうとしていたが、実際は惨めに藻掻いている弱虫だけだということが私にはわかったので、そんなに意地悪く扱いされるのをなんとか耐えることができた、何年間も。

とは言っても、私も臆病者だろう。充分に励んでいなかったくせに家族と親友の関係を守ることができないと思われるのが恐ろしいから。

ー少なくとももう一回話してくれないか？

数年間繰り返し話し合おうとしていても、理解してくれることが一切ない上に、私が逆に理解してあげないとぎゃあぎゃあ愚痴をこぼしてばかりいるからそもそも完膚なきまで無駄じゃないか。

限界のない人なんていない上に、私があいつらの親ではないためちゃんと育てて礼儀を教えてあげる責任もないのが、なぜわかっていないんだろう。

自分の怒りについてこんな風にずけずけとするのは、確かに初めてなので、びっくりさせる可能性も期待していた。向こうのように鬱憤を晴らすほどではないのが一目瞭然だろうが、性格がそんなに歪んだ相手にそう思われてしまってもしょうがない。もう取り返しのつかないところまで来させてしまったから。

生物医学の博士課程に進む大学院生として結局受け入れてもらった私は、親友と恩師以外誰も知らずに申し込みを内緒で用意して志望動機書を書こうとしていたとき、今までどのように成長してきたか回想することにより、大変だったときからの記憶も蘇らずにはいられなかった。避けようとしても無駄だということがわかったため、代わりに別のエッセイに入れて書くことにすると、こういう執筆になってしまった。

と、書き上げたとたん、携帯の通知音が急に鳴って、画面を見ると、また大学一年生の物理学の宿題を手伝ってあげるように私に頼んでいるメッセージがやってきた。往復って、ね。

〈前〉

[amu-says-hav-says]

I can’t believe I went through all of Season 2 assuming Nina was the stand-in for Crowley when you actually pay attention it’s so CLEAR that she’s Aziraphale. I was tricked by her spiky, sarcastic, cynical outer shell and lulled into a false sense of security by Maggie’s bubbly optimism and wholesome goodness, because on the surface they reflect the ineffable husbands perfectly, in their personalities, their aesthetics, even many of their actions and morals. but not, and this is the real key, when it comes to their “relationship”. but those first impressions really had me damn fooled. 

I missed the blatantness of Nina’s “we’re just friends. actually we’re not friends. we barely know each other.” the same thing Aziraphale said in season 1.  the way he still struggles to quantify their friendship when Nina asks. Nina’s sarcasm when Crowley asks about rain and awnings because it worked for him (we all know it LMAO). hell, that whole convo the girls have in the rain is so AziraCrow (“I know. I’m not your type” “...You have no idea” hits so much harder the second time, help meeeee.) “Lindsay” maybe being symbolic of Heaven and Aziraphale’s toxic relationship with them and their abuse? (the handwritten text messages in red pen make me think of angry notes on paperwork, anyone else?) because Crowley has never actually cared about what Hell thinks of him, just not getting into trouble (or him or Aziraphale getting hurt). Maggie is always chasing Nina. NINA NEVER GOES IN THE RECORD STORE. Just like Crowley always goes to the bookstore, to Aziraphale, Zira NEVER WENT TO THE FLAT (apart from The Swap but that doesn’t count imo). Crowley has always chased Zira, not the other way around. Always there to rescue him, always going to him for company, always relying on their shared connection, always US. OUR SIDE. All through season one, he comes to Zira every time to work together, never trying to work alongside Hell in any way that isn’t to save their skins or Earth, while Zira hides things from Crowley because he STILL thinks Heaven is ultimately good and will do the right thing if he can just show them. fix it from the inside. 

Maggie working up the courage to finally say something, to put herself out there, while Nina is utterly oblivious and then when she does realise Maggie has feelings, becoming standoffish, putting up that barrier, fighting it, denying it, ITS SO CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE IN THAT ORDER. the way I was fooled into thinking Nina’s trust issues are Crowley because he does have trust issues ofc he does BUT Crowley has ALWAYS TRUSTED AZIRAPHALE. has always relied on him. has always been hurt when Aziraphale doesn’t immediately reciprocate the way he expects (the holy water request, the bandstand, the “off in the stars” etc). he’s always the one putting himself forward. Aziraphale has always been the one to second guess everything, to fight their connection, their similarities, their friendship. the girls really made me think it was going to be okay when they sat Crowley down, even as my inner sirens were going haywire about Metatron interfering, they were telling Crowley he just needs to open up and it’ll all work out BUT HE’S ALREADY AT THAT POINT. he may not say it, and by gosh is that part of their damn problem, but he’s always SHOWN IT. he’s not Nina who needs time to heal and recover from her broken trust, he’s always been Maggie believing it doesn’t matter, they’ll end up together in the end anyway AND I WALKED RIGHT INTO THE TRAP THAT THIS MEANT THEY WERE GOING TO BE OKAYYYYYYYYYYY

[sky-is-the-limit]

How Task Force 141 would react in a real argument with their partner (they're in the right):

Captain Price:

The way Price gets mad at you is calm, serious, and controlled. If you are looking for a shout match, you're not gonna get it with him. He doesn’t believe in yelling or making a scene, he's too old for that.

Instead, when things get heated, he quietly tells you that he’s going to step out, giving you both time to cool down and think. Usually, he heads to the pub nearby, has a drink (or two) and lets the anger settle before coming back to talk things out. It’s his way of making sure neither of you says something you’ll regret even if it means leaving you to deal in your own frustration for a while. It doesn't last long though.

❁❁❁❁

"This isn’t helping, love." Price says, tone steady despite the obvious tension. "I’m stepping out for a bit." He grabs his jacket and you can see the disappointment in his eyes. "I’ll be at the pub, just need some time to think. You should do the same." He pauses at the door, looking back at you with a flash of concern and frustration in his eyes. "We’ll talk when I get back, yeah?" The door closes behind him, leaving you in the quiet of the room.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

When Kyle gets mad, the laid-back, chill guy you know disappears. He becomes sarcastic and cynical, his words sharp and his patience terribly thin. He might roll his eyes or make you feel like your emotions are over the top, dismissing them with what he thinks is logic (according to him, of course). It’s not that he doesn’t care or he wants to upset you on purpose but when he feels like you’re not getting his point, his frustration turns into biting remarks that cut deep.

❁❁❁❁

"Oh, that’s rich-" Kyle says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because clearly, I’m the one who’s being unreasonable here, right?" He crosses his arms, shaking his head in disbelief. "If you actually listened to what I’m saying, you’d see how ridiculous this all sounds." His words hit you hard and the sting of them makes you want to shout back, even to break something but he’s already turned away, muttering under his breath before heading into a different room.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish:

When Johnny is really mad, he goes completely silent. Your cheerful, talkative boyfriend just shuts down. He won’t talk, won’t argue. He just ignores you, burying himself in video games or working out until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open. He thinks it’s better to stay quiet than risk saying something he can’t take back but the silence is worse than any argument and in his ignorance, he makes you feel like you don’t even exist.

❁❁❁❁

"Johnny, can we please talk?" You ask, watching him pick up the game controller. He doesn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the screen. The silence is deafening, each minute that passes only making the knot in your chest tighter. "Johnny…" Still nothing. Hours pass like this and when he finally puts down the controller, he heads straight to bed. "I’m knackered." He mutters, not even looking at you. "We’ll talk tomorrow." But you know that tomorrow might just be the same unless you can find it in you to apologise first and make up before bed.

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

When Simon gets mad, he goes back into the defensive man with trust issues you first met. He never raises his voice nor lets the argument last long. Instead, he becomes cold and distant and his usual quietness turns into a wall that you can't break through. He’ll say things that remind you of past mistakes, making you feel guilty whether you're in the right or wrong. His bitterness makes it hard to reach him and it feels like no matter what you say, he won’t budge. Stubborn bastard.

❁❁❁❁

"You think I can just forget what you said?" Simon is monotonic but there’s a harshness underneath his tone that makes you wince. "Words like that… they stick. You can’t just take them back." His eyes are cold, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he looks at you without a hint of his usual softness. "Maybe you should calm down before this gets any worse." He doesn’t move or change his expression, just stares at you blankly, making you feel shut out.

[ingravinoveritas]

Lovely new article about Michael in Paste magazine. Article is behind a paywall, so here is a transcription (with thanks to the person on FB who transcribed it, and the parts in bold are my own emphasis).

There’s so much to love about Prime Video’s Good Omens. A delightful adaptation of the popular Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett novel of the same name, the series is romantic, thoughtful, hilarious, and heartfelt by turns. The story of the almost-apocalypse and what comes afterward, it wrestles with big concepts like destiny, free will, and forgiveness, all framed through the lens of an unorthodox relationship between an angel and a demon whose love for one another is a key to saving the world.

As anyone who has watched Good Omens already knows, nothing about this series works without the pair of lead performances at its center. Stars David Tennant and Michael Sheen—who play the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale, respectively—have the kind of lighting-in-a-bottle chemistry that’s the stuff of legend, and their characters’ every interaction conveys both their deep affection for one another and the Earth they’ve made their home. Their romance is the emotional linchpin around which most of the series turns, and their heartbreaking separation in the Season 2 finale is so devastating precisely because we’ve seen how necessary the two are to each other’s lives.

But it’s Sheen’s performance in that final scene that really twists the knife. As Aziraphale’s face crumples following his and Crowley’s long-awaited kiss, the actor manages to convey what feels like every possible human emotion in the span of less than thirty seconds as the angel realizes what he has both had and just lost. The moment is emotionally brutal to watch, particularly after sitting through five and a half episodes of Aziraphale looking as lovestruck as the lead in any rom-com. Sheen makes it all look effortless, shifting from giddy joy to devastated longing and everything in between, and we really don’t talk enough about how powerful and underrated his work in this series truly is.

Though he’s half of the central duo that makes Good Omens tick, Sheen’s role often tends to get overshadowed by his co-star’s. It’s not difficult to see why, given that Tennant gets to spend most of the show swanning around in tight trousers looking like the Platonic ideal of the charming bad boy, complete with flaming red hair and dramatic eyewear. Tennant also benefits from Crowley’s much more sympathetic emotional arc. I mean, it’s hard not to love a cynical demon with a heart of gold who’s been pining after his angelic best friend for literal millennia even after being cast out from Heaven. Of course, viewers are drawn to that—likely a lot more easily than the story of an angel who’s simply trying the best he can to do the right thing as he wrestles with his role in God’s Ineffable Plan. Plus, let’s be real, Tennant’s sizeable Doctor Who fanbase certainly doesn’t hurt his character’s popularity.

As a performer, Sheen has a long history of playing both real people (Tony Blair, David Frost, Brian Clough) and offbeat villains (Prodigal Son’s Martin Whitly, Underworld’s Lucian, the Twilight Saga’s Aro). In some ways, the role of a fussy, bookish angel is playing more than a bit against type for him—Gaiman himself has said he originally intended for Sheen to be Crowley—but in his capable hands, Aziraphale becomes something much more than a simple avatar for the forces of Good (or even of God, for that matter). With a soft demeanor and a positively blinding smile, Sheen’s take on the character consistently radiates warmth and goodness, even as it contains surprisingly hidden depths. The former guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden who gifted a fleeing Adam and Eve his flaming sword and befriended the Serpent who caused their Fall, Azirphale isn’t a particularly conventional angel. He enjoys all-too-human indulgences like food and wine, runs a Hoarders-esque bookshop that never seems to sell anything, and spends most of his time making heart eyes at the being that’s meant to be his hereditary adversary.

Given the much more difficult task of playing the literal angel to Tennant’s charming devil, Sheen must find a way to make ideas like goodness and forgiveness as interesting and fun to watch as their darker counterparts. It’s a generally thankless task, but one that Sheen tackles with gusto, particularly in the series’ second season, as Good Omens explores Aziraphale’s slowly evolving idea of what he can and cannot accept in terms of being a soldier of Heaven. His growing understanding that the truth of creation is colored in shades of grey and compromise is often conveyed through little more than Sheen’s deftly shifting expressions and body language.

Our pop culture consistently struggles to portray the idea of goodness as something compelling or worth watching. Explicitly “good” characters, particularly those who are religiously coded, are frequently treated as the butt of some sort of unspoken joke they aren’t in on, used to underline the idea that faith is a form of naivety or that kindness is somehow a weakness. For a lot of people, the entire concept of turning the other cheek is a sucker’s bet, and believing in something greater than oneself, be it a higher power or a sense of purpose, is a waste of time. But Good Omens is a story grounded in the idea that faith, hope, and love—for one another, God, and the entire world—are active verbs. And nowhere is that more apparent than in Sheen’s characterization of the soft angel whose old-fashioned waistcoats mask a spine of steel and who refuses to give up—on Crowley, on humanity, or on the idea that Heaven is still something that can be saved.

Though he and Tennant have pretty much become a matched set at this point (both on and off-screen), Sheen’s performance has rarely gotten the critical accolades it deserves. (Tennant alone was nominated for a BAFTA for Season 2, and Sheen was categorized as a supporting actor when the series’ competed in the 2019 Saturn Awards.) But it is his quiet strength that holds up so much of the rest of the show around him, and Sheen deserves to be more frequently recognized for it. That he makes it look so easy is just another sign of how good his performance really is.

I love this so much. The thoroughly well-deserved praise for Michael's incredible performance as Aziraphale, but also that Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship is specifically described as a "romance." And of course, the first sentence of the last paragraph that acknowledges how much Michael and David are indeed a "matched set" that cannot (and should not) be separated...

[molinaskies]

What We Get Wrong About Dark Sonic

I find Dark Sonic incredibly interesting.

I’ve said this before, but Dark Sonic represents an overflow of Sonic’s negative emotions, the ones he usually suppresses: anger, sadness, and fear.

However, many people believe that Dark Sonic is somehow a betrayal of Sonic as a character (even Ian Flynn, reportedly, but I’ve yet to see an official source). Sonic is meant to be a beacon of optimism. Sonic is meant to be the pillar of hope when all else fails. Sonic is meant to be the last one standing, no matter what.

In this sense, sure, Dark Sonic contradicts the notion that Sonic is “uncorruptable,” but I think that depends on how we define corruption.

I see it two ways:

1) Corruption by way of losing faith, through dishonesty and fraud. 2) Corruption by way of a forceful shift from one state of being to another.

In the first sense, corruption occurs when someone’s paradigm is shifted through lies, cheating, or manipulation. It’s a conscious mental shift. In the second sense, corruption occurs when something (or someone) is co-opted and changed without its will or influence, like data corruption, or a shift in the meaning of a word or image. It’s a literal, physical and/or metaphysical shift.

There’s a saying that floats around the fandom that says, “Shadow is just ‘Sonic, if Sonic had one really bad day’,” and I think that makes sense. Shadow is jaded and cynical because of how the world has hurt him, but he still wants to do right by people—just like Sonic. What separates Sonic from Shadow, however, is Sonic’s tenant optimism and positive paradigm. Without those differences, Sonic has endless reasons to be as cynical as Shadow, or even more so.

So, Sonic doesn’t let himself feel those feelings for very long, and especially not when other people are around. He pours everything into a clean, neat bottle, with a tight screw-on cap, right?

What happens when something tampers with that bottle?

Dark Sonic is a forceful corruption of body but not of mind. Let’s talk about it.

How Dark Sonic Works

What I think people misunderstand most about Dark Sonic is that it’s not an intentional state of being. It never was.

Dark Sonic is the polar opposite to Super Sonic, which is achieved when Sonic harnesses the positive energy of the Chaos Emeralds. If Sonic wanted to harness the power of the emeralds for the wrong reasons and his heart accessed the negative energy rather than the positive, he could possibly bring about Dark Sonic willingly. This, however, would likely never happen because that is the betrayal of Sonic’s character that everyone worries about.

That said, the only reason Dark Sonic ever appears is because of a mix of Sonic’s pure rage over Black Narcissist physically assaulting Chris and Cosmo and the presence of hundreds of the Metarex’s fake Chaos Emeralds, which possess an aura clearly shown to impact Sonic and make him ill.

Sonic’s first interaction with negative Chaos energy from the fake emeralds is filled with discomfort and even disgust. Sonic reacting to the negative Chaos energy poorly is critical, as it showcases that it’s seeking him out, not vice versa.

When Sonic was as triggered as he was, the negative energy from the fakes harnessed his emotions and corrupted him. It was a complete, freak accident.

This situation is very similar to Darkspine Sonic, the in-game equivalent to Dark Sonic from Sonic and the Secret Rings. Darkspine Sonic only surfaces when Sonic is severely triggered after Shahra starts to betray him, Erazor Djinn murders her (she sacrifices herself for Sonic), and he sees Erazor Djinn’s final form about to destroy the storybook world. In his shock and anger, the Secret Rings of Sadness, Rage, and Hate target him, painfully turning him into Darkspine Sonic. Once again, external energies corrupt him at the height of his emotional vulnerability.

Sonic never seeks out the negative energy of the Chaos Emeralds because his heart is good. When the negative energy seeks him out in such overwhelming waves, it corrupts his abilities, alters them, and pulls them out to play.

But—

If it’s simply a matter of fake Chaos Emeralds, then why can Sonic use Tails’ fake Chaos Emerald in Sonic Adventure 2 without any problems? I posit this to the fact that Tails might have a better understanding of the balanced nature of the Chaos Emeralds (in that they are powered by both good and evil), while Eggman and Dark Oak have only ever used (or desired to use) the Chaos Emeralds for evil.

Recall Eggman’s laser at the beginning of Sonic Unleashed and Perfect Chaos in Sonic Adventure. Both uses of the chaos emeralds drained them of their power—their negative power, that is. (Albeit through different means based on the lore of each game), Sonic is still able to restore and harness the emeralds’ power because he relies on the positive energy of the emeralds. As intelligent as he is, I imagine that Eggman (as well as the Metarex) has a hard time replicating the intricate nature and balance of the Chaos Emeralds because their hearts are filled with hatred and turmoil, so unwilling to heed the perspectives of others. The power is there, sure, but not the heart.

~Chaos is power. Power is enriched by the heart~

Tikal's Prayer

I think the difference between Tails’ fake emerald and every other fake emerald we’ve seen in canon is marked by the fact that both Eggman’s and the Metarex’s fakes disintegrate after excessive use (i.e., Chaos Control), but Tails’ fake remains intact.

The Metarex's emerald disintegrates upon excessive use

Eggman's fake emeralds can't hold their form upon excessive use

Tails' fake emerald is intact and ultimately used to stop the Eclipse Canon from firing

In short, Tails’ emerald is simply a better fake, more accurate to the originals.

also, I refuse to talk about how dumb it is that Sonic was able to use a fake Chaos Emerald to do Chaos Control for the first time. However, it is canon, and therefore relevant to my point.

Another key problem cited in Sonic X is just how many fake emeralds there are. One emerald pales in comparison to hundreds. Sonic feels all the latent negative energy consume him because that energy is a corruption, itself.

It’s not that Sonic gets so angry that he just gives in to darkness, it’s that darkness captures him when he’s in extreme emotional distress and his guard is down. Dark Sonic is the result of negative, unstable, potent Chaos energy clinging to him, using his latent Chaos powers as a vessel when he least expects it and, thus, is powerless against it.

I think I can best prove this by contrasting Dark Sonic with Sonic’s other intimate encounter with darkness…

Sonic Unleashed, Dark Gaia, and the Werehog

I’ve spoken at length about this game and this specific scene, already, so kindly forgive my hyper-brief summary this time around!

When Dark Gaia’s “weight issues” cause its essence to disperse around the globe, many people fall influence to Dark Gaia’s despair, losing faith and hope in the world. Nothing like the influences of Chaos energy, but enough of an influence that much of the world feels it. A core aspect of the game’s plot is that Sonic, distinctly, does not. In the cutscene No Reason, Sonic asks Chip why he stays the same despite the darkness inside his heart while so many others change at night. Chip answers simply, saying that Sonic’s too strong to lose himself and that part of his good will is because he never doubts himself, even when he’s on his own.

The difference is that while Sonic undergoes a physical transformation, he never loses faith or gives up hope—made especially clear by the fact that Professor Pickle, once as hopeful as Sonic, eventually does lose hope.

Also key to note that Amy also never loses hope.

Unleashed is just another fun, high-stakes adventure for Sonic; there’s never a moment where he’s aggressively triggered by something or when his personal morals are ever tainted. Irritated, maybe. Flustered, even. Never at a loss. The closest we see Sonic come to this is when he loses the werehog form to Dark Gaia before the final battle. He falls to his knees, worn and exhausted, and tells Chip to run because he doesn’t want him to get caught up in the mess. Yet even then he’s not giving up.

That’s why Sonic’s heightened emotional state is so important to the conversation. When Sonic’s will is intact, he’s much stronger, but when he’s triggered by something and his defences are down, it’s much easier for corrupting forces around him to take hold.

Mind over Matter

Even with the parameters for Dark Sonic’s appearance established, something that stands out to me about Sonic’s encounters with dark energies, and something I see as additional evidence that Dark Sonic is only a literal, physical corruption and not a corruption of his paradigm, is that Sonic is still in control of himself—to an extent.

Even as he seethes in his amplified rage, Dark Sonic never inflicts harm on the innocent. After Gold and Silver are destroyed, it’s not expressly clear if Sonic intends to stop or fight Black Narcissist, but Eggman implies that Sonic was fighting Gold and Silver until there was quite literally nothing left. Sonic was given a target to attack, and he kept his focus there, even when other enemies presented themselves.

This also goes for the Werehog and Darkspine Sonic.

He also has the mind to listen to reason—from Eggman, of all people—and stop when it’s clear that he’s finished what he set out to do. Sonic channels his anger to where it needs to be, and it’s clear that Sonic’s moral code and paradigm on life are thoroughly intact.

The only thing that changes is that he’s no longer imposing his usual limits. Sonic is stupidly powerful, even without any power ups. If he ever wanted to kill Eggman, he would have by now. If he ever wanted to kill anyone, he would have by now (and technically, he has).

Sonic throws Erazor Djinn's lamp into a pit, never to resurface, effectively trapping him and ending his livelihood indefinitely.

However, Sonic holds back because he doesn’t want to be an arbiter of justice—he doesn’t want to deprive someone’s chance to be good unless it’s been clear that they cannot be redeemed.

Why I Care About This

It is no secret that I believe that Sonic is a highly emotional character—far more emotional than many give him credit for. It bears repeating that Sonic’s emotions are very big and can be cataclysmic when left unchecked…

…but that’s just part of growing up—growing up as a hero and, damn it, even just a kid.

Dark Sonic isn’t a case of Sonic giving himself to darkness, nor is it a perversion of Sonic’s character. It’s an energetic, chaotically-charged version of Sonic when he is at his angriest—and even then it’s not enough to change his morals or make him lash out unjustly.

Dark Sonic is cathartic, in a way, and I definitely think it deserves its place in canon.

[thepixelelf]

and the universe said,

07 - "bro, chill"

genres/tags: soulmate au, idol au, comedy, romance, dumbassery relationship(s): ot13 x reader chapter warnings: coarse language. kithing. a liiitle svt on svt violence note: ik it's been a long time please be nice to me <3 (this isn't edited... I'll take a look at it when I have the time)

When soulmates are suddenly thrust upon the world, you are one in a million who wishes they weren’t – and that’s before you meet the person (people?!) making your life much harder than it needs to be. And before someone asks you to sign an NDA.

series masterlist

prev ⭒ chapter seven (4.0k) ⭒ next

“Where are they?” Myungjun asks as soon as Jihoon and Junhui enter the room they agreed upon.

Junhui braces both of his arms on the back of a chair. “What do you mean?”

“Your soulmate—” Cutting himself off with a sigh, Myungjun pinches the bridge of his nose and answers his own question. “You didn’t bring them.”

Yejung, who was sitting at a table with her laptop, shuts it with a frown. “Why not?”

Junhui shrugs. “I’m just here because Jihoon dragged me out.” He shifts between looking at the three other people in the room. “You guys know I just met my soulmate, right? I don’t like not having them here with me, either.”

“Well then why didn’t you—”

“They don’t know.” Jihoon cuts off Myungjun’s words, then pulls out a chair and drops himself in it. He stares at a random spot on the table. When he doesn’t elaborate any further, Yejung sends a furtive glance Myungjun’s way.

“Don’t know…” She leans her forearms on the table and scoots her chair closer. “...what? That you’re their soulmate? That there’s more than one of you? That you’re famous?”

Junhui snorts. “All of the above?”

At Junhui's quip and Jihoon's continued silence, Myungjun raises a cynical brow.

"You didn't tell them?" Yejung asks, softly shocked. "Why?"

Junhui's eyes skirt to Jihoon; he's unwilling to share his own reasons, though he doesn't quite understand this about himself, either.

Jihoon sighs. "I don't know. It's complicated. Things happened too fast the first time we—"

"The first time?" Myungjun echoes. "So you've been with them multiple times."

“Don’t say it like that.” Jihoon almost pouts, but the facial expression just makes him look angry. “Look. I ran into them when the vocal team was on the way to that radio show. We’d stopped by a cafe and there wasn’t much time and I was so out of my mind that I—” He cuts himself off. “It doesn’t matter. I got their number, and then they left. I asked to meet today and we did. Jun was already there for…” With his arms crossed, Jihoon looks over at Junhui, remembering that he still doesn’t really know what Junhui was doing at the same cafe you apparently frequent. Is this the same cat cafe Junhui is always talking about? “…some reason. Then someone started singing, and they told us their soulmate is stupid and annoying because their mark…”

“It’s not like ours,” Junhui finishes for Jihoon, though this only deepens the confusion written on Yejung and Myungjun’s faces.

“If it's not like yours, then how do you know they're your—”

“It's them, Hyung.” Jihoon can't help noticing the hopelessness in his own voice. It's you. He knows it's you.

But you don't know it's them— him.

And he's not sure you want to know.

“Their mark, like, grows,” Junhui explains. “Ours just stay on our hands, but when one of us sings, the notes go all over their arms and neck. Maybe other places — I don’t know — but they obviously don’t think it’s either of us since we weren’t singing when their mark did its thing.”

“So…” Myungjun crosses his arms and taps his finger on his bicep. “They don't like their mark.”

Junhui doesn't nod right away, but he does eventually.

Myungjun turns to Jihoon. “And you think that means they don't like you.”

Groaning and rubbing his hands over his face, Jihoon doesn't dignify that with a response. “Even if they did like their mark, it’s an insane situation. Thirteen soulmates? They’re gonna run for the hills when they find out.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Yejung says, to which Jihoon gives her a dry look and Junhui’s eyes light up. She clears her throat. “We just need to find a way to calmly inform them of the situation — preferably in a safe, comfortable environment.”

Myungjun recognizes a Yejung Game Plan brewing when he sees it. “Basically, what she’s saying is…”

“Let me talk to them.” Yejung opens her laptop again and begins typing away. “We just need to go about this in a calm, logical manner.” She gives a little nonchalant wave of her hand. “This’ll be easier than a design meeting.”

⭒

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, arms crossed, legs too, as you stare down at the shiny black credit card lying there between you and Heejun. His position mirrors yours, head tilted while he studies the card.

“It could be fake,” you say. Your knee bounces up and down, up and down.

Heejun lifts his head to give you a look. “Why would it be fake?”

“He said he doesn’t believe in banks.”

“It doesn’t look fake.” Heejun reaches out and takes the card, flipping it over in his fingers to read the back. “Looks like any other credit card. We should test it.”

You frown. “How?”

“Uh,” Heejun speaks like the answer is obvious. “Buy something?”

Okay, it is obvious, but the idea doesn’t sit too well with you. “Isn’t that stealing?”

“He gave you the card.”

“Yeah, but the police don’t know that,” you argue. “If I got charged for fraud, it would be his word against mine— no one would believe coffee guy just handed me his black card.”

Without moving his head, Heejun glances up from the card to look at you. "Why would he lie?"

"Um, because he already has? Who knows— maybe this card is connected to illicit activities and he planted it on me to implicate me."

“Which he would do because…?”

You throw your hands up in the air, then let them drop emphatically at your side. “I don’t know! Why did he do any of what he did?”

He raises a brow. “Because he’s a weirdo who likes you?”

“Okay but have you ever given your credit card to a person you’ve only met twice?”

Heejun’s shoulders rise in a shrug. “I’ve wanted to.”

“Seriously?” You can’t imagine your friend going that gaga over a crush, but then again, there was that girl in fourth grade whom he gave all his choco pies to. Heejun loves choco pies.

“Mine would decline though. It wouldn’t exactly impress.”

You lightly shove his shoulder. “Oh come on, it wouldn’t decline.”

“It would if they went over the limit. People only give people their credit cards for expensive stuff. You know that, right?”

The black card gleams up at you, almost tauntingly.

“Expensive stuff like what?”

He shrugs again. “Like a car?”

“You’ve been watching too many CEO dramas.” You exhale and place both hands on the floor with a pointed slam. Standing, you pick the credit card up and brush imaginary dirt off your pants.

“You won’t be so sarcastic when Park Seojoon tells you to keep that thing.”

You roll your eyes as you toss the card into the same trinket dish you keep your keys and other miscellaneous things in. “Isn’t that guy like six foot?”

“So was Huijun,” he counters.

“So are you. Is that all it takes to be a CEO nowadays?” you joke, pulling out your phone. “Height?”

Heejun scoffs, then frames his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “That and my devilish good looks.”

“Please.” You tap on a notification from an unknown number. “If that were true, you’d be the one handing out black…cards…”

At the way you trail off, Heejun furrows his brow and walks over to you. “What’s up? Did you fall for another online scam?”

Not this again. “Okay, first of all, that was not a scam, and I did not fall for it—”

“You didn’t fall for a not scam?”

“Shut up. What do you think this means?” You turn your phone towards him, and he takes it from your unsteady hand.

He reads aloud. “‘Hello, this is Shin Yejung of Pledis Entertainment.’ Did you apply there?”

“No,” you say, then shake your head and wave your hand. “I mean. I don’t know. Maybe. I applied to like five hundred places. But this isn’t that. Keep reading.”

Heejun takes a breath and starts reading like he’s holding a new edict. “‘It has come to my attention that you are in possession of one of my coworker’s bank cards.’ Oooooh, you’re in trouble.” He drags out the last syllable. “‘Please meet me at…’ whatever building, numbers numbers numbers… ‘so I can retrieve it. Please reply to this number for more information, and thank you for your time.’ Hm.”

“What do you think… am I getting arrested?”

Lowering your phone, Heejun gives you a seriously? look over it. “The cops are texting criminals now?”

“So you agree I’m a criminal.”

“You get annoying when you’re nervous, you know that?” When you roll your eyes, Heejun mirrors the expression and pokes your forehead long enough that he pushes you backward. “Look bub, you wanted to give the stupid thing back without using it, and now the opportunity has been handed right to you.” He waves your phone in the air like evidence. “The only question is why coffee guy didn’t just text you himself.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe he doesn’t like me as much as you thought.”

“One more self-deprecating comment out of you and I’m posting those pictures from your twentieth birthday.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat. “You wouldn’t!”

⭒

Joshua Hong doesn’t think he has that many unread messages on his phone.

He looks down.

Oof. 682.

Well, it’s not his worst.

Notifications fly by at the top of his screen.

[vernon] where is this guy

[chan] hyung this is important!!

[wonwoo] when have we known that guy to answer anything

[soonyoung] someone text yejung!!

It’s probably not that important, whoever they’re talking about. His members are likely just freaking out over this whole soulmate thing again.

Joshua lifts his hand and stares at his weird, natural — supernatural — tattoo. He still can’t bring himself to believe it.

Soulmates? Really? In this economy? This isn’t Tumblr.

At least… Joshua looks around the dance practice room… He’s pretty sure this isn’t Tumblr.

His phone rings, which is weird since he always has it on silent. Sliding the answer button, he brings the phone up to his ear. “Yejung?”

“Where are you?”

“The practice room,” Joshua answers plainly. “Isn’t this where we’re supposed to be today?”

Yejung sighs on the other end of the line. “I said in the group chat that we were dealing with soulmate stuff. Upstairs.”

Ah, so that’s what has everyone in a tizzy. “Alright, okay. Where am I going?”

“Room eight-thirteen—” He hangs up and starts to pack his things before Yejung can say, “Wait, no, nine-thirteen. We'll start when you arrive. Joshua? Hello?”

⭒

You check your phone for what must be upwards of the fifth time.

Yup, Shin Yejung of Pledis Entertainment definitely told you to meet her in room 813, and yet here you are. In room 813. Alone.

You shift on the leather couch. It’s a lounge-like room you’re in. You don’t really understand the purpose of such a room in an entertainment company, but whatever. You’re only here to return something you never should’ve had in the first place.

Although…

You turn the card over in your hand, watching the way the fancy lighting bounces off of it.

Why would Jihoon give it to you if he was just going to get it back like this?

Also, now that you really think about it, Jihoon did say something weird when he left yesterday with Huijun. Something about not letting “the rest” scare you off. Whatever that means.

The rest of what?

Or… whom?

You know Jihoon must work for the company in some capacity. The fact that both he and Huijun were wearing masks makes you think they could be artists…

Oh. Duh. Why didn’t you think of this earlier?

Switching apps, you tap the search bar and start typing. Just as you’re done with the last character of Jihoon HYBE, the door you entered through opens. You hastily slip your phone into your back pocket as you stand to greet the person coming in.

“Hello, you must be…” Your eyes scan over his face. He’s… delicate looking, until you move your gaze downwards a little, and his broad shoulders and thick arms are decidedly not delicate looking. “…Shin Yejung?”

You tilt your head. With no mask on the lower half of his face, he seems familiar. Now this guy must be an idol — you probably saw him on the walls when you were making your way through this maze of a building. 

He just raises a brow. “Who are you?”

“Oh, uh…” You stay standing in front of the couch as he approaches you, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m just here to return this.” Lifting the black card up, you hold it out between you and the man. “It’s Jihoon’s.”

“Jihoon’s?” he echoes, then moves to take the card from you, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

You both see it at the same time.

His mark, five black lines, clear as day.

Yours, peeking out from where your sleeve is pulled halfway up your hand.

You look up from your not-really-joined hands, then look down again.

No fucking way. 

“Twinkle twinkle, little—” The notes, whatever they are, dance across his mark.

No fucking way. 

You meet his eyes. “...Songbird?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. A few too many seconds.

Then, “So it’s you.”

“Holy—!”

At the same time as you try to jerk away, he attempts to turn your hand over and get a better look. Neither plan really works out. You stumble backwards, and with your hand in his, he gets pulled down with you onto the couch. His free hand shoots out to keep himself from slamming into you, but, persistent as the universe is, your faces end up very freaking close to each other anyway. Warmth from his knee on the couch cushion next to your thigh seeps through your clothing.

He doesn’t move. You don’t either.

For some reason, you feel stuck in place. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but… you just feel like you should be exactly where you are.

You’re almost too close to make real eye contact, so you just watch the way his eyes study yours.

“Songbird?” you whisper, though you have no idea what you’re trying to ask.

He stops analyzing you and finally looks at you. “Yeah?”

“…Are you leaning towards me on purpose?”

His lips (since when were you looking at those?) curl down at the corners. “Are you?”

Slowly, like your mind is trying to catch up to your body, you shake your head. “No…”

He drifts closer. Or you do. Or you both do.

Or something.

Your lips brush over his, and you feel just as much as you hear him whisper. “Then neither am I.”

In the span of a second, his free hand moves from the back of the couch to cradle your jaw, his thumb grazing gently just under your ear. He kisses you, lips moving over yours in a way you’ve felt before, but also in a way you’ve never felt before.

It’s strange.

Not bad strange, but strange in the way that it feels like you’ve just put the last of the groceries in the fridge. It’s like folding that final piece of laundry. Like coming home to the bed you made when you left in the morning.

It’s… satisfactory?

But that’s not the word people normally use when they think of putting their tongue in someone else’s mouth, right?

You’re running out of breath, but Songbird is insistent, and so are his lips, which you find yourself unable to get enough of. He pulls back for half a breath, registers your kiss me again or so help me facial expression, and dives right back in. He’s kissing you and you’re kissing him and you’re soulmates and…

Wait.

Soulmates?

“Wait,” you say, though it comes out more like, “Mmaem” Climbing both your hands up his — whoa — strong arms, you cup his cheeks in preparation to push him away, but he seems to like your touch. He covers the back of one of your hands with his warm palm, and he hums in a way that is not PG-13.

The sound has you melting, unfortunately.

Not for long though.

He’s ripped from you just as quickly as he fell onto you, pulled back by some guy with fluffy black hair, cozy attire head to toe, and… shit, a you’re in trouble glare the likes of which you’ve never seen before. He’s not even looking at you, yet you feel scolded.

“Yah!” he yells at your soulmate, who’s now on the floor. Then, after glancing at you for half a second and apparently finding zero more words to say, he shouts at him again. “Yah!”

Your soulmate opens his mouth, but then he turns to look at the now-open door, which leads you to do the same. A mob of prettyboys stands just outside, some with their jaws dropped and some looking like murder just got legalized and they’re on the prowl.

Someone’s despondent voice shouts, “Hyung!”

You feel like hiding under a blanket. Before your flight instinct kicks in, though, you recognize two familiar faces. “Jihoon?” His eyes meet yours when you say his name. “Huijun?”

One of the many boys among those you don't recognize echoes, “Huijun?” while sending him a weird look.

Someone pushes through the crowd — more like slinks through, occasionally nudging one of the other guys out of the way. His eyes stay firmly on you as he approaches, but you find no fear rising despite that. For some unknown reason, even as this completely unfamiliar man strides over to you with a frankly alarming amount of eye contact, you feel… safe.

Or at least, something close to it.

He kneels in front of where you're still seated on the leather couch, hand resting mere centimetres from leg. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice slightly nasal, but so, so gentle. 

“Uhh…” Self conscious, you wipe at the corner of your mouth with your sleeve. You spot your soulmate catch you doing so, and a look of hurt crosses his face. His own reaction, though, seems to startle him, and his hand rises to gently prod his shiny bottom lip with one of his fingers. He looks confused.

Well, that makes two of you.

Taking in the man right in front of you — pretty, lithe, concerned for you despite his unfamiliarity — you fail to answer his question. “Are… you Shin Yejung?”

He lets out a laugh, relieved, maybe, that you're not not okay. “Jeonghan,” he says simply.

You nod. “Jeonghan.”

At your voice echoing his name, the man’s eyes light up. “Yes?”

“Oh, uh…” You weren’t trying to call on him for anything, but as you study his gaze, you find yourself lost in his confident ease. Something in his eyes says that he knew this would happen.

Maybe not this, exactly — your soulmate has found a spot on the floor and has not stopped staring at it, while the rest of the strangers are still watching you — but taking up the same space as you, facing you, smiling at you with a soft quirk at the corners of his lips.

“Ugh!” A woman’s exasperated voice makes you look up at the crowd by the door. “Get— out of the way, you… ugh—” She breaks through, pushing aside a tall guy who looks like he’s about to cry. “—you men!”

Stumbling to her feet, she rights herself and brushes her bangs out of her face with a huff. “Now, what is—” She spots your soulmate still on his ass and mutters something you’re pretty sure can’t be aired on any broadcasting network. “...my life.”

Your eyes meet hers as she takes another breath. “Please tell me you’re Shin Yejung.”

“Yes, we spoke over the phone.”

“Thank god.” Shaking off all the weird feelings you’d accumulated in the last — what? Two minutes? — you stand from the couch and sidestep Jeonghan. The black card fell at some point during that lapse of judgement (aka kiss), so you swipe it up off the floor and hold it out to her with no preamble. “I swear I’m not a stalker fan or anything. And I didn’t use it, so…”

You glance over at Jihoon, whose expression gives off an oncoming panic. Is he scared to see you? Why? Huijun looks just fine, happy even, with you here. You can practically hear the ‘hello’ he wants to say out loud.

You clear your throat. “Anyway, um. I didn’t mean to, uh…” As you nervously cross your arms, you nod towards your soulmate. “I’m his— I mean, we are… sorry. This is… I wasn’t exactly expecting to find the person who’s…”

Maybe you shouldn’t say you’ve been annoyed by your soulmate since you got your stupid mark. At least not while he’s in the room.

“That’s actually what I brought you here to talk about,” Shin Yejung tells you, a bit like a doctor who’s about to deliver the bad news first. She doesn’t even take the card from you. “Would you like to take a seat?”

You scrunch your eyes shut for a second with a little shake of your head, trying to manual reset your brain because clearly it’s still muddled. “Sorry, what? You want to talk about…?”

The mob of men in the room get hidden from your vision as Yejung strategically places herself between them and you. “Soulmates,” she says.

You look down at the black card, then back up at her again. “Soulmates.”

“Yes. Your soulmates. I was hoping to talk to you alone first.” She sends a pointed look at the men behind her. “But it’s not exactly easy to get these guys to lis—”

“Sorry.” You wave a hand in the air to get her to stop, unable to comprehend any of her words after— “Did you say my soulmates? As in… mates, multiple? Mates with an S at the end? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

Remaining calm while your mind spins, Yejung nods. “I know this is a lot to take in.”

“Know what is a lot to take in?”

Yejung opens her mouth to answer, but a voice blurts out behind her, “We’re your soulmates!”

Maybe you haven’t known him long enough or talked to him that many times, but you recognize Jihoon’s voice, and something in your gut suddenly grows sharp. Not painful, but begging for you to feel it. Yejung shifts so your field of view is once again filled by men too pretty to be all in the same room. Jihoon’s standing there, fists clenched at his sides, out of breath for no discernable reason other than…

We’re your soulmates.

Seeing your hesitation, Jihoon huffs and tears a bandaid you never really noticed off the back of his right hand. Even before he completes the motion, you know what must be under the bandage. He holds his hand up, though, and the evidence is very near damning.

Next to him, Huijun smiles and lifts his arm, pointing to his own five lines with his opposite hand. 

Most of the guys behind them show you the same thing. Five lines on the smooth backs of their hands, near the base of the thumb. Dear lord, you don’t even know how many of them there are.

The angry one who pulled the man off of you earlier, at least, just looks lost, like he once had control and now has none. Relatable.

You stumble back a bit. Instinctively, you say, “Songbird?”

Though quite a few of the men seem to perk up at the nickname, only the one you already gave the moniker to truly reacts. Your soulmate — god, one of your soulmates? — looks up at you from the floor and answers, “Yeah?” before realizing he’s even doing it.

“Never mind,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand. “Ms Shin?”

“Yes?” She steps closer, a worried look on her face.

Jeonghan, too, moves toward you with a similar look on his face.

You try to take a steady breath and fail. “I think I’ll take that seat now.”

Swaying backward, your body falls onto the leather couch. 

You hear approximately ten panicked shouts as you go down.

prev ⭒ chapter seven (4.0k) ⭒ next

new chapters for atus are not on a schedule nor guaranteed. there is no taglist. thank you for reading!

[adelheidvonschicksal]

Megumi falling in love for the first time?

Attempts at Friendship are Unappreciated

Synopsis: Megumi doesn’t have a need for friends, let alone a lover. But upon getting his first crush, he learns some new things about himself, like maybe he cares more than he thinks.

pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x GN!Reader

content warning: SFW, potential friends to lovers, Megumi sorting out his feelings sort of stuff because cynical, overthinker Megumi is my favorite Megumi.

If you were to ask Megumi, he didn’t have any need for friends. And he has been asked before by people like Gojo and his sister. The answer was always the same. He prefers being alone. People were too complicated. Too selfish. Too good. Too everything, really. And he was, well, himself.

Even after arriving at Jujutsu High, it’s still unnerving to him to have someone talk to him so earnestly, like his eyes weren’t permanently fixed with irritation, like he wasn’t constantly avoiding others, like he didn’t wear indifference like a new fur coat in the height of winter.

Itadori was an unexpected exception. An outburst of emotion intravenously linked him to the other boy, the golden strings of their destinies twined and knotted together on Fate’s spinning wheel.

You, on the other hand, have no reason to befriend him. He’s never had anything to offer others in return for their company, which never bothered him until he met you.

Megumi questioned what it was about you that allows you to get so close. So, he lets you talk, chattering his ear off in the covered walkway hosting the vending machines.

He studies you inch by inch, searching for something in the bright expression on your face and the crinkle of your eyes when you smile; he still doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for. Your motive – the reason for wanting to talk to someone like him?

“What’s your favorite color?” you ask.

“I don’t have one.”

It may sound like a rude dismissal of your question but it's the truth, the painfully boring truth. He’s never put much thought into trivial things like that. The fact settles heavily in his stomach and rings hollow in his chest like when his sister said he’d never learn to make friends if he didn’t put himself out there.

Back then, Megumi pretended not to have heard her. In truth, it bothered him when she said it, only for the feeling to quickly fade away before he even left school that day. That strange void he felt back then always seems to resurface at the worst of times.

“Would you say that you like black or silver better? How about blue?”

Megumi looks down and plays with the tab on his orange juice can, avoiding the thing about you that makes him want to hear you talk. Megumi has no need for friends. Attempts at friendship aren’t appreciated.

“They’re all fine,” he grumbles out. It’s the maximum he allows.

Megumi doesn’t have a type. It’s another one of those trivial things he’s never bothered to think about until his head was literally cracked through the pavement.

He knows all about types though, and he knows as much as he cares about romance from the bad to the good. Sweaty palms, blushing faces, pounding hearts were all reoccuring themes in his books.

Megumi never thought he’d have romantic feelings for anyone, no matter how fleeting. He reckons he isn’t capable of it. He just isn’t wired that way.

It’s comforting in a sense. It means he didn’t have to worry about attachments. Sure, he loves his sister, and Gojo, well, he cares for his benefactor, but he’s never considered the older man someone he felt okay investing all his feelings into. People his own age were complicated enough; adults were worse, his father was worse; the little he remembers anyway.

When he thinks about the way he met Gojo who too conveniently saved him from the Zen’in clan in exchange for becoming his student, it’s hard for him to let his trust flow purely even after all this time; even when Gojo took it upon himself to do Megumi favors like putting Itadori's room right next door (another thing Megumi didn't appreciate).

Megumi blames his long-seated resentment for the reason his heart starts to work overtime the day you present friendship bracelets to everyone. They’re fancy; many steps above the cheap kind that you’d find at some discount convenience store with plastic alphabets and random beads and symbols. He assumes a couple of the pieces might be real.

Kugisaki’s is green, shining on her wrist like emeralds. Megumi thinks it suits someone like Kugisaki, who would undoubtedly love to be covered in jewels. Itadori has a similar one, rotating with a pattern of red and opaque white pieces.

Standing in that hall, drowning out the conversation between Kugisaki and Itadori about who has the prettier bracelet, Megumi realizes he’s next.

It starts when you step in front of him; there’s a cautious tone to your voice when you say his name because you already know: attempts at friendship aren’t appreciated.

It's with a roll of anxiousness, the one that always comes with the mystery of whether his exchange with someone will be positive or negative and the skeptic thought in his head that reminds him most people always want something in return, that makes him throw up a wall.

“These probably aren’t your thing but I made one for you too,” you preface. “I hope you like it. I wasn’t really sure what to put on it so I made some guesses.”

You’re right. Friendship bracelets aren’t his thing; needing a token like a bracelet to prove your relationship to someone is asinine. It’s against what is supposed to make a friendship special. Strong friendships should need no words, right?

Most importantly, he doesn’t need it, and there’s no reason for you to give him one.

“You keep it,” he starts. However, it’s already too late as you grab his arm and slide the trinket over his hand.

“I don’t—” he starts again; there’s a bit of surprise in the way you look at him, the way everyone stops and looks at him actually. This quickly becomes one of those times where it’d be easier to go with the flow than to fight the current. “Fine.” He clears his throat. “Only because you already made it,” he explains more fully, stifling the embarrassment that wants to bubble from his chest with so much attention.

Like before, he finds himself too focused on watching you, the way your eyes soften from surprise and rejection to shining stars. He thinks this must be how the protagonists in those books feel when heat creeps up their neck. Those books also left him sorely unprepared that it would go past neck to his face and ears.

He breaks away from the situation, finding a way to retreat into the background to shield himself from the gooey feeling permeating the air. He drops his gaze to his arm, focusing on the bracelet with his name accompanied by a repetition of blue and silver, connecting the two—four—of you together.

Megumi fixes his sleeve over the bracelet, but he can’t hide how painfully aware he is of the charms rolling against his skin.

It was both a pleasant feeling and completely alien.

It broke.

Megumi was a bit reckless against a low-level curse, and it broke. He didn’t even realize it until after the battle was over and one of the silver charms were rolling under his foot.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. It was bound to happen eventually considering this line of work. Yet, he still picked up the few pieces he could separate from the gravel, and the entire ride home his wrist feels unreasonably bare.

Thinking about how he messed up makes him annoyed at himself, especially when he wonders what you’d think if you noticed he wasn’t wearing it. You’d probably think he tossed it somewhere; that he didn’t like it. He liked it. The same way he likes to listen to you talk on car rides home after missions or when you ask him to hang out with you and the others or when you read all the books he recommends with the protagonists that are quickly becoming too relatable with every skipped heartbeat and tongue-tied word. He’s frustrated to acknowledge why that’s the case.

It’s only been three months since the start of the school year, he thinks. It took only three months for his thoughts to start drifting to his classmates, with you almost always center stage in them.

When he arrives back at the school, he finds your room and knocks on your door. He shows you what little remains of the gift you gave him, as if he needs to immediately absolve himself of any wrongdoing.

“Do you want me to make you another one?” you ask cautiously.

Megumi can guess why you’re hesitant considering he only accepted your gift because of peer pressure. He still believes gifts like this are silly and unnecessary.

But…

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

He wants it.

So, he goes into your room where he watches you begin the process of making him another bracelet. You ask him which accessories he would prefer, and like always he doesn’t have much preference other than what you think is best. As long as it isn’t too silly, of course.

He gives his undivided attention to how your fingertips pour over your work kit and the many square boxes filled with different miniature shapes before you carefully pick out one with a little dog face.

“I think this one is good,” you whisper to yourself before continuing your search for another complementing bead.

You smile as you work. It’s nice. Cute even as you bite down on your lip in concentration; and right now, he isn’t quite sure what to do with that information other than note the way it makes his palms feel clammy especially when he notices your eyes lift back up to his.

Megumi notices a lot about you actually. He notices how you always go out your way to get his, well, everyone’s opinion on everything. He notices that whenever you share your snacks with everyone that you always save ginger for him. He notices how your gaze lingers on him when you ask if everyone is in one piece after difficult missions. He also notices how your finger stops over a silver square, one with a little black heart carved in each side. He wonders, perhaps too hopefully, if the charm is just one you think he’d like or if it means more than that.

“Why do you always keep trying to talk to me?” he asks, fighting the urge to beg you to stop getting stuck in his mind so much.

Your head snaps up from what you’re doing.

“What do you mean? We’re teammates,” you answer simply.

“Aren’t missions enough? We don’t need to interact aside from that.”

You pinch your eyebrows at him, and there’s a frown on your face. “Sure we do.”

“There’s no reason.”

It’s not like he ever saved your life, not like Itadori. It’s not like he has a somewhat familial relationship with you, like Gojo. You’re not his sibling or his parent; he’s not the friendlist either so there’s no reason to try to get closer any more than necessary, and there’s no reason for him to be feeling so nervous right now.

“How about because I like talking to you? I think you’re pretty funny, and you’re a kind person.” You shake your head, laughing. “I don’t know. I just like being friends with you.”

Megumi doesn’t know what he was expecting. Some deep explanation why you keep trying to get close to him? Some selfish excuse from you that he could use to warrant pushing you away. A reason to justify why he likes you so much? A reason to hope you like him just as much?

Maybe.

There doesn’t need to be some special reason for you wanting to be his friend, which means he doesn’t really need a reason either.

“I see.”

“Finished,” you say, holding out his newly made bracelet to him. “I poured some of my cursed energy into it, so it won’t break so easily next time.”

Megumi feels calm once again when he feels the weight and roll of the beads on his skin again; the aura of your curse energy humming through it makes the connection back to you much more noticeable.

“What about me?” you ask, drawing his attention. “Do you like being friends with me?”

Megumi can’t answer that, not because he doesn’t have an answer, but because he feels like his tongue weighs more than lead as you lean closer into him.

His eyes find your lips, soft and parted. This is the first time he’s gotten the urge to kiss someone. It makes his stomach whirlwind, and he quickly finds a way to answer you without having to look at you as he picks at one of the charms.

“Can I make you one?”

The next morning, Megumi decides to go out with you and the others for breakfast, which in hindsight was a mistake as Itadori points out the new accesory you’re wearing on your wrist.

“Hey, you got one too now.”

You smile, holding it up proudly. “Megumi made it for me!”

“Megumi?!” Itadori blurts out.

“Made it for you?” Nobara asks with raised eyebrows and a hand on her hip.

“He did a really good job.”

It’s like the time before when you first gave them their gifts, and everyone is looking at him again. “I didn’t do anything special; a monkey could do it,” he mumbles out.

Itadori is the first to crack a laugh followed by Kugisaki. Then, the two of them start muttering and teasing him in unison.

“He’s so modest,” Itadori points out.

“Loverboy,” Kugisaki whispers.

“Can we call you Megumi too?” Itadori asks.

Megumi doesn’t have the patience to consider whether the other boy is being genuine or not as he grits his teeth and growls out a quick “shut up” before konking Itadori on the head to prove his point. It’s enough to make them leave him alone for now as Itadori accidentally trips into Kugisaki from the force.

“That was completely unnecessary, Fushiguro,” Kugisaki grumbles as she pushes Itadori off and stands back to her feet.

Megumi sighs.

This is why he doesn’t want friends.

“Did you just sigh at me!”

“If that’s what you heard,” he tells her.

“You better sleep with both eyes open!”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

Yet if it’s those two then he guesses having friends isn’t completely unbareable.

Suddenly, Megumi loses focus at the timbre of your laugh.

“You guys are starting early today.”

You’re still laughing at them, harder now actually, and it’s precious. He throws his gaze to the wall as if he’s ignoring Kugisaki and not trying to hide the heat blooming on his cheeks when you glance at him, making him aware that he’s the reason for your laughter.

Megumi shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls his thumb over the bracelet and the heart you left behind there.

Friendship is something he’s coming around to. Having a crush for the first time, well, he still needs work on figuring that out. 

[hanahanumana]

From AnaMaria Abramovic on Fb

Paste magazine has done an article about Michael and how underrated he is in Good Omens and I found a transcript since it's behind a paywall. Here's the link if anyone wants to subscribe. 💙

https://www.pastemagazine.com/tv/amazon-prime-video/good-omens-michael-sheen-underrated-performance-explained-streaming

There’s so much to love about Prime Video’s Good Omens. A delightful adaptation of the popular Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett novel of the same name, the series is romantic, thoughtful, hilarious, and heartfelt by turns. The story of the almost-apocalypse and what comes afterward, it wrestles with big concepts like destiny, free will, and forgiveness, all framed through the lens of an unorthodox relationship between an angel and a demon whose love for one another is a key to saving the world.

As anyone who has watched Good Omens already knows, nothing about this series works without the pair of lead performances at its center. Stars David Tennant and Michael Sheen—who play the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale, respectively—have the kind of lighting-in-a-bottle chemistry that’s the stuff of legend, and their characters’ every interaction conveys both their deep affection for one another and the Earth they’ve made their home. Their romance is the emotional linchpin around which most of the series turns, and their heartbreaking separation in the Season 2 finale is so devastating precisely because we’ve seen how necessary the two are to each other’s lives.

But it’s Sheen’s performance in that final scene that really twists the knife. As Aziraphale’s face crumples following his and Crowley’s long-awaited kiss, the actor manages to convey what feels like every possible human emotion in the span of less than thirty seconds as the angel realizes what he has both had and just lost. The moment is emotionally brutal to watch, particularly after sitting through five and a half episodes of Aziraphale looking as lovestruck as the lead in any rom-com. Sheen makes it all look effortless, shifting from giddy joy to devastated longing and everything in between, and we really don’t talk enough about how powerful and underrated his work in this series truly is.

Though he’s half of the central duo that makes Good Omens tick, Sheen’s role often tends to get overshadowed by his co-star’s. It’s not difficult to see why, given that Tennant gets to spend most of the show swanning around in tight trousers looking like the Platonic ideal of the charming bad boy, complete with flaming red hair and dramatic eyewear. Tennant also benefits from Crowley’s much more sympathetic emotional arc. I mean, it’s hard not to love a cynical demon with a heart of gold who’s been pining after his angelic best friend for literal millennia even after being cast out from Heaven. Of course, viewers are drawn to that—likely a lot more easily than the story of an angel who’s simply trying the best he can to do the right thing as he wrestles with his role in God’s Ineffable Plan. Plus, let’s be real, Tennant’s sizeable Doctor Who fanbase certainly doesn’t hurt his character’s popularity.

As a performer, Sheen has a long history of playing both real people (Tony Blair, David Frost, Brian Clough) and offbeat villains (Prodigal Son’s Martin Whitly, Underworld’s Lucian, the Twilight Saga’s Aro). In some ways, the role of a fussy, bookish angel is playing more than a bit against type for him—Gaiman himself has said he originally intended for Sheen to be Crowley—but in his capable hands, Aziraphale becomes something much more than a simple avatar for the forces of Good (or even of God, for that matter). With a soft demeanor and a positively blinding smile, Sheen’s take on the character consistently radiates warmth and goodness, even as it contains surprisingly hidden depths. The former guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden who gifted a fleeing Adam and Eve his flaming sword and befriended the Serpent who caused their Fall, Azirphale isn’t a particularly conventional angel. He enjoys all-too-human indulgences like food and wine, runs a Hoarders-esque bookshop that never seems to sell anything, and spends most of his time making heart eyes at the being that’s meant to be his hereditary adversary.

Given the much more difficult task of playing the literal angel to Tennant’s charming devil, Sheen must find a way to make ideas like goodness and forgiveness as interesting and fun to watch as their darker counterparts. It’s a generally thankless task, but one that Sheen tackles with gusto, particularly in the series’ second season, as Good Omens explores Aziraphale’s slowly evolving idea of what he can and cannot accept in terms of being a soldier of Heaven. His growing understanding that the truth of creation is colored in shades of grey and compromise is often conveyed through little more than Sheen’s deftly shifting expressions and body language.

Our pop culture consistently struggles to portray the idea of goodness as something compelling or worth watching. Explicitly “good” characters, particularly those who are religiously coded, are frequently treated as the butt of some sort of unspoken joke they aren’t in on, used to underline the idea that faith is a form of naivety or that kindness is somehow a weakness. For a lot of people, the entire concept of turning the other cheek is a sucker’s bet, and believing in something greater than oneself, be it a higher power or a sense of purpose, is a waste of time. But Good Omens is a story grounded in the idea that faith, hope, and love—for one another, God, and the entire world—are active verbs. And nowhere is that more apparent than in Sheen’s characterization of the soft angel whose old-fashioned waistcoats mask a spine of steel and who refuses to give up—on Crowley, on humanity, or on the idea that Heaven is still something that can be saved.

Though he and Tennant have pretty much become a matched set at this point (both on and off-screen), Sheen’s performance has rarely gotten the critical accolades it deserves. (Tennant alone was nominated for a BAFTA for Season 2, and Sheen was categorized as a supporting actor when the series’ competed in the 2019 Saturn Awards.) But it is his quiet strength that holds up so much of the rest of the show around him, and Sheen deserves to be more frequently recognized for it. That he makes it look so easy is just another sign of how good his performance really is.

[livebeforeyoulearn]

Room Number Three - Part 2

part 1

Warnings: None

Word Count: 9.6k…

Summary: Does she see you for who you are, or just for what you can give her?

-

It’s been a couple of months. A couple of long, agonising months where you’ve fallen into a routine, walking into that dimly lit, neon-splashed room, always hoping – no, wishing – that it’d be her sitting there. Just like she had before, waiting, watching. But she’s never there. Instead, you’re met with strangers, faceless men who throw money at you without a second thought, men who crave something temporary, something fleeting. Each time you walk in, you brace yourself, knowing deep down that she’s not coming back. Yet, a small part of you, buried beneath layers of cynicism, always clings to that hope. You can’t help it.

But why would she come back for you? It’s not like you’re anything special. You’re just another stripper in a sea of many, just another body for hire. The harsh truth sinks into you like a cold knife every time you think about it: you promote your body for money and validation. Nothing about you stands out. You tell yourself you’re replaceable, that she probably hasn’t thought of you once since that night. And yet, no matter how much you repeat this to yourself, no matter how logical it seems, the thought gnaws at you.

It’s ironic, really. You can admit to yourself, in the privacy of your thoughts, that the time with her was unlike anything you’ve experienced before. There was something in the air that night, something that made your skin tingle and your heart race. If you could, you’d go back in time just to relive it. Not because you’re in love with her or you’re infatuated with her – you aren’t. You can’t be. It was just a moment, a good time. A fleeting memory. But the weight of it sits heavy on your shoulders, and every other experience since then has felt empty, hollow. No one else compares.

Sometimes, late at night, you wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t broken the rules. If you had kept things strictly professional, like you’re supposed to. That would have solved so many problems. Maybe then you wouldn’t be trapped in this labyrinth of thoughts, your mind constantly circling back to her, trying to decipher what it all meant. You wonder if it was worth it – crossing that line, letting yourself indulge in something you never should have. Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lost now if you’d just stuck to the rules. But you didn’t. And now, you’re paying for it, trapped in a maze of your own making.

You’re fairly certain your manager knows something went down that night. He hasn’t said anything directly, but the way he’s been acting lately tells you enough. He’s more cautious now, more watchful. He used to give you private sessions without a second thought, but now he’s more selective, always quick to check in on you. He doesn’t give you a chance to slip up, doesn’t allow any room for rule-breaking. The rare times he does assign you a private room, he’s there in a flash, popping his head in at the most inconvenient moments, like he’s expecting to catch you in the act again. Each time, though, he finds you where you should be – sitting alone on the bed, zoning out, lost in thought. There’s no one else there. No rule-breaking. Just you and the weight of your own mind, drifting back to her again and again.

You’re in the back room, as usual, waiting for your next cue to head on stage. The noise from the club is muffled, a constant background hum that you’ve learned to tune out. You’re fiddling with your hair, trying to focus on the upcoming routine, when your coworker slides up next to you, fresh from a private session. Her face is flushed, and there’s a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I think you have a stalker,” she says with a light giggle, her voice teasing.

“What?” You glance up, startled. The absurdity of the statement makes you blink in confusion before a small laugh escapes you.

“I’m serious!” she insists, though there’s a twinkle in her eyes. “She’s always here when you’re working. Like she knows your schedule or something.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral, trying not to let on how much the idea affects you. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s here every time you have a shift,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s kind of creepy, honestly. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

A flicker of something – hope, maybe? – sparks in your chest, but you force it down. It couldn’t be her. Could it? “What does she look like?” you ask, feigning casual curiosity, but inside, your heart is racing.

Before she can answer, your manager pokes his head into the room, telling you it’s time to go on stage. You sigh, pushing yourself off the chair, trying to brush off the conversation.

“She’s… well, I don’t know how to describe her, but she’s hot,” your coworker says with a mischievous smile, tucking a stray hair behind your ear as if it’ll help you.

“Thanks, super helpful,” you mutter sarcastically.

You check yourself in the mirror one last time, making sure everything is in place before you head out.

“Anytime!” she calls after you as you walk away.

You push the thought from your mind as you step into the neon-lit haze of the club. The familiar weight of your stage persona settles over you, a mask of confidence and seduction that you wear so well. The crowd is already buzzing with anticipation as you walk onto the stage, and you fall into your routine with practised ease. Every movement is calculated, designed to draw their attention, to make them cheer, throw money. You add a little extra spice tonight, just enough to keep things fresh for the regulars.

But then, halfway through a particularly sultry movement on the pole, you see her. Your breath catches, and you falter for the briefest of moments. It’s her. Of course, it’s her. Who else would it be? She sits at the bar, casually sipping her drink, her eyes fixed on you. It’s like she’s been there all along, watching, waiting.

A smirk curls at your lips as you continue your routine, but now there’s something more behind it. You perform for her. Every movement, every twist of your body is for her eyes only. And she’s watching, her gaze never leaving you. She’s been watching all this time, and you didn’t even know.

When your routine ends, you linger on stage, soaking in the cheers, the bills fluttering down around you. But your eyes aren’t on the crowd. They’re on her. She meets your gaze from across the room, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, locked in this silent exchange. She lowers her glass, a soft, almost affectionate smile playing on her lips, and then she stands. She walks over to the private rooms, where the requests are made. Your heart races, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen next.

Backstage, you grab your water bottle, taking long, slow gulps, trying to steady your nerves. You sit down, waiting for the inevitable call from your manager, already knowing what’s coming. She’s going to request you. She has to.

But when he finally comes in, he doesn’t call your name. Instead, he calls one of your coworkers. Confusion washes over you, but you force yourself to stay calm. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe she’s waiting for you. But he never does.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Neon lights flash behind your eyes, laughter and music blend into a distant hum as you make your way through the familiar routine of clocking out. The once-bustling club is emptying now, a hushed contrast to the chaos it held just moments before. You say goodbye to your coworkers, your voice barely above a murmur, your thoughts elsewhere.

You push open the heavy backdoor, stepping out into the cool air of the alleyway. It greets you with an unexpected stillness, a quiet that feels almost foreign after the noise and heat inside. The ground beneath your feet is uneven, the faint smell of rain and concrete hanging in the air, and your breath curls in small clouds as you exhale.

Your eyes catch a figure standing at the end of the alley, partially obscured by the dim light. You squint, taking slow, cautious steps forward. At first, you can only make out the silhouette, but as the soft glow of the streetlamp flickers above, the woman’s features begin to come into focus. Your heart skips a beat as recognition dawns on you. It's Alexia.

She’s leaning casually against the brick wall, arms crossed in front of her chest, but there’s a tension to her posture, something about the way she’s waiting. You pause, momentarily taken aback, your eyes sweeping over her form. Even in the faint light, she looks just as striking as you remember. Her hair catches the glow, her face half-illuminated, her expression unreadable – until she notices you.

Alexia’s lips twitch into a small, almost imperceptible smile. It’s hesitant, unsure. She pushes herself off the wall, taking a couple of tentative steps towards you, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. The sound of her footsteps echoes softly in the alley as she approaches, and you feel a knot of confusion twist in your stomach. What is she still doing here?

When you’re close enough to see her clearly, you glance up at her, still wary, your mind racing with a thousand unspoken questions. She looks nervous – more nervous than you’ve ever seen her – and the usually confident Alexia seems uncharacteristically shy, her eyes shifting as if she’s searching for the right words. Her lips part, but nothing comes out immediately. Instead, she fumbles for a second, her mind clearly working faster than her mouth.

“I was waiting for you,” she finally blurts out, her voice quiet, her thumb gesturing back awkwardly to the wall behind her as if she needs to explain where she’s been standing all this time. “I wanted to see if I could… walk you to your car? Maybe talk?”

There’s a blush creeping up her cheeks, one she seems almost embarrassed by, and you can’t help but notice how out of place she seems in this moment.

You tilt your head slightly, studying her as her words settle over you. It’s strange – everything about this is strange. The Alexia from earlier tonight, the one who watched you from across the room but didn’t come near, who requested someone else… it doesn’t quite fit with the Alexia standing before you now.

“Why didn’t you request a private session with me earlier?” Your voice is quiet, but there’s a hardness to it, a small wall of guardedness that you’ve built around yourself, even if you can’t fully maintain it. You don’t want to give in too easily. You don’t want to let her off the hook without some kind of explanation. She requested someone else – someone who wasn’t you. And that stings, more than you care to admit.

Alexia’s eyes widen slightly at your question, caught off guard by the vulnerability in your voice. She blinks, and you can see the surprise flicker across her face, her lips parting as if she hadn’t expected you to be so direct. “You… you looked at me like you were going to,” you mumble, your words softer now, almost a confession.

She hesitates for a moment, then nods. “You weren’t on the list of people I could request,” she says, her voice gentler now, more sincere. “You haven’t been for a while.”

Her words sink in, and the realisation hits you. Of course. Your manager. He’s known. He must’ve known she was here, must’ve known about whatever… this is. Maybe that’s why he’s been giving you fewer private sessions lately, why he’s kept you from certain clients.

You can’t help but ask the next question, even though the words feel bitter on your tongue. “Did you… have sex with her?” Your voice comes out smaller than you’d intended, a quiet insecurity slipping through despite your best efforts to hide it. You immediately curse yourself for it. Why should you care? You barely know her. You have no claim over her, no reason to be hurt by what she does with anyone else.

But the question hangs there, heavy and unspoken in the silence that follows, until Alexia shakes her head quickly, almost too quickly. “No,” she says firmly. “I didn’t. I even cut it short.” Her voice drops lower, softer. “I don’t want to do it with anyone else… I can’t. It’s not the same.”

You study her face, and for a moment, all you can see is how desperate she looks. Desperate to explain herself, to make you understand something that, technically, she doesn’t owe you at all. You’re not hers. She’s not yours. You have no right to expect anything from her. And yet here she is, standing in the cold night air, waiting for you. Telling you things you weren’t sure you wanted to hear, but things that, deep down, you needed to know.

Your fingers rub at your eyes, trying to make sense of the tangle of emotions building inside of you. “You’re tired,” Alexia says softly, her voice cutting through your thoughts. “Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t bring it,” you admit, your words almost slurred with exhaustion. “I live close by. I usually walk.”

Her eyebrows raise in concern. “You walk?” she repeats, incredulous. “That’s dangerous with your job.”

You shrug, the fatigue weighing down your shoulders, and give her a tired look. It’s late, and you’re too drained to argue or explain. “It’s not that far.”

Alexia’s gaze hardens with worry, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Let me drive you,” she offers, more of a statement than a question. “Come on,” she says, answering for you before you even have a chance to speak, as if she’d protest if you said no anyway. She holds out her hand, the gesture small but inviting, her fingers barely extended toward you. For a brief moment, you hesitate, looking down at her hand. Her confidence falters, and you see it in the way she quickly pulls her hand back, as though embarrassed for even offering it.

But you reach for it anyway. The moment your fingers brush against hers, the tension between you seems to dissolve. She looks more at ease when you finally take her hand, and without another word, she leads you towards her car. Her palm is warm against the cool night air, and the contrast sends a shiver through you, though it has little to do with the cold. You remember the way her hands felt on your body, the strength behind them, how they explored every inch of you with desire. You swallow hard, trying to shake the images from your mind, but they cling to you, lingering as she drives you home.

Her hands grip the steering wheel, but your memory clings to how they felt inside of you, how her fingers trailed over your skin, pressing into the softest parts of you. Your breath hitches, and you shift uncomfortably in the passenger seat, hoping she doesn’t notice the flush rising in your cheeks. You glance over at her, half-expecting to see the same thoughts reflected in her expression, but she’s focused on the road, her face unreadable.

You’re lost in your thoughts when the car finally comes to a stop. She parks outside the location you’d given her. Silence falls between you, the hum of the engine fading, and all you can hear now is the soft sound of your breathing. You turn to look at her, unsure of what to say, if there’s even anything left to say after everything that’s already happened.

Her eyes meet yours, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. The streetlights outside cast a faint glow on her face, highlighting the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the slight parting of her lips. She looks calm, composed, but her eyes are saying everything at once. You can’t tell if it’s your own tiredness warping your perception or if there’s really something there – something you’re too afraid to acknowledge just yet. Is she really looking at you like that, or are you reading too much into it?

“You did look very good tonight, you look good… every night,” she says, her voice breaking the silence.

It’s a compliment that should feel casual, offhanded, maybe even a little too forward. But instead, it flutters inside you, softening the tension you hadn’t even realised you were holding. Your lips curl into a small smile, and she mirrors it, her own smile shy but sincere.

“Thank you,” you whisper. The words are barely audible, but they hang in the space between you, fragile and intimate.

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the weight of it, and you can feel the air shift. The tension thickens again, making it harder to breathe. Her eyes never leave yours, wide and expectant, and you know exactly what she’s thinking. The unspoken question lingers in the air, written in the way her gaze drops to your lips and back to your eyes.

You nod, just once, giving her silent permission. You’re making it easy for her, letting her know what you both want without either of you needing to say it. There’s a brief hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, before she finally leans towards you. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you lean in to meet her halfway.

Your lips hover just inches apart for a moment, you can feel her breath against your skin, warm and steady, and then, finally, she closes the gap. The kiss is firm, commanding – just like last time. It’s hungry, almost desperate, as if she’s trying to claim every part of you in that single moment. Your head spins, your mind lost in the softness of her lips, the heat of her body awkwardly pressed against yours over the console.

Her hands move with purpose, fingers brushing over your neck, trailing up to cup your face, then into your hair. You feel the familiar rush, the way your body responds to her touch without hesitation. Before you even realise what’s happening, you’re both in your bed, the remnants of your clothes scattered carelessly on the floor.

The only sounds now are your ragged breaths, uneven and heavy in the quiet room. The first hints of dawn are creeping through the blinds, and you can’t help but wonder how she’s still awake, how she’s managed to keep going for this long. Doesn’t she have training? Responsibilities to attend to? But the thoughts are fleeting, drowned out by the haze of exhaustion and everything that’s happened tonight.

You lie there, tangled in the sheets, unsure of what to do next. Part of you wants to tell her to leave, to restore some sense of normalcy and control. But another part – the part that’s far more vulnerable – wants her to stay, to hold onto this moment for just a little longer.

She lets out a soft sigh, her body going limp as she rolls to her side, facing you. You turn to meet her gaze, your eyes locking with hers. She looks drained, as if the night has taken everything out of her, her eyes barely open as sleep threatens to overtake her.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper softly, your voice barely more than a breath.

She doesn’t argue, doesn’t protest. Her eyelids flutter shut, and within moments, her breathing evens out. You lie there, staring at her peaceful face, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. You know you should sleep, but your head is too full, too loud to quiet down just yet.

For a long while, you stay like that, watching her sleep, until you’re sure she’s fully gone, her body relaxed into the mattress. You move carefully, shifting closer to her, biting your lip as you contemplate what to do next. You want to feel her against you again, the warmth of her body, the comfort of her presence.

Hesitantly, you reach for her arm, the one tucked beneath her chin, and lift it, shifting it over your waist. You roll onto your side, pressing your back against her front, her arm draped over you like a safety net. For a second, you worry it’s too much – that she’ll pull away or wake up – but instead, she tightens her hold on you, pulling you closer.

Your eyes widen, your body stiffening at the unexpected embrace. But then you feel her nuzzle her face into the back of your neck, her breath warm against your skin, and slowly, you relax. The tension seeps out of your muscles as you melt into the bed, her body fitting perfectly against yours.

The weight of the night finally catches up with you, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Your eyes drift shut, and before you know it, you’ve fallen asleep in her arms, your mind still spinning with the uncertainty of what comes next.

Because now, there are questions you can’t avoid – questions about what this means, what she wants, what you want. You’ve never been one for casual, never been someone who can just let things be. But you don’t know if she feels the same. You want more, you always want more, but is she ready for that? Is she willing to give you everything, or will she walk away in the morning, leaving you with nothing?

—

You can't help but think about Alexia constantly, her presence infiltrating your thoughts, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The way she effortlessly slid into your life after that second encounter felt like fate – or maybe something far more dangerous. There's a part of you that wonders if she wanted more from the very beginning, but you hadn’t dared to ask, and she had never outright said. But you know she does, at least, you think she does. You tell yourself that, over and over again, hoping that her actions speak louder than her silence. And yet, the uncertainty still lingers in the back of your mind like a weight pressing down on your chest.

Alexia never says much, but what she does do feels like more than enough. It's in the way she makes sure you're fed after work, even if it's just a late-night diner run. You’re exhausted, but she insists on taking you out, getting something to eat before she drives you home. For you, it’s dinner; for her, it’s breakfast. Those meals have become a ritual, something you’ve come to expect at the end of your long shifts. It feels like care – like a routine that connects the two of you in ways you’ve never quite been able to explain.

You tell yourself it’s her way of showing affection, but as you sit across from her at those quiet, hole-in-the-wall diners, watching her sip her coffee while you nurse a plate of greasy food, the doubt creeps in. It’s never more than casual conversation. The little moments between bites and sips when she smiles softly at you, but never gives away too much. You realise that you’re the one doing most of the talking. Alexia listens, her eyes focused entirely on you, as if absorbing every word, but offering so little in return. You talk about your life, your shifts, your exhaustion – she listens, but what does she say about herself? Nothing that you don’t already know. She’s a public figure, and while her career isn’t something new to anyone, especially not you, there’s a strange emptiness in realising that you know so little beyond the headlines.

It’s in those quiet moments, where her silence stretches on, that you begin to wonder – does she really care? Does she want you, or is it just the convenience of having you after a long night?

And then there are the dates. They’re not frequent, but they feel significant. Sometimes she’ll call you when you’re both free, offering a night out, away from the club and the noise of your everyday life. You walk through the city together, the conversations light, sometimes playful, but never diving deep enough for you to understand her fully. Alexia’s hand will brush yours as you stroll along the sidewalks, her touch lingering just long enough to send a quiet thrill through your body. Every time it feels like she’s leading you towards something more, something real. But before you can grasp it, it slips away, just like the smile she gives when you try to ask more about her life.

She always makes time for your performances, though, especially when she has the next day off. Her presence in the crowd is unmistakable, her eyes locked on you like you’re the only person in the room. It’s intoxicating, the way she watches you. You can feel her gaze burning into your skin, watching your every move with an intensity that makes you shiver. And it’s not just lust – it’s something deeper, something you can’t quite put into words. But as much as she watches, she never stays long after the show. She’ll wait until your shift ends, and then pull you aside, whisking you away like you’re a secret only she’s allowed to keep.

It’s strange, though. As much as you love those moments with her, there’s always a distance, always a barrier you can’t cross. You want to reach her, to see what’s behind that cool, collected exterior, but she keeps you at arm’s length, even when she’s pulling you closer physically.

And now, with your return to private sessions, the intensity has only grown. Your manager put you back on the list, trusting you again after a long period of caution. You didn’t miss those private rooms, the way they felt so closed in, so suffocating with other clients. But with Alexia, it’s different. She’s the only one who you want to request you, and when you step into that dimly lit room and see her waiting for you, a strange calm washes over you.

Private sessions with her are unlike anything else. The moment the door clicks shut, it’s as if the rest of the world ceases to exist. It’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other. You’ve never felt so exposed, yet so safe, as when Alexia’s hands trace the lines of your body, her touch always firm but careful. You lose yourself in her, in the way she undoes you so easily, like she knows every secret place, every vulnerable spot that makes you melt. It’s a dangerous game, this intimacy you share with her behind closed doors, but you can’t bring yourself to stop.

The nights always end the same. Whether it’s after a performance, a date, or one of these private sessions, it all leads to the same conclusion: you and her, tangled together in bedsheets, limbs intertwined, bodies bare and spent. Her touch lingers long after the moment passes, leaving you breathless and aching for more. But she’s always the first to move. She’s quick to dress you, her fingers moving deftly as she glances toward the door, always alert, always watching for your manager to walk in. You don’t know why she’s so cautious. He knows she’s in there with you. But the moment her task is done, she slips away, like a shadow disappearing before the light can expose her.

And you let her. You never ask why. You just watch her go, your heart heavy in your chest as the door closes behind her, leaving you alone in the aftermath of what just happened. You tell yourself it’s because you trust her. But do you? Or is it that you’re too afraid of the answer you might get if you ask?

Today, though, things feel off. There’s a tension in the air as you walk into the club, ready for another night of work. You’re exhausted, your mind already drifting towards thoughts of Alexia, of the moments you might share later.

“Y/n, come in here, please.”

The sound of your manager’s voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, pulling you back to reality. You swallow hard, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. You’ve been called into his office plenty of times, but this feels different. There’s a sternness in his tone that sets you on edge. Nerves coil tightly in your stomach as you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

He leans back in his chair, his fingers lacing behind his head as he studies you. His posture is casual, but the intensity in his eyes is anything but.

“This woman,” he starts, his voice measured, “the one who comes in every other week, always requesting you. Who is she? What’s her name?”

Your mouth goes dry. You knew this would come up eventually, but you hadn’t prepared yourself for it. You glance around the room, avoiding his gaze for a moment, searching for something to anchor yourself to.

“Her name is Alexia,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

“And…” he hesitates for a beat, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you and Alexia dating?”

The question catches you off guard, you shake your head slowly, unsure of what else to say.

“Then why does she keep coming back? And only for you?”

You shrug, your shoulders heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. “I don’t know,” you murmur, though the words feel hollow, even to you. You want to believe that it’s more than just convenience for her. You want to believe that she sees you as more than just the girl she can have when she wants. But you don’t have the answer your manager is looking for. You’re not sure you have any answers at all.

Your manager leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk as his gaze sharpens. “I have a feeling,” he says slowly, “that you’re doing something you’re not supposed to be doing in these private sessions.”

The disappointment in his voice stings more than you expected. You try to open your mouth, to defend yourself, but the words die on your tongue. What could you say? You’re breaking the rules, and you both know it.

“If you’re engaging in acts with clients, you know that’s prohibited here,” he continues, his voice firm. “If we find out you’re involved with her like that, you’ll be fired.”

Panic flares in your chest, but you force yourself to stay calm. You can’t lose this job. But you also can’t lie. So you say nothing, just nodding in acknowledgment, hoping it’s enough to show him that you understand.

“I want you to tell Alexia that she can no longer request you,” he says, his voice unwavering. “And if you don’t, I will. I’ll make sure she doesn’t come here for you anymore.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. The thought of not seeing Alexia anymore, of losing those quiet moments with her, makes your heart ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

But what can you do?

“You can’t ban her,” you protest, the disbelief thick in your voice. It’s the first time you’ve ever raised your voice to him, and it surprises you as much as it seems to surprise him.

“I can,” he cuts in sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. His expression is calm, but the firmness in his voice makes it clear he’s not bluffing. “I will, if I have to.” He takes a moment for his words to settle in, “I don’t know her intentions with you, and that’s the problem,” your manager continues, his voice softer now, almost concerned. “I want you to be safe, Y/n. You know how dangerous this job can be, especially with private sessions. If she wants something more with you, fine, but it can’t happen here. If you’re involved with her, keep it professional – or handle it outside of work.”

You can’t even form words, your throat tight with frustration and confusion. You nod, though it feels like you’re surrendering. “I’m sorry,” you manage to whisper, the words barely audible.

For the first time, his expression softens. He sighs, looking at you with something that almost resembles pity. “Go get ready for your shift,” he says, his voice no longer sharp but weary. “We’ll talk more later if we need to.”

You push yourself out of the chair, your legs unsteady beneath you as you make your way to the dressing room. The usual routine feels foreign, mechanical, as you go through the motions of preparing for the night. Your mind, however, is far from the club, far from the neon lights and pulsing music. All you can think about is Alexia – what she means to you, what you mean to her, if anything at all.

For the rest of the night, you’re distracted. You go through your shift like a ghost, barely present, your thoughts consumed by what your manager said. What does Alexia really want from you? Every time she comes to see you, every time she takes you out, it always ends the same way – with her hands on your body, with the two of you tangled together in bed. She’s always so focused on you, so intent on touching you, pleasing you – but what about you? Does she want more than just your body?

It’s frustrating – infuriating, even – that you’ve given so much of yourself to her, but know so little in return. You want to be more than just her escape, more than just a body she can touch and leave behind. You want her to see you, really see you, for who you are beyond the roles you play in the dim lighting of the club.

—

The next time you see Alexia, it’s just a few days after your manager had that quiet talk with you about her. He’s been watching you more closely lately, not with suspicion, but with a kind of silent expectation. Every time you pass him, his eyes lock onto yours, silently asking the question you still can’t answer. Each time, you give the same small shake of your head, lips tight, and his face crumbles into thinly veiled disappointment. It’s like a ritual now, and before you can stop yourself, the same tired promise escapes your lips: “I’ll tell her soon.” He never pushes for more, but you can feel it, that invisible clock ticking down. You know what he’ll do if he ever sees her.

When you finally spot her tonight, she’s sitting at the bar, as calm and radiant as ever. Her usual drink sits untouched – just a glass of water tonight. It’s mid-season, after all. She’s been coming less and less, and you know why. The intensity of her schedule, the demands of being a professional athlete, are pulling her further away from these nights, from you.

You stick to the routine, the one that feels mechanical now, rehearsed to the point of exhaustion. There’s no spark, no new energy flowing through you, and for the first time in a long while, her presence doesn’t fuel you like it used to. Your movements lack the usual grace, the confidence that she used to stir in you simply by being there. Maybe it’s the worry gnawing at your insides, the creeping thought that tonight could be the night your manager catches her.

When the routine ends, you glance towards her, and for a brief moment, your eyes meet. She gives you that familiar look – the one that says she’ll wait for you in the room. Usually, it would send a small thrill through you, a silent anticipation of what comes next, but tonight, you simply shake your head at her. Her expression flickers with confusion, but she only shrugs, abandoning her glass with a casual nonchalance that stings more than it should. She waves, a small, half-hearted gesture, and walks out the door.

She didn’t even seem to care. There was no lingering glance, no hesitation in her step. It was as if your rejection meant nothing to her, like you meant nothing. Your chest tightens, a dull ache spreading through you, and the thoughts you’ve been trying to suppress rise to the surface. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she really only wants you for your body. And since you can’t give her that tonight, she just leaves.

The thought churns in your mind, twisting and turning, but you push them down, refusing to let them take root. You won’t let this affect you, not tonight. You force yourself to stay focused, to remain in control. The rest of the night drags on, slow and unremarkable, but you manage to hold it together until the end. When the last person leaves, you clock out without a second glance and head for the backdoor.

The night air is crisp as you step outside, the alleyway bathed in dim light. The world feels quiet, muted, as if it’s holding its breath. You walk the same path you always do, your feet carrying you down the alley and onto the sidewalk. When you reach the street, you glance down the road to where she’d usually be parked. There’s a flicker of relief when you see her car still there, waiting for you. But then, just as quickly, annoyance takes its place. Because she should be home by now. She’s a professional athlete. She should be getting her rest, not waiting up for you like this.

Still, you find yourself moving towards her. You open the passenger door and slide into the seat beside her. The car is silent, the atmosphere thick with tension. She stares out the window for a long time, her profile illuminated by the faint streetlight outside. The silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable, until finally, she turns to you, her eyes searching yours.

“Did I… do something?” Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but there’s a vulnerability in it that catches you off guard.

You shake your head, but the words don’t come easily. You’ve been holding so much back for so long, and now, with her looking at you like this, it’s hard to keep the dam from breaking.

“Why didn’t you want to go to the room?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You sigh, turning away from her gaze, staring at your hands instead. "Because my manager’s onto us. He doesn’t want you coming back anymore. I’m sorry, Alexia."

She huffs, shaking her head as if the answer wasn’t enough. “We should’ve been more careful,” she mutters under her breath, her frustration evident. Then, after a long pause, she turns to you again, her voice softer, almost hesitant. “Can I still… see you?”

There’s a knot in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You nod, but the motion feels hollow, automatic. You don’t know what else to say, how else to respond.

After a stretch of silence, you speak, your voice barely masking the weariness you feel. “Are you taking me home, or are we sitting here all night?”

Her lips curve into a small, teasing smirk, a flash of the confidence you’ve always known in her. “Are you hungry? We could get something to eat.”

“Not tonight,” you murmur, rubbing your forehead. “Just take me home, please.”

The smirk fades, and she nods, starting the car in silence. The drive back to your place is quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine. You lean back in your seat, your thoughts swirling, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t shake the unease. You know what she wants. It’s written in the way she looks at you, the way her fingers occasionally flex on the steering wheel. But tonight, you’re not sure you can give it to her. You’re not even sure you want to.

When you arrive at your place, she goes to park the car, but before she can shift into gear, you place a hand over hers, stopping her movements. She looks at you, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“I don’t want to have sex tonight,” you say, your voice steady but quiet, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.

Her lips part in surprise, and for a moment, you think she might argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, she nods slowly, her confusion giving way to a softer, more understanding expression. “Okay,” she says, though you can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about, though,” you continue, feeling the weight of what’s to come. “Can you come inside?”

She doesn’t argue. She simply nods, her expression unreadable as you both step out of the car and head towards your apartment. When you finally unlock the door and step inside, the air between you feels charged, tense, like the calm before a storm.

You settle onto the couch, and she follows, her limbs sprawling out in that casual, confident way of hers. She leans her head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling, waiting for you to speak. But the words stick in your throat, and instead, you find yourself staring at her.

For a moment, you wonder what she sees in you. She’s so put together, so effortlessly perfect, and you feel small. Inadequate. The weight of your insecurities presses down on you, and for a moment, you question everything. Maybe what you’re about to say is stupid. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

She turns her head slightly, catching your gaze, and you quickly look away, focusing instead on your hands resting in your lap. After a long, uncomfortable pause, you finally speak.

“What exactly… do you want from this?” Your voice sounds small, uncertain.

She lifts her head, looking at you with a mixture of confusion and surprise. "This? As in us?"

You nod, unable to meet her gaze, afraid of what her answer might be.

Her brow furrows as she thinks for a moment, biting her lip. “I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “I haven’t really thought about it like that.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. She hasn’t been thinking about you. Not the way you’ve been thinking about her. While she’s been a constant presence in your mind, an endless loop of thoughts and feelings you can’t escape, you’ve barely registered on her radar. You feel the sting of it, sharp and cutting, sinking into your chest. For a moment, the room seems to tilt, and your heart drops. You were a fool to think she felt the same way, to let yourself hope for something more when she hadn’t even bothered to consider it.

“Do you want more?” she asks, her voice hesitant now, faltering as she glances at you. Her eyes flicker, catching the hurt in your expression, and you can see her start to second-guess herself. “I thought we were just… casual.”

Her words slice through the air between you, the final confirmation of your worst fear. Casual. That’s what this was to her. Just a passing thing, a distraction from her busy life. Meanwhile, you’ve been caught up in thoughts of her constantly – wondering what you mean to her, why she shows up at your place after nights out, why she sticks around, why it always felt like there was more. But to her, it’s just casual.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you finally speak. “I don’t like casual.” The words feel pathetic on your tongue, like you’re exposing something weak and fragile about yourself. “I thought you taking me out and waiting for me meant something more than it actually did.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You expect her to say something, to argue or apologise, but she just looks at you, her mouth slightly open as if she doesn’t know what to say. And maybe she doesn’t. Maybe there’s nothing to say.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. "I want you to leave if you don’t want more," you say, the words coming out stronger than you feel. “I’m not going to keep doing this with you if it leads to nothing in the end.”

The shock on her face is clear, her eyes wide as she stares at you, and for a brief second, you wonder if you’ve pushed too hard. Maybe you’re being too dramatic, letting your feelings spiral out of control. Maybe this is how she shows love, maybe you’ve misread everything. But at this moment, your heart is screaming for more, for something solid, something real. You can’t live in this uncertainty anymore.

You offer her an out, your voice quieter now. “I can give you time to think…”

But before you can finish, she shakes her head, and you brace yourself for the worst. You think this is it, the moment she’ll stand up and walk out of your life for good, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your heart on your own.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, wrapping her arms around you, pulling you into a tight, almost desperate embrace. It catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to react. Her hold is firm, like she’s trying to hold you together, trying to keep you from slipping away from her.

“I’m not going to leave,” she whispers into your hair, her voice raw with emotion. “I want the same thing. I was just too scared to tell you because I didn’t know if you felt the same. I didn’t want to embarrass myself or… or lose you.”

Her words wash over you, and for a second, you’re not sure if you should believe her. You’ve spent so long convincing yourself that she didn’t care, that this was all just surface-level for her, that now, hearing her say otherwise feels surreal. But there’s something in her voice, a vulnerability you haven’t seen before, that makes you pause. Maybe she’s been scared, too. Maybe this whole time, she’s been holding back the same way you have, afraid of what it might mean to open up completely.

“I didn’t want to let you go,” she continues, her breath warm against your skin. “I couldn’t ever let you go.”

Her words feel like a balm to the ache that’s been building in your chest, soothing the tension that’s been twisting inside you for weeks. You take a deep breath, the scent of her perfume filling your lungs, mixed with the subtle scent that’s uniquely hers. It’s comforting, grounding, and you let yourself relax into her embrace, closing your eyes for a moment as the weight of your fears begins to lift, just a little.

“I want to be something more with you,” she murmurs softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. Her hands cup your cheeks, her thumbs brushing gently over your skin as she holds your gaze. There’s something new in her eyes, something tender and raw – an emotion you’ve never seen before. Adoration, maybe. Admiration. You can’t quite put a name to it, but whatever it is, it makes your heart swell in your chest.

“I do, I really do,” she continues, her voice steady now, more certain than before. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just sit there, staring at each other, her hands still cradling your face as if she’s afraid to let go. Her gaze roams over your features, taking in every detail as if seeing you for the first time, and then her eyes drift down to your lips.

The kiss, when it finally comes, is tentative at first. Slow. Gentle. There’s none of the urgency or heat that usually ignites between you. Instead, it’s soft and tender, filled with a quiet longing that takes your breath away. It’s a kiss that says more than words ever could – a promise, an understanding. It’s everything you’ve been wanting from her, everything you’ve been waiting for, and you can feel the weight of it in your bones.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, and you sit there in the quiet of your apartment, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. Your mind races, a thousand thoughts swirling at once, but before you can speak, she asks the question that’s been pressing on your mind.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispers.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to voice the doubts still lingering in the back of your mind.

“Are you… okay with what I do?” you ask, your voice wavering slightly. “I mean… the media is going to say so much when they find out about me. About what I do.” You pause, your chest tightening as you search her eyes for any sign of doubt. “Are you comfortable with me dancing for others? Letting others see me like that?”

She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes searching yours, and for a brief second, you feel your heart clench in fear. But then she smiles, a slow, warm smile that sends a wave of relief through you.

“Who cares what they say?” she murmurs, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Own what you do. You’re sexy, and I love it.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the tension start to ease from your body. “But–”

“I trust you,” she cuts in gently, her eyes locking onto yours with a sincerity that leaves no room for doubt. “I trust that you won’t do anything to hurt me. And if something does bother me, I’ll tell you. But for now, let’s just focus on us. On where we want to go, okay?”

Her words settle over you like a blanket, warm and comforting, and you nod, unable to find the words to express the gratitude swelling in your chest.

She stands up, offering her hand to you, and together, you make your way to the bedroom. But this time, there’s no rush, no urgency. This time, you fall into each other’s arms, but not out of lust. And as you drift off to sleep, her body wrapped around yours, you feel a quiet contentment settle over you, knowing that for the first time, you’re both on the same page.

Over the months that follow, her actions speak louder than any words ever could. She shows you, day by day, how much you mean to her – how much she wants this, how much she wants you. You watch as she slowly lets her guard down, revealing parts of herself that she’s never shared with anyone else. It’s in the small moments, the little gestures that show you how much she’s come to care. She holds your hand in public without hesitation. She asks you about your day and genuinely listens, her attention unwavering.

And when she finally tells you she loves you for the first time, it’s in the quiet of your apartment, after a long day. She doesn’t plan it, doesn’t make it a big moment. It just slips out naturally, like it was always meant to be said, and you realise then that you’ve been waiting to hear those words for far longer than you knew.

It’s in the way she moves in with you, how the two of you build a life together. It’s in the way she surprises you by proposing, years later, after you’ve both grown together, after you’ve come to know every inch of each other’s hearts. And when you stand at the altar, exchanging vows, you see the truth in her eyes – the unwavering love that’s been there all along.

And it’s in the way she stands beside you when your first child is born, holding your hand through every pain, every joy, until you’re both holding the life you created together.

Looking back, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of relief that you didn’t let fear or pride get in the way of what was right in front of you. You allowed yourself to love her, and just as importantly, you allowed her to love you. And that, you realise, was the bravest thing you’ve ever done. It wasn’t easy to be vulnerable, to lay your heart bare in front of her, but it was worth every moment of uncertainty, every doubt you ever had.

You can’t help but feel a surge of gratitude for the people who played a part in allowing you to be here. Your manager, for one, comes to mind, and a small, appreciative smile tugs at your lips. He had seen it all, from the beginning – how you danced around the truth for so long, how you kept things under wraps until it became impossible to hide.

You remember the day you finally told him about Alexia, bracing yourself for judgement or worse, thinking he’d tell you it was too much of a risk to keep seeing her. But instead, he had simply rolled his eyes in that familiar, knowing way and shrugged. When you later told him you were getting married to her, you’d half-expected him to lecture you or at least bring up how complicated it could be with the job. But no – he barely blinked, just gave you a look that said, I knew this was coming, before congratulating you with a smirk.

And that was it. No drama, no judgement. He didn’t treat you any differently, didn’t look at you any differently, and most importantly, he let you keep your job. He understood – maybe more than you gave him credit for – that love was something worth fighting for, something worth protecting. You’re thankful for that, for his quiet support and the way he let you figure things out without pushing too hard.

You’re grateful for him, for the way he respected your boundaries, your choices. And in a strange way, you’re even grateful for the moments of discomfort and uncertainty, for they ultimately led you to where you are now – deeply in love with a woman who loves you just as much, if not more.

-

there were sooo many ways i could’ve taken this so im very anxious as to what you think about this 🫠

[2hightocare]

LOVE WAGER! 01

Synopsis: Meeting a crazy stranger who cuts in line, tries to tell you love like the books doesn’t exist—it’s whatever. You won’t ever see him again… right?

Pairings: jungkook x fem!reader

Genre: college au. strangers to friends to lovers. forced proximity.

Warnings: mentions of divorce parents, Jungkook lowkey being insufferable, banter, cussing, a little bit of them being enemies, nicknames, oc being a hopeless romantic at heart, Jungkook being lowkey a cynic… them meeting each other so many times, choking!

a/n: first chapter out!! Woohoo, I’ve been keeping them close to my heart for quite some time. Ever since I listened to “in between” by Gracie Abrams.. I was inspired to write them—the song is so them coded.💌

★ masterlist!

3 years ago…

You were a hopeless romantic.

Most people called it being delusional— by people, you mean the random stranger in front of you.

The first time you met Jungkook, not only did he cut in front of you in line, but he also started shit-talking about how delusional you had to be to think romance books were even remotely comparable to real life.

The line at the cupcake shop was long. You had been wanting to try the new chocolate-covered strawberry flavor from your favorite cupcake shop in the city. The shop was always full, but today it was packed to the bone— the line almost reached outside the door. The people sitting at the cute pastel-colored tables were even leaving because the space was getting so crowded.

It was a Friday, and you had just left school. Your black backpack hung loosely over one shoulder as you stared down at your phone, trying not to die playing Subway Surfers. When your phone died, you internally groaned.

You mentally rolled your eyes before looking forward, where the line was starting to move faster. You were probably the fourth person in line, which was good since you'd only been there for around twenty minutes. You slipped your phone into the back pocket of your jeans before reaching for the zipper of your backpack—pulling out the latest book you hadn’t finished reading amidst all the assignments teachers had been bombarding you with. You thought it was dumb, considering it was your senior year in high school—why not just let you off easy?

You zipped up your backpack before slipping it on, tucking in the small hair that fell into your face when you opened your book. You moved forward as the line advanced, not bothered by the conversations from everyone around you—it was like your own brown noise, which you usually looked up on YouTube whenever you wanted to act like the main character in a movie.

Romance books were your thing. The same went for movies; you loved a good romantic story with the most cliché plot in the world—it did it for you every single time.

Your dad had tried getting you into self-help books, fiction books, or even those thriller books where you had to guess who kills who. He would back this up with actually learning something from reading a book, and you tried all those genres, you really did. You were the most specific girl there could be; if the book didn't impress you within one chapter, you closed it and moved on.

You were basically in love with the idea of love, imagining someone doing all those things you had seen in movies and read about, which filled you with hope that someone could care and love you that way. Yes, you believed in soulmates; you believed that someone, somewhere in this world, was destined to be with you, no matter the circumstances. You believed that if two people were destined for each other, they would find a way to each other, one way or another.

“Hi, baby, you still haven’t ordered? The line is so fucking long.” A strange boy, who looked around your age or maybe slightly older due to his eyebrow piercing, spoke up. He had a navy blue cap with the Yankees logo on the front, and you could see small pieces of his hair. It looked like a dark brown, but at some angles, it looked black, so you thought maybe he dyed it. He was cute, with a sharp jaw and dimples, which you immediately noticed when they showed on his left cheek as he bit his lip, waiting for you to reply.

“I’m sorry—“ you started, only to be cut off by him. “I've been meaning to show you this, babe.” He cut you off before basically shoving his phone into your face. His phone showed his notes app open with a text that read, ‘Please act like you know me so I can cut in line; it’s so long, and I have somewhere to be.’

Your brows furrowed at the pleading guy. You had no clue what his name was, but he looked like he was seriously about to lose his mind if he had to wait another minute in line. You shook your head before nodding— a smile burst on his face.

“Thank you,” he mouthed to you, to which you only shrugged before closing your book. “What flavor are you getting, lovebug?” He said, his nose scrunching in disgust at what he just said. A small laugh escaped your lips since that was the cringiest shit you had heard all day, maybe even all week if you didn’t count your dad trying to write you a poem about his love for your cat.

“I want to get the new chocolate-covered strawberry flavor. What about you?” You said, your fingers fidgeting with the pages of your closed book. His eyes dropped to your hands as you moved up in line, now second in line.

“Is that your book?” He said instead of replying to your question. “Yeah, do you read?” A spike of excitement was clear in your face and voice, only to be squashed when he opened his mouth.

“Do you actually believe anything in there is remotely realistic?” He said nonchalantly before removing his cap, letting his fluffy hair fall in his face before almost immediately collecting it back, placing his cap backward this time.

“I—“ you stutter, your mouth slightly agape, not knowing how to reply without sounding dumb. Because, yeah, you strongly believed romance books were able to happen in real life if someone loved you enough. “Well.. I mean, love happens anywhere,” you shrug, but he only nods his head in a condescending way. Not only were you helping him skip in line—he was basically criticizing your view on love.

“Well, duh, love happens, but all that cringey shit is the dumbest thing our generation normalized. Like, nobody is going to confess their love with a microphone in the middle of a dance-off,” he scoffs. You didn’t understand why he actually looked like he seriously hated the idea of making gestures for someone you loved or cared about.

“Well, obviously, I find that stupid as well, but there are other gestures to show your appreciation and love for someone.” You turn your whole body to face him. He’s not much taller than you, maybe two inches if you really wanted to know, and the cap maybe added another inch, but that didn’t matter since your eyesight was eye level with his.

“Love is embarrassing,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him. You felt the lady behind you both, her eyes bore into you both, trying to figure out why the supposed couple were fighting about love.

“How is love embarrassing?” You scoff before turning around to look in front of you, at the back of the head of the man who was ordering.

“Because love makes you do embarrassing shit all the time; that’s the easiest way I can put it for you, ribbons,” he replies with a duh tone, raising his eyebrows at you, which you see from your peripheral vision.

“Ribbons?” You turn to him, your arms crossed over your book as you glare at him. “Pink ribbon. Don’t you think you look a little too old to be wearing bows?” A grin appears on his face as he casually points to the pink ribbon tied into a bow in your hair.

“The fuck? Not only did I let you skip the line, but you’re a) talking shit about my favorite genre, and b) making fun of me wearing bows.” You turn your full body to him, which he only raises his hands in defense, as if you had a gun pointed at him.

“Damn, my bad. I thought this was a free country; you know your amendments, right?” He raises an eyebrow at you. “Yes, I fucking know my amendments,” you reply, absolutely annoyed at him bringing history into this.

“Freedom of speech,” he says before walking in front of you to the cashier. You were annoyed, maybe even angry. How dare he talk shit and say freedom of speech when you just did him a favor.

“He cut in front of me,” you point to him as you tell on him to the cashier, his jaw dropping to the floor. “Did you just tell on me? What the fuck,” he side-eyes you as you just shrugged.

“I respectfully need to ask you to go to the back of the line,” the cashier says, shooting you an apologetic look. You bite on the inside of your cheek to contain the smile that is threatening to slip out, as he sends you a mocking face, which you return, because apparently, you both were literal children. He rolled his eyes before he walked off.

2 years ago..

The second time you met Jungkook, you almost died due to choking on your coke.

You and your best-friend, Amelia, sat in a booth, munching on pizza, while you hear her ramble about the latest drama on campus.

“I can’t believe he cheated on her. I was so shocked, like I couldn’t believe he would do that after he literally gave her a promise ring—I heard it was expensive as well, bro,” Amelia said, stuffing a French fry in her mouth.

Amelia and you had been best friends since your freshman year at Preston University. She ended up in your dorm room by mistake, until security escorted her to her corresponding room. You both even had your calculus class together, which ended in both of you ripping your hair out because you truly had no clue what the professor was talking about.

“Oh my god, you’re lying!” you gasped, taking a bite of your folded pizza. “Alexandra said she didn’t care, but apparently, she was crying at the frat party we were supposed to go to yesterday,” Amelia said, pressing her lips together with wide eyes. As you were about to reply, she gasped.

“Holy shit, babes, don’t turn around, but there’s this fine-ass guy behind you,” she said. Without thinking you turned your whole body to look at the guy she was talking about.

“Or just turn your whole body, I don't care,” she added, rolling her eyes.

“Wait, who?” you asked, staring at the group of boys in front of you. They were all cute, just not your type whatsoever. “He just turned around, so you can’t see his face, but the one with the black beanie,” Amelia whispered to you as she took a sip of her Dr Pepper.

As you stared at the back of the boy who was engrossed in a conversation with his friend, a loud laugh escaped his lips before he threw his head back, letting you catch a glimpse of his face.

“Oh, fuck, his laugh is hot as fuck as well,” Amelia said behind you, chewing on her crispy fries. “Do you think he has a girlfrien—“ The words melted from your mouth as the beanie boy turned around. “Yeah, he definitely has a girlfriend,” Amelia said nonchalantly, clearly not catching how your eyes widened, as you both stare at the boy who had cut in front of you in line three years ago.

He was taller, much taller, and he was built—you could tell even from his oversized long-sleeve shirt. As much as you wanted to disagree, he was undeniably attractive. The eyebrow piercing was still there, but it somehow looked better than when you first saw it.

“Ribbons?” he said, pointing at you with a chuckle, making you flinch for absolutely no reason. Amelia looked between both of you, trying to read the room.

“Mr. anti-romantic?” You fired back, a huge smile breaking out on his face before he excused himself from his friend group and made his way to your booth. “I see you got a nickname for me... I feel honored,” he said, pressing a palm to his heart dramatically before shooting a nod at Amelia, who waved with a small smile on her face.

You just rolled your eyes. He was the most childish person you had ever met, and that says a lot since this was only the second time you'd ever spoken to him. “I wouldn’t be so honored,” you mumbled, shooting him a tight-lipped smile as he shook his head with a low chuckle.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Amelia said out of nowhere, both you and the unknown boy's heads snap to the side as a smirk makes it’s way to his mouth, while you throw daggers at Amelia with your eyes for her blunt question. “I doubt he would ever hav—“ you start, only to be rudely interrupted by none other than Mr. anti-romantic himself.

“I actually do, and I was just about to meet her here, but I saw your friend and just had to come and say hello,” he said to your best friend, all while wearing a condescending smile.

“Oof, I feel bad for her,” you shrugged, before placing the straw of your clear cup in your mouth and sipping on your coke.

“Eh, she says I’m a pretty good boyfriend, not a hopeless romantic like someone I know,” he said, watching your eyes meet his before you tilted your head in a mocking way, which he picked up immediately.

“I wonder how you even got her to say yes to you,” you bit back, your eyes maintaining contact with his, not wanting to be the first to break it. But he was too good at it; you almost felt like crumbling into a ball from how intense his stare was.

“I guess you could say there are more ways to please a woman without love letters,” he said nonchalantly. You choked on your coke as the liquid went down the wrong pipe, making you start having a coughing attack.

His and Amelia’s eyes widened as Amelia immediately swatted the man who was right beside you. His hand made contact with your arm, raising it up in the air.

“The fuck are you doing?” Amelia said aggressively, side-eyeing him, as you basically died in front of their wondering eyes. You really didn’t expect him to just talk about his sexual life so openly without a care. You would want to crawl into a hole if your boyfriend ever talked about your private moments like that to anyone.

“My mom said if you put someone’s hand up, it makes your cough go away. I don’t fucking know! I’m not a doctor,” he shot back at your best friend as he raised your arm in the air. Your cough slightly disappeared as you tapped on your chest as if that would do anything to stop it.

“Are you good?” Amelia said as she basically hovered over the table. You felt the whole dinner's eyes on you as you tried to recover from the insane coughing fit you just had. “Y-yeah, fuck,” you coughed, your arms still up in the air from his hold. “I almost for real thought you were about to die. I already imagined myself behind bars,” he said, rubbing his unoccupied hand through his face with a sigh.

“Now I’m hoping I actually died,” you said, yanking your arm away from his grasp.

“We’re leaving, Amelia. Let’s go,” you said, standing up, collecting your jacket and bag, and pushing him out of the way, standing up beside him.

He hovered over you; you almost wanted to jump up to reach his height, but you were already embarrassed enough. So instead, you fixed your denim skirt before looking up at him.

“Well, it was so not nice to see you again, and hopefully we don’t get to meet again, Mr. anti-romantic. Goodbye,” you said as you sent him a fake smile his way.

You pulled on Amelia’s hand before she could say anything and walked out of the dining room without looking back at the boy who was standing in the same place, watching the girl he almost witnessed pass away by choking on coke from him even remotely bringing up sex.

A small chuckle left past his lips as he made his way to the table where his friends were seated.

“Dude, what the fuck happened? Why was that pretty girl coughing like crazy?” Taehyung said, eyeing the door through which you had just left.

Jungkook didn’t know why his heart picked up when his best friend called you pretty. He wasn’t blind; you were beautiful. When he first met you, you both were obviously much younger. If it wasn’t for how much you had grown into your face and the braces you once had were long gone, it would’ve been your aura that gave it away. You were more outspoken, which kinda took him back but sent a sense of excitement through his body.

“No clue. Just some girl I met in my senior year... kinda taken aback I ran into her again,” Jungkook said before picking up the menu from the table, looking for what food he should order. “Maybe it’s fate, bro,” Namjoon teased, which made Jungkook drop his menu on the table.

“You guys know all that shit is bullshit, right? It was just a coincidence. I’ll probably never see her again after this,” Jungkook rolled his eyes, leaning backward onto the booth and crossing his arms in front of him defensively.

“Whatever you say, champion,” Hoseok whistled as he called the waitress.

Jungkook's brain immediately canceled out the noise as he started running through all the possible scenarios that would leave you both at the same place at the same time. His body shook from the possibility of it being fate; he hated the idea of the answer being anything besides actual proven fact. He didn’t care how cynical he might sound; he had trusted so many people in his life, including his parents, who always preached about love and honesty. But flash forward to him having to skip around each house of his parents every weekday and weekend. He hated how he believed them when they said love can get through everything. Absolutely not—divorce.

He just imagined your perfect household, two parents at the same home who still say ‘I love you’ to each other every chance they get. You get to read your books in your living room without a fight breaking out out of nowhere just because someone forgot to throw the trash out.

Love didn’t exist in his eyes. He believed in mutual respect. He doesn’t believe in the whole crazy in love charade. His girlfriend Haneul didn’t really want the whole whispering cute things in each other's ears or dancing under the moon either, and that’s why he chose her.

Plus, he wasn’t an asshole when it came to love when it came to other people. Did he want to ruin their moment and tell them they wouldn’t last? Yes—but he never does.

He saw how broken his mom was after the divorce. He thought about the idea of love and if someone came to love you, you would do anything in your power to not hurt them. It had been five years since his parents’ divorce, and everyone seemed to have moved on perfectly, while Jungkook watched how his perspective of love changed drastically over time.

He was glad that you didn’t have to go through what he had to go through, given your obvious naivety. That was entirely the only reason he shit-talked about love when he first met you, which was the most jackass move he could’ve done, especially after you let him skip the line. But after you told on him to the cashier like a little child, he was thinking of actually tackling you.

Either way, it didn’t matter for him to be worrying or thinking about you in the first place, when he didn’t even know your name. Plus, he would never see you again, that’s for sure.

Present day..

Psychology class was your number one nemesis. You literally begged the counselor to let you have another class that wasn’t psychology. Not only did he laugh, but he said it would do you good. In your mind, he basically called you crazy—maybe you did need the class after all.

As you huffed and puffed to your last class of the day, you fixed your glasses on your face and tightened the high ponytail with the white ribbon that matched the outfit Amelia helped you pick out. You pushed open the door to the class and were greeted by half-empty seats and no professor, giving you the option to choose where you sat.

You were a middle-seat row girl, unable to see far away without your glasses. You also avoided sitting too close to the front, fearing teachers would call on you.

As you took a seat in the chair, a body sat beside you without a word. You didn’t even care to look as you took out your laptop from your backpack, worrying about how this year’s professor might be. You had heard from last year’s students that the teacher might have been the devil’s spawn.

While you were finally seated, you moved your head to your left to see the body next to you engrossed in their phone. Your jaw dropped as you were met with none other than Mr. Anti-Romantic.

“What the actual fuck, are you stalking me or something?” you said, absolutely baffled by how many times you had run into him and from all the empty seats, he decided to sit next to you.

He immediately raised his head from his phone, his eyes widening as he stared at your obviously angry face. “Ribbons? What the actual fuck, I didn’t realize that was you,” he said, throwing his head back in shock.

“You had to know it was me, why else would you sit beside me?” you scoffed, crossing your arms in front of you. He looked the same as the last time you saw him, except now he had a full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm, and the eyebrow piercing was long gone.

Now that he was closer to you, you could see the small mole he had under his lip and the scar on his cheek. His hair was shorter and black, but classroom lights deceived, so maybe it was fully brown, but you didn’t dare to ask.

“Don’t think you’re special, Ribbons. I just can’t see from the back, and in the front, teachers always pick on you to talk in front of the class, and I’m trying to avoid that,” he explained, having the same process as you, but unfortunately, the other half of his brain didn’t process the idea of love.

“Are you sure you have the right class?” you bit out, hoping he had walked into the wrong class and would have to leave immediately. You seriously couldn’t even wrap your head around the fact that he was here and that he went to the same university as you—this being the first time he had seen you around campus.

“Psychology class A65,” he side-eyed you as you rolled your eyes and faced the board, trying your best to ignore his presence.

“You know you can just move to another seat, right?” he said, pointing to all the empty seats beside you. Your head slowly turned to the side to face his face as he gave you a tight-lipped smile.

“Why would I move when I was here first?” you scoffed his way as he shrugged, indicating that he couldn’t care less. “’Cause I truly don’t care, but you obviously seem affected by my presence, so Ribbons, pick your seat,” he pointed to the available seats.

You imagined the easiest way you could kill someone, but tackling him to the ground at this exact moment might bring attention to you both, so you just breathed out of your nose before giving him a fake smile and rolling your eyes.

“I’m not leaving, and for your information, I’m perfectly fine and not bothered by your presence whatsoever,” you said, trying your best to seem as calm and collected as possible.

“For your information…” he mocked beside you, trying to imitate your voice before chuckling. “I swear, Ribbons, I can see smoke coming out of your ears and nose,” he laughed.

“Stop calling me Ribbons,” you gritted your teeth, already at your limit.

“What else do you want me to call you? I don’t know your name, and you’re still wearing ribbons, I can see,” Mr. Anti-Romantic pointed to the white ribbon in your hair. You rolled your eyes before sending his calm, collected figure a scanty smile.

“Y/n,” you said, tilting your head to the side, as if asking him to tell you his name. “I like Mr. Anti-Romantic, not gonna lie,” he bit his lip, trying to contain his laughter as you were about to lose your composure at any moment.

“You aggravate me, and I don’t know why,” you mumbled, hoping he didn’t hear—but he did, loud and clear. “Jeon Jungkook,” he said, and before you could reply, the professor strode in, wearing the weirdest clothes you could imagine.

“She looks like that one crazy Victorious teacher,” he whispered softly, only for you to hear, smugly bending downward so you could hear better. A small laugh left your lips. “Sikowitz?” you whispered back as both of you stared forward at the professor, who was talking about the syllabus. “Yeah, spot the difference: hard level,” he whispered.

You looked down at your hands, trying to hide the amusement on your face.

For the rest of the class, you guys didn’t talk whatsoever, and honestly, you wouldn’t know if he tried, since you were absorbed in whatever Mrs. Calderon was saying.

“So, here’s where you start hating me, I’m giving you guys a project,” she said, leaning on her desk, making the desk creak. You could hear small groans from students around you, but not loud enough for her to hear.

“It will be a partner project, which I chose randomly, and no, I’m not changing them. I want you guys to be able to work with whomever, no matter what,” she said, a sense of dread passing through you.

“I would email each and every one of you what the project is about. It is due at the end of the quarter, so I better not hear, ‘I didn’t have time, Miss,’” Mrs. Calderon said before picking up a sheet of paper.

"Here are the partners, so after class, come and check who your partner is so you can start talking about what you both will do." With that the bell ringing, everyone stood up and rushed to the paper, including yourself. You held tightly onto your backpack strap as you waited for people to move out of the way—half of the people bitched about who they got, they couldn’t possibly be that bad.

Your heart dropped to your ass as you read your name—Jungkook squished beside you, looking for his name, only to find it where your finger was already on.

You got paired up with Jungkook. What kind of fuckery was this?

As Jungkook read "Y/n Y/ln & Jeon Jungkook," he couldn’t believe his eyes. He almost lost his mind when he realized it was you when he sat next to you, but he tried his best to act unaffected. However, this was too much of a "fuck you" sign from the universe—Jungkook didn’t think he did something so horribly to be rewarded like this.

What the fuck were the odds, and how could he scientifically prove that it’s not the universe trying to mess with him?

Taglist💌— @httpjeonlicious @thekookiedealer @somehowukook @taiwan0618 @gwsjungkookie @seokout @sealuv79 @junecat18 @joonsanswer @letjungcoook7 @skzthinker @ahgasegotarmy116recs @ivygguk (I couldn’t add some idk why😓)

[stickandthorn]

The way Terry Pratchett handled police in the Discworld continues to be one of the many, many things I love about his works. I certainly don’t have time to describe all the details of why he wrote such good policing, but I think the best summation of it is the arc that Sam Vimes had in many of the books.

I haven’t read all the watch books, but in the ones I have, there’s often a similar plot structure. We meet a truly detestable criminal Vimes is chasing down (think the Deep Downers in Thud, or Carcer in Night Watch). They show themselves to be truly awful people who do awful things, and they’re also just plain jackasses. They’re characters you hate to read about, the grind the audience’s gears. They also grind Sam Vimes’s gears. 

Throughout the story, they commit more and more crimes. Horrible crimes, like torturing and killing innocent people, or practicing violent religious extremism. They do things that personally target our protagonist, like go after his wife and son, or relentlessly taunt him and try to kill him and his past self. They consistently do bad things, and even as Vimes is chasing them, they do more bad things. You want them to be punished.  Finally, at the climax, we get some sort of final confrontation between the villain(s) and Vimes. In a different book, Vimes might kill the people who sent people to hurt his infant son, or tortured and killed innocent people, and the audience would probably cheer. In fact, Vimes wants to kill them. 

But he doesn’t. Every time, he suppresses the urge to enact his own justice, and he doesn’t kill them. He arrests them. Because, as he says many times, if you’ll do something for a good reason, you’ll do it for a bad. Even when there’s every excuse as to why this particular villain doesn’t deserve to live, he just arrests them. It’s not his job to decide how they should be punished for their crimes.

I think this is a masterful takedown of police brutality and Punisher style characters. Vimes isn’t a perfect person, it’s not that he could never dream of killing the bad guy. He can, and he does, often. But he never follows through, he understands why he can’t do that, so no matter how tempting it is, he doesn’t.

Because in this story, the hard boiled cynical cop truly believes in following the law. The message is always that law enforcement killing a criminal is never ok, even if they’re undeniably guilty of something truly dreadful. Hell, police brutality is personified as a millennia old demonic quasi-deity possessing Vimes, one that’s never been beaten before, but he beats it and doesn’t give in. I think that’s a really unique message in cop stories, and another reason as to why Pratchett was such a good author. 

[queenimmadolla]

Eddie Munson is a CERTIFIED lover boy. He is a cynical, abrasive and theatrical metal nerd, but he is so clearly a lover, and that’s why he’d love you regardless of your aesthetic. Metal head? Great. Girly girl? Spectacular. Tomboy? Amazing. Flamboyant? Astounding. More hip hop based? Hot as hell. Goth? Riveting. Chola like? Incredible. Skater boy? Sensational. Nerd? Phenomenal. Pick-me? Sure, why not…..

The aesthetic is just a plus to him, it doesn’t matter if you match, if you compliment each other, or if you fit some trope, it is not solely the reason he is in love with you. He. Loves. You.

It’s the person wearing the aesthetic that really fucking matters.

[vendetta-if]

Hi! Sorry if you've already answered this but what does each RO feel and think about MC path of either Justice or Revenge? (Heir path)

(Love to see what everyone else thinks as well)

I'm just curious to know what Rin truly thinks about MC going for revenge, because I feel like he's a bit reluctant? But also, an heir to a crime family going for justice? (Giving him over to the police after getting enough evidence to convict him) I can't really see him approve that, either.

I'm also curious of what their "preferred" heir MC is, Ruthless or Merciful, admired or feared etc.

Am definitely curious to know how that affects Ash as well. I love my little psycho MC (Definitely some Jinx vibes going on there) but then I get concerned and worried when I see Ash being like "Whoa, so cool! Never seen a body rain blood before, awesome! Whoo, murder! 🥳"

Then i'm like "Wait... No, this is bad Ash, BAD! Blood rain isn't awesome! It's horrifying! It's literally what happens in the APOCALYPSE! That's it, we're going to have a long talk when we get home about Wrong and Right!"

...then later when she gets her birthday present she'll giddily ask Luka if she can try torturing him too 😭

I feel so conflicted when Ash asks MC about what she will do with the killer... Then says what he wants, which is exactly the same, so I can't really tell him not to do the same... But it makes me so concerned every time, and guilty.

I don't want to bring my sweet, beloved firecracker down and even darker path than the one we're already on 😭

Ash and Rin prefer revenge to justice (letting the justice system do what it was supposed to do a long time ago). Probably because of the families and environment that they’re both raised and live in, they believe retaliation against such personal slight should be taken into their own hands.

However, whereas Ash’s revenge might be explosive and impulsive as they chase the quickest way to personally get their hands on the one who wronged them, Rin’s revenge is cold and calculating.

It’s full of reckoning, scheming, and pulling of strings behind the scenes and they’re content to let others to do the dirty work. They don’t really care about seeing the one who wronged them face-to-face and kill them with their own hands like Ash does.

That doesn’t make their revenge less personal though, and dare I say, sometimes, their revenge ends up being more drawn-out and torturous for the poor schmuck. The true definition of “revenge is a dish best served cold”.

And Rin does prefer Ruthless MC in the sense that they both have a more similar mindset. Of course, they’ll still love Merciful MC the same, but being with such kind MC makes them highly protective of them since they don’t want to see them get hurt or taken advantage of.

They’ll do whatever it takes to keep MC safe behind MC’s back, doing the necessary things that Merciful MC might not have the heart to do themself. Same thing with Ash as well, which is why in the Ash/MC/Rin poly, Ash and Rin will actually become really close and trusted confidantes of each other because they—almost all of the time—have the same mindset and overarching goal.

Santana and Skylar, of course, prefer justice and letting the right people dispense due punishment. Although, a more cynical Santana might not be too opposed to MC having revenge as well since they’ve seen firsthand how corrupt and sometimes incompetent the system is; they can’t really blame MC and the Morozovs to want to take matters into their own hands.

And as for your last sentence about Ash… 🥺 They’ll gladly walk with MC down a darker path. They actually feel they are already walking down that path a long time ago, especially since they accepted working as the Family’s enforcer… 😥

[theogmrpandabear]

“Honestly there’s no point in voting”

Buddy, Pal, Amigo-

Like it or not we are all on a bus headed to go right off a cliff, and voting is the only way to avoid careening off the edge, by either stopping the bus, or slowing it down long enough to find a solution.

Some people will knowingly vote to drive off the cliff. :/

If you, and every other person with your mindset, think it’s ok to abstain from voting it’s the same as voting to go off the cliff and die , because like it or not, the people wanting to drive off the cliff will vote to do so.

Don’t let other people tell you voting doesn’t work or change things, it. does.

We have been so conditioned by false media and propaganda to normalize cynicism in politics that we have come to believe that our choices don’t matter, that our voices shouldn’t be heard, that we should be ok with all the wrong things in our society, and anything or anyone saying otherwise is villainized and stigmatized

And maybe you might have a point in your cynicism, it might really all just be that bad….

but the fact is- would you rather at least TRY and stop the bad things from happening by voting, for your future, for the future of your family and friends, for the sake of being able to say “I Tried.”

Or would you rather just sit back and let the bad things happen because “there’s no point?”

(Don’t forget the big election isn’t the only one that counts, the small elections matter too)

[lampochkaart]

To be honest, I don’t really like fan interpretations that Kokichi figured out almost everything almost from the very beginning.

Yes, he is incredibly smart and calculating, yes, he detects lies really well. But this doesn't mean that he is a thousand times smarter than everyone else and calculates everything almost instantly. He doesn’t show up at every class trial already knowing the killers, he identifies them along with everyone else. There is no reason to believe that he knew the real truth about the outside world from the very beginning. He did not see through Tsumugi's act. He did not reveal the identity of the mastermind. This can literally be known from his board in the room and from Kaito's words. He was only able to figure out one person who, as Kokichi could be 99% sure, was not a mastermind, but this happened almost right before his death.

Kokichi is a few steps ahead of his classmates, but he is not superhuman. He also makes mistakes, he also wonders about what is happening and what to do. This is the reason why he is so interesting. He started in the same place as the others, but through pretty much non-stop work, unique tactics and tricks, he was able to achieve so much. But not everything. He found out all he could, and when he realized he couldn't follow through, he gave everything he had to others. He trusted Kaito with his plan, he left all the information he could gather for Shuichi and others. He passed the baton never reaching the finish line himself.

I don't like it when people say as if he's the only one who knows anything and everyone else are just pawns compared to him. He's not right about absolutely everything. His judgment is full of flaws, he is a cynical pessimist, he does not trust anyone, he does not let anyone get close. Not all of his decisions are correct, his plans don't work out often, he makes mistakes, his conclusions are not always correct. You can’t just turn a blind eye to ALL THIS and present him as an impeccable genius under whose feet everyone else just gets in his way.

Because that's what makes it such a fascinating character. He's right about some things, but is terribly wrong about others. His judgement is very flawed. No matter how hard he tries, he can't figure out and solve everything by himself. He is trying to put much more on his shoulders than he can bear. And fails because of it. And it's one of the most tragic but also infinitely interesting aspects of his character.

[lxmelle]

Gojo’s letter to Megumi.

Guess I had more thoughts on the subject matter... this is part 3!

Since we don’t know what he said to Nobara, but it is implied it isn’t dissimilar to what he wrote for Megumi.

Like many things related to Gojo, the way he showed his feelings for his students has divided some readers.

I think some people struggled with how it was so light-hearted, treating it as if it was dismissive (as part of Gojo’s farewell). Or what it didn’t carry any weight of emotion (to his students, and/or even as a character).

But I kind of disagree that it depicts anything dismissive… I understand it is somewhat disappointing for some who see him as a very emotional & caring sensei. From the POV of what’s characteristic of Gojo, however, it is extremely fitting. It’s very consistent with Gege’s portrayal & what we have seen of Gojo. This is Gege’s character after all. It’s foolish to fight him over his own creation.

Let me put it this way: it had to be light-hearted.

This was always, always Gojo’s way of putting people at ease. Whether it is appropriate or not, this was his way. And some conclude, is also why, Megumi chuckled like that.

Think even in HI, when Gojo got ambushed within the barriers at Jujutsu Tech, he reassured/told Geto: “I’m good, really.” But this really threw him off. The poor kid was sweating profusely against the anomaly that was Toji with no cursed energy, so even with his six eyes, he couldn’t track him well.

Think about this scene where he hides & masks his actual feelings/instincts telling him that something was wrong.

Think about after having to take the life of his best friend that he had wanted to save for years & whom he felt left behind by, but having to be a sensei whom they could all rely on:

I definitely feel that him being goofy was his way of being considerate to his students. So my view doesn’t change from what I wrote about in pt1 & 2.

As an adult who does care, would do for those important to him.

He wanted to reassure everyone. Out of responsibility, as the strongest, retaining his humanity, you know? Love? This was exactly what he learned through his dynamic duo with Geto. This is what you’d expect of your sensei.

Also: How could anyone say farewell, as if they wanted those they leave behind, to hurt? It speaks volumes about Gojo’s character. Geto “joked” albeit cynically at his end. Nobara tried to leave a message that she was ok with it before she thought she was going to die (even if she didn’t). Choso imparted his gratitude for having been able to be a good brother.

Gojo was trying to protect their feelings and youth until the very end. Gojo never talked about how he felt to anyone else besides Geto; this was the entire issue that Shoko had with both Gojo & Geto. This is just fact; demonstrated by the entire convo between him & Geto in ch236.

To Gojo, no more words needed to be said in the letter. It would make his students cry, it would make them more attached to him, etc. Gojo never wanted that. He was never even the kind to be sentimental about things (besides his 青春 / memories of his blue spring of youth).

He was even this way with himself:

“Yeah - it’ll be fine!”

“I’ll win.”

“I can’t feel my cursed energy… this is checkmate…” (but nevermind me) “my six eyes tell me…. …. Who are you?!?”

You get my drift, right? Gojo was very much the kind of person who just keeps marching on. He doesn’t have lingering attachment to anything, including himself, besides his one and only complex <- we know what that is.

But it DOES NOT MEAN HE DID NOT CARE. He just recognised that they needed to let go of him to carry on living. It’s rather selfless and loving if you ask me.

The letter was written as if to say, with a cheerful tone:

It’s okay to let me go.

Because, I am okay to go too.

めんご!