#useless and always will be the same with the same mistakes and issues

[brainmaggotzzzz]

teachers pet

professor!hwang inho x female reader

cw: daddy issues, descriptions of trauma, bullying, age gap, body shaming, reader is said to be 19

(no games au, most likely inho is kinda out of character, slow burn)

requests?:yes!

word count: 14.7k

It wasn’t like you were beaten senseless, starved, or subjected to unspeakable horrors. No, nothing so extreme. Just the occasional slap—one you always deserved, of course. You should have washed the dishes. You should have studied harder. A bad grade, a forgotten chore—each mistake met with a swift hand, a lesson in discipline, nothing more. That wasn’t abuse. That was love.

Daddy dearest only wanted the best for you, wanted you to be diligent, intelligent, pure. That’s why boys were off-limits. And when you defied him? When you dared to seek affection elsewhere? The punishment was swift—a slap across the face, the sting lingering long after the moment passed. The door to your room vanished soon after, stripped away as if privacy itself was a privilege you had yet to earn.

"I do this because I love you, my sweet Y/N," he murmured, brushing away the tears that spilled from your burning-red cheek. His touch, almost tender. His gaze, almost affectionate. A man of contradictions—cruelty and kindness woven together so seamlessly that even you couldn’t untangle them. Perhaps he did love you, in his own twisted way. Perhaps he believed his methods were justified.

And you? You were obsessed. Obsessed with earning his approval, his validation—his rare and conditional love. It became your full-time job. During "work hours," you performed flawlessly: straight A’s, disciplined behavior, a carefully curated indifference toward romance. But when the shift ended? When the weight of his expectations momentarily lifted? You slipped out through your window, into the night, into a world that didn’t demand perfection. You went on dates, you kissed boys who whispered the sweet words you ached to hear. And every time, you let yourself believe in them. And every time, you were left with nothing but heartbreak.

◇

You applied to countless colleges, but in the end, Daddy dearest made the choice for you—only the finest institutions, of course. After all, you had excelled in your final exams, just as he had demanded. For the past year, he had ruled over you with an iron fist, his words sharp and unforgiving. Every evening, he loomed over your desk as you studied, reminding you—no, drilling into you—that without a prestigious degree, you would become nothing. A failure. A stupid, useless whore, just like your mother.

And he had been right about Mom, hadn’t he? She had abandoned you for some pathetic man she met online, never once looking back. Sure, she had written letters—fragile attempts at connection—but they never reached you. The moment he spotted them in the mailbox, his lips curled into something resembling a smile as he casually crumpled the paper, discarding it like trash.

"She's a drug addict, probably living in some crackhouse now, my little Y/N," he had said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She probably just wants to beg you for money. Let's not waste time on her idiotic mail." His large hand patted your head, the gesture almost affectionate.

"But—" you had started, your voice small, uncertain.

He silenced you with a single glance. "See? That’s what happens when you leave me. When you stop listening. Look at what she became. You don’t want to end up like her, do you?"

You forced a small, obedient smile, nodding. Trying to believe him. Wanting to believe him. Because the alternative—the thought that your mother had truly wanted to reach you, that she had never stopped thinking about you—was too painful to bear.

His gaze flickered down, scanning your figure with the same calculating eyes he used when assessing your report cards.

"You’ve gained weight," he remarked, almost offhandedly, but his voice carried a quiet edge, a thinly veiled disgust. "You wouldn’t want to be a fat pig at college, would you? But I suppose with your mother’s genetics, it’s inevitable."

His expression twisted into something unreadable. Almost concern—but not quite. No, that wasn’t concern. It was something colder. A quiet, meticulous chipping away at whatever confidence you had managed to salvage. Because even after acing your exams, after sacrificing sleep, after giving every ounce of yourself to meet his impossible expectations, you still weren’t enough. You never would be.

The approval he had granted you, fleeting and conditional, had already evaporated, replaced by yet another flaw for him to carve into. Another piece of you to dismantle.

But still, you craved it. His validation. His love—if you could even call it that. It was a hunger that never dulled.

"I'll lose weight, Daddy," you whispered, offering him a faint, fragile smile. Hoping, just this once, it would be enough.

◇

You got in. The best university in the entire country—a crown jewel of academia. The campus was breathtaking, almost unreal, like it belonged in a movie. Ivy-covered buildings, sun-drenched courtyards, students who were not only brilliant but effortlessly beautiful. Professors whose names echoed in academic journals, whose brilliance seemed to radiate from their very presence. And the parties—wild, glittering affairs that spilled into the early hours, promising release, rebellion, and belonging.

But you felt like a ghost drifting through it all. An impostor wearing someone else’s skin. As if your acceptance had been a clerical error, a slip in the system. Like you didn’t belong here, hadn’t truly earned your place, even though you had bled for those grades, sacrificed every piece of yourself to get in. The thought haunted you: This place is too good for me.

You just wanted to be liked. Wanted people to smile when you entered the room, to feel wanted, to matter. Even if it meant whittling yourself down to a version of you that didn’t feel like you at all. Your preferences, your personality, your voice—they blurred and shifted, rearranged themselves depending on who was watching. You became fluid, formless. A mirror reflecting whatever the people around you wanted to see.

So you danced to music that grated your nerves. Laughed at jokes that didn’t make sense to you. Drank things that tasted like poison. None of it mattered—what mattered was the approval, the acceptance, the feeling of finally being enough.

Your existence was almost entirely performative. You wore masks like second skin—smiling when you wanted to scream, nodding when you wanted to vanish. It was muscle memory by now, born from years of rehearsing the role of the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect nothing.

But there was one place, one hour in your carefully curated schedule, where something real slipped through the cracks. Literature class.

It wasn’t just a class—it was a sanctuary. A place where your voice, long silenced by your father’s rigid expectations, finally had room to breathe. Where your thoughts weren’t graded against how obedient or pure or presentable they were, but by how honest, how insightful, how yours they felt. You wrote review essays that dug into the marrow of the texts, not because you were supposed to—but because, for once, you wanted to say something. You wrote short stories with a voice you didn’t even know you had, and in those pages, you found slivers of the self you’d buried under years of silence and compliance.

And then there was Professor Hwang.

Stern. Disciplined. Controlled. He ran the classroom like a ship’s deck—there was no room for mediocrity, no tolerance for laziness, no softened edges. His feedback was brutal in its honesty, but fair. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t fawn. And that only made you want his praise more.

At first, it was purely academic. But the need for his approval began to feel familiar—uncomfortably so. Not like the way you sought to be liked at parties, or the way you’d contort yourself to be desired. No, this was deeper. Older.

You wanted him to see you. Not as a girl. Not even as a student. But as someone worthy. Someone with a mind that mattered. Someone who could impress him.

Every time he underlined a sentence and scribbled a restrained “good insight,” your heart ached in a way you knew too well. The way it did when your father used to glance at your report card, nod stiffly, and mutter, “Finally doing something right.” You told yourself this was different—but it wasn’t. Not entirely.

Because you weren’t just craving academic validation. You were chasing the ghost of a father who taught you love had to be earned. That you were never enough until he said so. And now, you were chasing that same impossible feeling—through red ink and curt nods, through the quiet dignity of a man who would never give affection freely, but might just give you respect if you proved yourself enough times.

“I just want him to like my writing,” you told yourself. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about the writing. It was about being seen. It was about being good enough for someone.

And that hunger—it never really left.

◇

“Good job, as per usual.”

Professor Hwang handed you your graded essay without so much as a glance. His voice was even, expression unreadable, his hand steady as he moved down the row. But the moment the paper touched your desk—his handwriting scrawled across the top in red ink, those simple words—Good job—your chest swelled with something dangerously close to euphoria.

You felt weightless. Dizzy. High. As if you'd inhaled something sweet and rare. That brief moment—barely two seconds of acknowledgment—meant more than it should have. He hadn’t even looked at you, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t done anything, really. But it didn’t matter. You were seen. Not for your face, not for your social status, not for how well you performed obedience—but for your mind.

And that meant everything.

You watched him move down the row, his long strides measured and composed, his sharp profile calm with quiet confidence. He carried himself with purpose, intellect radiating from every movement, and you found yourself unable to look away. You studied the furrow between his brows, the set of his jaw, the way he paused just briefly between students—efficient, no wasted energy. A man who didn’t indulge in softness, who didn’t offer approval freely.

Which made it all the more intoxicating when he gave it to you.

You were so deep in it—so completely absorbed in watching him—that you barely registered your friend’s voice beside you.

“Y/N?” she snapped her fingers in front of your face. “Hello? Gosh, I’m talking to you.”

You blinked, shaken out of your haze, and turned to her. She was pouting, her essay crumpled in her manicured hand. “I didn’t pass again. This is some fucking bullshit.”

You gave her a soft, practiced smile, slipping easily back into your usual role. The supportive friend. The fixer.

“It’ll be alright,” you said gently. “We’ve got another essay due Tuesday, and I’m sure you’ll do great on that one.”

She tilted her head, eyes suddenly wide and sweet with that familiar, calculated look. “Can you help me?”

There it was again—that smile. The one that had you doing most of her coursework in exchange for proximity to her world. She was popular, magnetic. Everyone wanted to be around her, to orbit her light. And because you were her right hand, you were seen, known, accepted. Not fully. Not truly. But enough.

It was a trade—you offered your intellect, your time, your energy, and in return, you got a borrowed kind of status. People greeted you in hallways. You were invited to parties. You were liked.

And that mattered. Maybe too much.

“Of course,” you said, smiling again. Always smiling.

You handed her your paper. You’d help her. You always did. Because performing was second nature now—whether for a professor’s approval or a friend’s affection. And as long as someone, anyone, kept saying “good job,” you could keep pretending it was enough.

◇

“Hey, Y/N.”

Seojin barely glanced up as she spoke, her attention fixed on the small compact mirror she held in one hand, the other delicately gliding lip gloss across her already perfectly painted lips.

You walked over to the library table she had claimed as her personal throne, offering a soft, practiced smile as you adjusted the strap of your bag. “Hi, Seojin.”

Sliding into the seat across from her, you cleared your throat, voice light but tentative. “So... you said you needed help writing the essay? Which book did you pick?”

She didn’t look up. She was too busy smacking her lips, checking the shine. “I didn’t really pick one yet,” she muttered. Then, a beat later, “Oh! Maybe we could do it on... ugh, I don’t know... Harry Potter?”

You blinked. “The prompt is about character transformations, sure, but... it had to be a book published in the 1950s,” you said, offering a small, polite laugh. You hated correcting her.

Seojin groaned dramatically, finally tossing the mirror into her designer tote. “Gosh, does he always have to give us such specific criteria? Like, who does he think he is?” she grumbled, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, looking as if she were personally offended by academia itself.

You gave her a small smile, trying to keep the edge of exasperation from showing. “Maybe Lolita could work? It was published in ’55, and the psychological complexity is—”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, that love story!”

You flinched, your stomach knotting. “It’s... not a love story,” you corrected gently, voice quieter now. “Even Nabokov said it’s a psychological horror, not a romance.”

“Whatever,” she interrupted flatly, already bored of the conversation. “How long do you think it’ll take you to write it?”

You hesitated. “I was thinking... maybe we could write it together? Mr. Hwang’s super analytical, not like other professors. He’ll know if it’s not your voice.” Your words were careful, deliberate. You were trying to plant the seed of effort, of ownership, without sounding accusatory.

Finally, Seojin looked at you. Her wide, doll-like eyes softened into something that mimicked vulnerability. “Y/N,” she said, dragging out your name like a plea, “please? Just this once. You’re such a good friend, okay?” Her voice was syrupy, sweet, her expression dipped in practiced desperation.

You looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, you felt the sting of being used. Of being convenient. But the weight of her words settled like a chain around your neck. Good friend. That’s what you were supposed to be, right? Helpful. Reliable. Quiet.

Just like you were with your father.

You felt yourself folding again, like paper.

“Fine,” you said softly, your smile mechanical.

Because being needed—even for the wrong reasons—still felt better than not being seen at all.

◇

Mr. Hwang moved down the aisle with his usual calm precision, a stack of graded essays in hand. He didn’t pause, didn’t even look at you when he placed the crisp paper onto your desk—your name written neatly in the corner, an A circled in bold red ink near the top.

Your heart fluttered with quiet pride, your fingers brushing over the grade like it might vanish. But the warmth of that triumph evaporated the second you glanced at Seojin.

Her eyes sparkled, lips already curled into a grin as she flipped her essay over, no doubt expecting praise. The smile vanished.

F.

Her whole face changed—her brow twitched ever so slightly, lips pressing into a hard, thin line. She stared at the grade as if it were a personal betrayal, her jaw locked tight.

Your stomach dropped.

“You two,” Mr. Hwang’s voice rang out flatly, cool and commanding, “stay after class.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just moved on, handing back the rest of the essays like nothing happened.

Seojin didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. But the air around her turned to ice. She didn’t look at you until the moment Mr. Hwang passed her by. And when she did, it was with fury beneath a thin mask of calm. Her anger simmered just beneath her flawlessly applied makeup, rage flickering behind her big, empty lashes.

“You fucking bitch,” she hissed, low and venomous. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted me to fail, wrote some pretentious bullshit so I’d get embarrassed. I should’ve known you were fucking useless.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No—Seojin—I didn’t—I swear I tried my best,” you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. Your voice cracked, small and shaky. Panic bloomed in your chest like fire. You felt like a little girl again, fumbling for a defense while someone older and louder ripped the ground from beneath your feet.

She scoffed. Loud enough to draw a glance from the next table over. “Shut your traitor ass up. You’re done for here.”

You swallowed hard, your body stiff with shame. The rest of the class blurred, every tick of the clock louder than Mr. Hwang’s lecture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe. Your fingers clenched and unclenched in your lap. Every shift of Seojin beside you felt like a warning. You barely blinked, afraid that if you did, the walls would close in.

◇

After class, the door shut quietly behind the last student.

“So, what’s wrong with my essay?” Seojin demanded, arms crossed, her voice like a whip crack.

Mr. Hwang stood near his desk, his posture calm, precise. He clasped his hands behind his back, his tailored suit perfectly in place, his gaze cold.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to the paper in his hand and read aloud, voice smooth and precise:

‘Her transformation is not a blossoming, but a decay—Lolita, twisted into a caricature of innocence, becomes both victim and symbol, and yet never loses the ghost of the child she was forced to leave behind.’

“A terrific essay,” he added, tone still even. “Truly, one of the best I’ve read in years.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands twisting in the hem of your sweater. The compliment sent a flicker of warmth through you—but it was poisoned by the context.

“So what’s the problem, huh?” Seojin snapped, her jaw tense, arms tightening across her chest.

“The problem, Miss Kang,” he said coolly, “is that this isn’t your work.”

“Yes it is!” she spat, stepping forward, her posture tense like a coil. “Y/N, say it. Admit that it’s mine!”

Her eyes twitched with desperation, her voice cracking.

You looked at her, then at Mr. Hwang, then down at the floor. Something inside you broke a little.

“...It’s hers,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Mr. Hwang said nothing at first. He only nodded slightly. “Very well,” he murmured, stepping closer to the desk. “Then, Miss Kang, since it’s yours—you’ll have no trouble defining the word ‘ephemerality,’ which you used with such elegance in your second paragraph.”

The room went silent.

Her smile faltered. Her eye twitched again. She said nothing.

“This tells me everything I need to know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Please leave. I will raise the issue with the academic board.”

Seojin turned on you, her fury now untethered. “This is your fault!” she seethed, jabbing her finger into your shoulder. You flinched, tension locking up every part of your body. Her perfectly sculpted expression was twisted with pure loathing.

She stormed out, designer bag swinging angrily at her side.

You took a step to follow, your legs numb.

“Not you, Miss L/N,” Mr. Hwang said, his voice cutting clean through your daze. “I’d like a word.”

Your blood ran cold. For a moment you just stood in silence, before silently walking closer to the professor.

"I'm very disappointed, Miss L/N."

His voice was steady, measured—devoid of anger, but somehow that made it worse. His expression remained unreadable, composed like always. But to you, it felt like a thousand silent reprimands.

"From a bright mind which I presumed yours to be," he continued, calmly folding his arms behind his back, "I expected wiser actions."

You felt something sink deep inside you. That one word—disappointed—struck harder than any insult, any grade, any punishment ever could. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, gripping the hem of your sleeve.

You had disappointed him.

The man whose rare nods and quiet praise had meant more to you than any applause. The only adult who made you feel seen, not as a doll molded by expectation, but as someone capable.

“I-I apologize,” you stammered, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. You didn’t deserve to.

“I just wanted to help her,” you added, almost defensively, though your voice cracked by the end of it.

One of his eyebrows lifted subtly. “You should think more of helping yourself,” he said, voice unflinching. “Your little antic nearly landed you on the path to academic expulsion.”

You flinched at the word expulsion. Your heart thudded dully in your chest.

“I know,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry. I—I did wrong.” Then, with a nervous bow of your head, “Thank you for… appreciating my essays.” You turned, already walking toward the door. His presence made you feel too exposed. Too small. And he was always so stern—so no-nonsense—that it seemed futile to even ask for mercy.

But his voice stopped you cold.

“Not so quick.”

You turned around, startled, clutching your bag tighter. He was watching you now, one brow slightly raised. “Aren’t you going to at least try to fight for your deserved spot here?”

You blinked, stunned.

Why would you?

You’d failed him. Let your “friend” down—if Seojin could even be called that. And socially? You were already dead. Word would spread. You could see the whispers starting, the side-eyes, the snickering in class. And then—your father. If he found out… no, when he found out… you’d be as good as buried.

So you laughed. Just a soft, cracked sound. Self-deprecating. Hollow. “I’m done for anyway, Professor.”

He didn’t return your smile.

“Not necessarily,” he said, still measured, still calm—but something in his voice carried weight. Possibility. A thread of hope, tightly wound in control. “I haven’t brought the matter to the academic board. Not yet.”

You blinked. “…You haven’t?”

“No,” he said simply. “Because there’s one way you can redeem yourself.”

Your eyes widened slightly. A flicker of something returned to your posture—hope, fear, disbelief.

“H-how?”

“There will be a literature and writing competition hosted by the university and its partners,” he explained, his tone firm but not unkind. “A prestigious event. You’ll be given a prompt and expected to craft a sophisticated essay or analysis on the spot, drawing from a selection of fifteen pre-assigned texts. The book will be chosen for you at random. It’s intense. Demanding. Only a handful of students qualify.”

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry.

“I believe,” he said, pausing deliberately, “you’re the best student I can sign up for it. And the only one I’m willing to personally mentor through the preparation process.”

Your heart pounded.

He believed in you. After all this. After you’d fumbled, compromised yourself—he still saw something worth salvaging.

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away.

You’d chased your father’s validation for years like a lost child wandering an empty hallway. But this—this was different. Mr. Hwang’s validation didn’t come with conditions. It wasn’t twisted with cruelty or control. It was offered in the form of challenge, belief, and discipline.

And suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to prove him right.

“…I’ll do it,” you said softly, a new resolve weaving into your voice. “I won’t let you down.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable. Then he nodded, once.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll send you the reading list tonight. We begin Monday.”

◇

You walked through campus with a small, flickering smile tugging at your lips. The trees swayed gently under the weight of golden afternoon light, and for once, the breeze didn’t feel cold. Your thoughts danced around books and prompts, essay structures and literary symbolism. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you had a direction—like you had something to prove that wasn't rooted in desperation but in purpose.

You were going to make Mr. Hwang proud. You were going to redeem yourself.

And thankfully, when you returned to your dorm, you wouldn’t have to see Seojin’s smug face or anyone else from that so-called friend group—a group that only ever loved you in exchange for something. Help. Compliance. Silence.

But just as your foot hovered over the threshold of your dorm building, a sharp tug yanked you backward by the wrist.

Your breath caught in your throat as your body twisted to face her.

Seojin.

Lip gloss perfect. Nails razor-sharp. Eyes dark with rage.

“You little backstabbing bitch,” she hissed, her grip tightening.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Let go of me,” you said, voice trembling, but not weak.

She didn’t.

“You made me look like an idiot,” she snapped. “You set me up. I should’ve known better than to trust some pathetic nobody with daddy issues and a victim complex.”

The words landed like darts. And yet, they didn’t surprise you. Not really.

Your throat tightened. That smile you’d worn just minutes ago had long since vanished.

“I tried to help you,” you shot back, voice sharp with something unfamiliar—defensiveness, maybe. Dignity, even. “I stayed up all night writing that essay. You didn’t even read it.”

“I don’t need to read your boring-ass essays,” she snapped. “I needed you to make me look good. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

A wave of shame flooded you—but beneath it, something stirred. Something angrier.

“I’ve done everything for you,” you said, barely above a whisper, but the words came out jagged. “You needed notes, I gave them. You needed answers during tests, I whispered them. You needed someone to do your work, I was stupid enough to say yes.”

She blinked, caught off guard for half a second. But her face twisted again.

“You always acted like you were just so grateful to be around me,” she sneered. “Don't act high and mighty now. You were nothing without me. You still are.”

You inhaled sharply.

That old voice in your head—the one that sounded like your father’s—wanted to agree with her. She’s right. You are nothing. A shadow. An imposter. A weak, needy little thing.

But now… now there was something else inside you. Something that had been watered in the cracks of Mr. Hwang’s classroom. In the underline of a “well done.” In the idea that maybe, just maybe, your thoughts had value beyond how well they pleased others.

“I’d rather be nothing on my own than a empty, shallow specimen of a human being like yourself” you said, voice shaking, but clear.

Her nostrils flared. Her eyes widened. Before you knew it, a sharp slap met your cheek.

◇

A whole week had passed since you made the decision—no, the devotion—to study for the contest. And every single evening  since, you had spent hunched over books and essays in Mr. Hwang’s office or the dim university library, those were your outside class preparation sessions.

The campus halls had grown colder, not literally, but in the way eyes glanced past you now. The whispers that once clung to your footsteps like perfume had turned sour. The same people who once called you “sweet” or “genius” now muttered traitor, desperate, attention whore.

You didn’t care anymore.

Because you’d rerouted your hunger—for love, for attention, for worth. You no longer scattered it across campus, or threw it like pennies into a social fountain. You’d honed it. Sharpened it. Aimed it entirely at one person.

Mr. Hwang.

Because he saw you.

And that was all you needed.

His attention wasn't like the fleeting friendships, or that affection you would get from boys back "home", not even your father's conditional approval. It felt grounding. Like worship. Like every sentence you wrote existed for him to read, underline, and silently nod at.

And tonight, he sat across from you in the quiet office, reading your preparation essay with that same piercing stillness he always had. The harsh fluorescent light above cast shadows under his eyes, made the stern lines of his face sharper. There was no softness in him—but God, didn’t that make your craving for his approval even worse?

He turned the page with elegant precision, his eyes scanning your words. Then he paused.

“‘It is not the monster in the forest they fear most, but the part of themselves that would welcome the beast as a savior.’” he read aloud, his voice low, deliberate.

He looked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “That line… it’s particularly well written. And your insight is uncommon. But I can’t help but wonder—what exactly do you mean by that?”

You blinked, then allowed the smallest, sly smile to tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you began, voice casual but calculated, “sometimes survival looks an awful lot like surrender. And monsters? They usually wear the face of someone offering a solution.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then something shifted in his face—barely perceptible, but there. A soft twitch in the corner of his lips.

A smirk.

Fleeting. Rare.

But it was there.

“Interesting,” he said simply, returning to the page, though you swore you saw his gaze linger just a second too long.

Your stomach flipped—not with fear, not quite with thrill, but something in between. That small reaction from him had lit you up more than any compliment you’d ever received. And you weren’t sure what disturbed you more: how good it felt… or how badly you wanted to earn more.

◇

"My sweet Y/N,"

"I miss you every day. I wish I could’ve been better to you. I wish I could go back in time and take you away with me from that manipulative monster."

"I know you probably don’t want to speak to me, since you never responded to any of my previous letters..."

"I found out you got into a great college. I’m so proud of you."

"But I wish you could know—really know—that no matter what he told you, I always loved you. And I always will. My door is open for you, anytime. I’d love for you to meet my family. Me and my partner are having our second baby soon. How exciting!"

"Love, Mom."

You clutched the letter in your sweaty palms, the edges bending under the pressure of your grip. Your eyes were burning. You weren’t sure if it was grief or rage. Maybe both.

So she wasn’t a junkie.

She wasn’t living in a crackhouse like your father used to say, smugly, as he tossed her letters into the trash with a patronizing pat on your head.

And still, instead of relief, it stung.

She had a family. She had another child. Another child she gets to raise, to tuck in at night, to protect. You were the forgotten draft, a false start. You weren’t invited back into her life. You were invited to witness it.

She built a life without you.

And now, she reached out like it was easy. Like the years didn’t leave a scar.

Bitterness curdled in your stomach. You didn’t cry. You just... grabbed your pen.

You needed to bleed onto paper. To scream in ink. To claw your way out of that bitter void you’d been dropped into again.

The next assignment was open topic. Anything that explored mother-daughter relationships.

How fitting.

You chose a lesser-known novel, White Oleander, not the easiest read. Dark, poetic, layered with themes of toxic maternal bonds, abandonment, and emotional survival. It resonated deeply.

This time, you didn’t plan every word like a chess game. You didn’t even edit. You wrote. Pen scratching hard enough to almost pierce the page, the rhythm desperate, like your hands were working faster than your brain could even catch up. And when you were done... it was raw. Ugly. Beautiful.

◇

The next day, Mr. Hwang sat across from you, your essay in hand. His eyes scanned it in silence, his expression unreadable, as always. You waited—nervous, but a bit proud. This was different than your usual writing. This was you, naked on the page.

Finally, he looked up.

"Interesting," he said, tapping the corner of the paper. “Your word choices carry emotional intensity. The novel you selected—ambitious. White Oleander, not commonly chosen, but it demands emotional courage. I’m impressed."

He paused, then flipped to a highlighted paragraph, reading it out loud.

“‘It is easier to hate a mother who hits you than one who kisses you goodbye and never comes back.’”

His eyes didn’t leave the page. “Your insight into the mother’s abandonment… It’s as though you experienced it yourself. Many would argue that the mother is the sole villain, but you managed to... soften that verdict. You explored the daughter’s pain without sacrificing complexity.”

You didn’t mean to speak aloud. You didn’t even know the words were forming in your throat.

“Takes one to know one,” you murmured bitterly.

He raised his head slowly, brow lifting. “I’m sorry?” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it held weight.

You blinked rapidly. “Nothing. I'm sorry, Professor. I got distracted.”

A blush crept up your neck. You hated how exposed you felt. You wanted to crawl back into your mind and slam the door shut.

But then, as if pulled into his own thoughts, he stood from his chair and paced slowly toward the window, his arms crossed loosely. His gaze fixed somewhere outside.

“Miss L/N,” he said thoughtfully, “writing is an art form. And you know what they often say to painters?”

You looked up. “Paint what—”

He didn’t even have to finish.

“—Paint what you know,” you said, completing it softly.

He turned his head and gave you something so rare you almost didn’t recognize it: a ghost of a smile. Not quite pride. Not quite amusement. Just… quiet acknowledgment.

“Van Gogh painted from the raw chaos of his life. Frida Kahlo laid her suffering bare in brushstrokes. The list goes on. Your canvas is paper—and I, personally, would be very curious to see what you write... not about others. But about yourself. The kind of writing that doesn’t just analyze—but reveals. Unapologetically.”

You blinked at him, unsure if your heart was pounding out of anxiety or... something else. Your fingers twitched over your notebook.

He took a few slow steps towards you.

“I believe you have potential,” he said finally, voice steady, low. “The kind of potential that others one day analyze. Not the other way around.”

It was the highest praise you'd ever received. But it wasn’t just that. It was him saying it. And it felt like something dangerous blossomed quietly in your chest.

You swallowed, hard.

“Then I’ll try to write it,” you said softly, eyes meeting his.

“No,” he corrected, his voice firm but not unkind. “You will.”

◇

Something had shifted.

You didn’t just crave his academic praise anymore. You didn’t just want to be the perfect little student, the bright mind he guided and mentored. No—now you wanted him to see you. Really see you. As something more than a grade on paper. Something more than a pair of eyes across the desk.

So, today, you chose a short skirt—the one that accentuated the shape of your legs—and a fitted top that traced your waist like it was designed to worship it. It was subtle enough not to scream for attention, but deliberate enough that it whispered: look at me.

Your father’s voice had long ago sunk its venom into your self-worth. The way he used to dissect your appearance with a bitter tongue—too much this, not enough that—had left cracks in your mirror. But today, when you passed your reflection, you didn’t flinch. Because even with those words echoing from the past, the truth stood firm: you were beautiful.

And not just beautiful. Powerful.

You walked into class like you weren’t still haunted. Like your reputation wasn’t shredded by the likes of Seojin and her clique. The very same people who spray-painted snake across your dorm door, who left gum in your books and whispered behind your back.

But now?

Now, they looked.

Even the ones who mocked you days ago went silent when you walked by. Some stared. Some murmured. One even whistled low under his breath.

It was empowering. But still—it wasn’t for them.

You only wanted one person to look, you wanted him to notice- the same way you noticed how he doesn't have a ring on his finger.

You took your usual seat, not too far from the front, where you could observe Mr. Hwang with ease. Your pen danced across your notebook, dutiful and precise—but your eyes… they were on him.

The way he spoke about literature with such calm conviction, the way he would walk slowly across the classroom as if his thoughts guided his steps—the way his hands moved while he explained a passage from Crime and Punishment, the way his fingers tapped on the edge of the podium as he paused, choosing his words—

And then, his gaze flicked up. Just for a moment.

He looked at you.

Not at the class. Not past you. At you.

And then, just as quickly, he broke eye contact, returning to his notes.

But your heart didn’t care. It noticed. And it raced, cheeks warm, knees weak beneath the desk.

You couldn’t wait for your next prep session with him. Alone. Close. Seen.

You were still staring, maybe a little too dreamily, when a soft voice cut through the air near your ear.

"You really think that tight little outfit’s gonna make him want you?” Seojin whispered venomously from behind, her lips barely moving.

You flinched—not from fear, but rage. She said it with a fake smile plastered on her face, eyes still on the board. The casual cruelty of it made your skin crawl.

You didn’t look back at her. But your hand gripped your pen tighter.

No. You didn’t dress for him to want you. You dressed to remind yourself that you were not small. Not weak. Not invisible.

You were reclaiming the attention that had been taken from you—by your father’s contempt, by your mother’s absence, by the lies, the abandonment, the betrayal.

And if Mr. Hwang’s eyes lingered just a little longer next time—

Maybe you'd finally believe you were worth being looked at.

◇

For the contest preparation that day, you handed Professor Hwang an essay on 1984 by George Orwell.

It was sharp. Bold. Personal in the way only veiled honesty can be.

You wrote about Big Brother—not just as a symbol of authoritarian control—but as a metaphor for a kind of father. The kind that watches, dictates, rewrites your reality until you question your own perception. You drew subtle but aching parallels between the constant surveillance in 1984 and the way it feels to grow up in the home of a controlling, emotionally abusive parent.

And then, without explicitly stating it, you explored something darker:

The phenomenon of learning to love the one who hurts you. Of finding comfort in structure, in being watched, in craving approval from the very source of your fear.

Because if Big Brother saw you… then maybe you mattered.

Mr. Hwang sat across from you in his chair, reading slowly. His brow furrowed once. Then twice. He hummed lowly, nodding as he took it in, his fingers moving slightly along the bottom edge of the paper.

Then he tapped one part gently.

“The child who is raised to fear being unloved learns to chase approval like oxygen. She’ll fold herself into the shapes her father finds acceptable, blur the line between obedience and devotion, until even in adulthood, she’ll mistake power for protection—and authority for affection. That is how Big Brother becomes love.”

"This part is especially good," he said, eyes still on the paper, voice almost quiet. "It reads less like literary analysis and more like emotional archaeology."

You smiled softly, warmth spreading up your spine. “Thank you, Professor.” You felt like something inside you had just been acknowledged—not just your mind, but your pain, your effort, your truth.

He looked up. “Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”

Your smile widened slightly. Giddy, even. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and shifted in your seat, heart doing quiet flips.

“Now,” he said, adjusting his position. “I’d like to try something new with you today.”

Your brows raised. “New?”

He nodded, placing your essay gently aside. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’ll provide you a prompt. And I want you to free write. No books. No citations. Just you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t scratch anything out. Let the words come as they want to.”

You looked at him, slightly caught off guard. Your fingers instinctively went to the corner of your notebook.

“Are you up for it?” he asked, and the smallest smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

“Yes,” you whispered, a little breathlessly.

He didn’t break eye contact. “Your prompt is…” he paused, his gaze steady, piercing. “The result in young women of being subjected to emotional abuse from an early age.”

Your throat tightened. Your fingers clutched your pen.

Of course.

Of course he figured it out. He didn’t just read between the lines of your essays—he read you. It almost felt cruel. Or maybe it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you. Given you the space to tell your story and then asked for more.

You stared at the blank page. The words didn’t hesitate. They bled.

You wrote about how it starts with walking on eggshells. About how silence becomes a kind of language. How you learn to smile before you cry. How your identity becomes so rooted in being what someone else needs that you forget what you need.

You wrote about people-pleasing. About the terror of disappointing someone. About how compliments make you squirm because you don’t trust them, but criticism feels like home.

You wrote about flinching at raised voices and melting at crumbs of attention. About becoming a chameleon, about being terrified of being too much and not enough at the same time.

You hadn’t meant to mention your father. You really hadn’t. But the words had minds of their own. And there it was:

“My father didn’t just control the house, he controlled my reflection. I learned to only see myself through his eyes.”

Your pen hovered. You panicked. You were about to cross it out.

And just then, Professor Hwang’s voice came, smooth and soft like velvet rope:

“Tsk, tsk. No crossing out.”

You froze, eyes darting up. He’d been watching you. You didn’t even realize. Not just watching—but observing. Studying you with the same intensity you gave to books.

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable but not unkind. “Every time you hesitate to express yourself… you censor something that someone else might’ve needed to read.”

Fifteen minutes passed.

You didn’t even hear the clock ticking. You didn’t feel the pen in your hand anymore. Just the hollow ache in your chest that finally had words.

You stopped writing only when Mr. Hwang reached for the paper, his fingers grazing the edge. Your pulse jumped slightly at the contact. You looked up—he wasn’t smiling. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes scanning rapidly.

He read in silence. You stared at the floor.

Then, finally, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the page. “This is… honest,” he said, slowly. “More than I expected.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to.

He shifted his gaze to you, something in his eyes different. “The part where you described yourself as ‘someone who only recognizes her own reflection in how others see her’—that was…” He hesitated. “Unsettling. And beautiful.”

Your stomach flipped. “I wasn’t trying to make it poetic,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “It just… came out.”

“That’s when writing’s best,” he said softly, “when you’re not trying.”

He let out a breath and sat up straighter, placing the paper carefully in front of him. “You’re carrying a lot, Miss L/N.”

You shrugged, feeling exposed, embarrassed. “So are a lot of people.”

“True. But most don’t bleed it onto paper this clearly.”

You looked at him finally, your eyes meeting his, and it hit you that he wasn’t just impressed—he was moved. The kind of moved that unsettles even the person feeling it.

He studied your face like it was another page he had to analyze.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” you said after a pause, “if it was too much.”

“No,” he said immediately. “No, it wasn’t too much.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, the space between you suddenly feeling… smaller. “If anything, it made me wonder—”

He stopped.

You tilted your head. “Wonder what?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he glanced at the clock—as if suddenly aware of how much time had passed. “What kind of woman you’ll become if you keep writing like this.”

You swallowed. His voice was low. Intimate in its stillness.

“I think… I already know what kind of woman I am,” you said, something defiant under your breath.

He looked at you, more serious now. “No,” he said gently. “You know what kind of girl the world made you into. But you haven’t yet figured out the kind of woman you want to be.”

That struck something in you.

You weren’t sure what it was that shifted in that moment. Maybe it was the softness in his tone. The way he wasn’t just your professor right then. He wasn’t standing above you. He wasn’t lecturing. He was seeing you.

And you?

You were staring at his mouth when he said it. You were imagining how close you were. You were aware of the heat between you both and the way it felt safe and dangerous all at once.

You quickly looked back down at your notebook.

But something had sparked.

You both felt it. And neither of you said a word.

Not yet.

◇

It was a Friday night. The campus was nearly a ghost town—deserted dorm hallways, muffled bass of some party echoing from the far end of the grounds, and laughter trailing off into the cold air. Most students were out getting drunk, hooking up, or lounging with friends they’d had since orientation. Not you.

But that didn’t bother you anymore.

You had spent too long trying to fit into boxes that were never meant for you, into conversations that drained your soul, and into friendships that weren’t really friendships at all—just a desperate attempt to be liked. To be wanted. You once let them mold you into what they needed. But now?

Now, you were alone. And it didn’t feel like loneliness.

You were sitting on a bench in the quiet campus garden, beneath the yellow glow of a large street lamp that flickered ever so slightly. Its warm light fell over your lap, illuminating the worn pages of the book you were almost finished with—the last book on the contest list. Anna Karenina. It was a classic, one you kept putting off. Maybe because it mirrored too much. The subtle madness of love. The longing. The danger of giving in.

You turned a page when—

“Miss L/N.”

You looked up.

Mr. Hwang stood in front of you, briefcase in one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his dark wool coat. The campus light caught the edge of his jawline, the slight dishevel of his usually neat hair.

Your face softened. “Professor,” you said with a smile. “You’re still here this late?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you.”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling that familiar calmness his presence brought. “Let me guess. Still grading? Or finally catching up on that massive reading list you assigned me?”

He smirked. “A bit of both. Though I thought you would be out tonight, living like a normal college student. Partying. Making questionable choices.”

“Meh,” you waved him off, cracking a crooked grin. “My partying days are long behind me.”

“You’re nineteen,” he deadpanned.

“Exactly. I’m practically ancient,” you said dramatically, and it earned a rare laugh from him—low, real, unguarded.

He looked at you a moment longer before speaking again. “Still, I find it difficult to believe that someone like you doesn’t have a crowd of people fighting to spend time with her.”

You blinked. “Someone like me?”

He shrugged, casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a landmine. “A beautiful and intelligent woman,” he said smoothly.

You stared at him. For a second, you thought you imagined it. That your brain had replaced some neutral compliment with something bolder, more… intimate.

Your heart stammered.

“Now, Professor,” you said, your voice slightly breathless, recovering quickly with a smirk, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to flatter me.”

The words had already slipped before your inner filter could catch them.

He paused, then tilted his head. “Bold,” he murmured, amused. His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.

Your stomach twisted. But not out of fear.

You looked down at the book in your lap—suddenly very aware of the romantic tragedy in your hands—and then back up at him. His eyes were already on yours.

The space between you stayed heavy with the things neither of you could say.

But you both felt it.

◇

A week.

That’s all that was left until the contest. Seven days.

You had studied until the margins of your notebooks blurred into one another—plotlines, character studies, metaphor layers stacked like fragile towers in your mind. You had free-written until your fingers ached, pouring your soul into page after page. And yet, the nerves remained, fluttering just beneath your ribcage like something half-alive and far too aware.

Still, every time you voiced your doubts, Mr. Hwang would look you in the eye and say, “You’ll do great.”

And when he said it, somehow, you believed it. Or at least you wanted to.

Because no one ever made you feel as capable, as seen, as safe as he did.

But what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that he needed you, too.

At first, it was easy for him to explain it away. You were his student. You were in a vulnerable position. It was his duty to guide you, to offer support, especially when no one else around you seemed to. When he’d see you in his office, fingers nervously twisting a pen or your sweater hem, but still trying so hard to be perfect for him—he’d remind himself: This is just empathy. Protection.

But the more he got to know you—the more he saw the wild, unfiltered brilliance of your thoughts, your passion for literature, the subtle sarcasm in your wit—the harder it became to lie to himself.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to protect you. It was that when you were near, the world seemed less out of control.

He didn’t like the guilt he felt.

You were so much younger. You were his student. You were, by all standards, off limits.

But the short skirts, the way your eyes lit up when you were proud of something, how you blushed when he complimented your work, how you told him things you’d never told anyone—what if?

What if you had met under different circumstances? What if there was a world where you could be each other’s secret?

And he hated himself for even letting those thoughts grow roots in his mind.

◇

“Y/N,” a voice called out, snapping you out of your thoughts as you were halfway through your bland cafeteria pasta.

You turned slowly.

It was Seojin’s boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, apparently.

Your brows furrowed, expression unreadable. He had that sheepish look some people wear when they only come to apologize because they can no longer avoid their guilt.

“Can we talk?” he asked awkwardly.

You didn’t speak, just gave a stiff nod and followed him to a quiet table near the back, away from the handful of students still lingering around.

“Seojin and I broke up,” he said bluntly, like it was supposed to mean something to you.

You blinked once, expression still cold. “So?”

He hesitated, taken aback by your indifference.

“I wanted to apologize,” he finally said. “It was wrong of me to… talk shit about you. Especially knowing that she was completely in the wrong.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly. His words didn’t soothe anything. If anything, they irritated the rawness that was still healing in you.

“So why did you do it?” Your voice was even, but heavy.

He gave a pathetic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want her to be disappointed. I guess… I didn’t want to lose her.”

You stared at him. And you almost—almost—felt a flicker of something like empathy.

Maybe he was like you. Maybe he, too, twisted himself around others to feel like he was enough.

But that thought vanished as quickly as it came.

“People pleasing is one thing,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Deliberately choosing to hurt someone is another.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood up and walked away.

And for once, you didn’t look back.

◇

"I'm nervous," you said, your voice soft as it echoed lightly in the dim, warm-lit office. You were lounging in the familiar leather chair across from Professor Hwang, legs folded underneath you, half a bag of your favorite snacks already gone. It was your last study session before the contest, and yet it had slowly turned into one of your usual… not-quite-student, not-quite-anything-else hangouts.

Over the months, you’d grown so comfortable with him. So familiar. You talked about everything—books, your childhood, politics, your weird food preferences, and his even weirder sleep schedule. There was a ritual now. You’d come in, he'd already have your favorite snack waiting, he’d correct papers, and you’d ramble or write or sometimes just sit in silence. It didn’t feel academic anymore. It felt like home.

“About?” he asked without looking up, his pen gliding across a student's essay with practiced indifference.

“The contest. Global warming,” you said flatly, with a little shrug, popping another chip into your mouth.

That earned a soft laugh from him.

“Well, perhaps you could make yourself useful and help me grade these,” he said, gesturing to a stack of papers, “Get your mind off the planet’s slow death.”

You rolled your eyes but grabbed a few pages from the top. “With pleasure, Professor.”

You read silently for a few minutes—until something made your eyebrows shoot up. You bit your lip to hold it in, but failed miserably, bursting into laughter.

He looked up, mildly amused. “What’s so funny?”

You held up the paper and read out loud, barely containing your snickers:

“In times of war, humans lose their human-nality. This is very present in The Great Gatsby, where Gatsby dies because of his love for money.”

You wheezed. “Human-nality, Professor. The Great Gatsby... about war. I'm sorry, I thought this was a prestigious university. How did this person get in?!”

He smirked, setting down his pen. “Money,” he said without hesitation, his voice dry. “You see, while you have to offer your beautiful brain, others have to offer nepotism.”

You laughed, still shaking your head in disbelief. “Beautiful brain, huh? You sound like you wanna dissect it, Professor.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I feel as if I already have.”

That shut you up. Not completely, but just enough. His tone wasn’t teasing—at least not entirely. There was something under it, laced like velvet and smoke. Something knowing.

You blinked, caught off guard, lips slightly parted.

His eyes were on you now. Not flitting, not avoiding—just on you.

There was a beat of silence.

“I—” you started, but didn’t know how to finish.

He smiled. Soft. Barely there. “What?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, a nervous laugh escaping. “You just… you always say the most unexpected shit, Professor.”

He leaned back in his chair, the lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. “That’s because you always expect the worst.”

You stared at him again.

He wasn’t wrong.

“You’re right,” you admitted quietly.

A long pause.

And then he said, voice low:

“I think you’ve gotten too used to people hurting you… that you don’t recognize when someone is trying to do the opposite.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was too much. Too gentle. Too kind.

You looked away, blinking fast. “You’re not supposed to say things like that, Professor.”

“I know,” he said. “But I meant it.”

And in that moment, something quiet but powerful passed between you. A shift. Not new. Not sudden. But undeniable.

The air felt heavier now. Like the kind of silence that carries a thousand unsaid things.

And neither of you moved.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly more formal, more distant. “Are you aware that after the contest, there will be a hosted gala while participants wait for the jury’s decision? And the family members listed on university records have been invited?”

Your heart stopped. Cold washed over you like a crashing wave, all warmth ripped from your skin.

That meant…

Your father.

Your father was invited.

The very man who for years made you believe you were nothing. Who manipulated your thoughts until you couldn't distinguish your own reflection from the image he painted of you. Who never flinched to raise his voice—or worse.

“W-what do you mean?” your voice trembled, uneven and tight, like your throat was trying to protect you from letting anything out at all.

He noticed immediately.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

It was the first time he called you by your name, and in a different context it might’ve made your stomach flutter. But now it only twisted.

“What do you mean he’s going to be here?” you repeated yourself, your eyes wide, a frantic edge in your tone. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N,” he said again, this time standing up slowly, his expression firm but full of concern. “Calm down.”

But how could you?

You couldn’t breathe. The thought of being in the same room as your father, smiling politely as though you hadn’t only just begun to piece yourself back together… it was too much.

He stepped closer, his presence steady, anchoring. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I’ll talk to the organizer,” he said. “I’ll make sure his name is removed from the guest list. You won’t have to see him.”

Your knees wobbled from the tension that left your body all at once. You looked up at him with tearful eyes, your vision blurred, and something inside you cracked completely. Without thinking, needing something—someone—you stood and took a step toward him, pressing yourself against his chest, burying your face there. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, almost desperately.

He tensed beneath your touch, as if his body was trying to remember where the line was drawn. But then, slowly… he exhaled and returned the embrace, holding you close with a sigh.

“You really shouldn’t do this,” he murmured against the top of your head, his voice low, strained.

“But I want to,” you whimpered. Your voice sounded small. Vulnerable.

You looked up at him, your tear-streaked face tilted to meet his gaze, searching his expression for an answer—any answer. You weren’t thinking about what was right or wrong anymore. You were thinking about how safe this felt. How right.

“You’re not making this easy,” he said, his eyes heavy with guilt and something else—something deeper, something he wouldn’t say out loud.

You furrowed your brows softly. “What exactly?” Your voice was quiet. But there was a boldness to the question. A need to know what he was really thinking.

“My job,” he admitted, his hand still resting on your back, warm and grounding. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Yet you’re holding me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

◇

It was just moments before the contest. Each participant was given a private room to gather their thoughts, to be alone with their mentor before stepping into the hall where everything would unfold. You were seated in one of those rooms now, a small, softly lit space with a mahogany table and velvet curtains drawn tight, giving the illusion of comfort, though your insides felt anything but.

Your leg bounced uncontrollably under the table, heel tapping against the hardwood floor like a metronome for your anxious thoughts. Your fingers were clenched around a pen like it was a lifeline—or maybe a weapon. Your stomach churned.

You didn’t want to let him down. Not him.

"Don't be nervous," Mr. Hwang said from across the table, his voice warm and certain. He leaned forward, his elbows resting loosely as he watched you with those endlessly calm eyes. “You’ll do amazing. I know it.”

"Yeah but—what if I suddenly write something stupid? Or forget what I even read? Or—I don’t know, I might as well stab myself with this damn pen," you muttered, dramatically lifting it toward your throat like a dagger.

He laughed softly, the sound cutting through your spiral. He reached out without hesitation, gently taking the hand that held the pen. The contact sent a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t used to people touching you so carefully, so deliberately.

“You’ll do great,” he repeated, this time more firmly, his fingers curling around yours in quiet reassurance.

You were trying to hold it together, but your other hand betrayed you, rising to your lips as you began anxiously picking at the skin. Before you could even draw blood, he reached out and caught that hand too. Now both your wrists were cradled in his hands, and the proximity between you suddenly felt… different.

"You're one of the brightest minds I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice low and soft, like he didn’t want the walls to overhear. “Trust yourself. Trust your abilities.”

You swallowed hard, then raised your chin with a crooked smile, trying to smother the intensity of the moment with humor. “One of? Please. It’s physically impossible to find another genius like me.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Takes one to know one,” he murmured, and a soft smile pulled at his lips. His hands hadn’t left your wrists. His grip was gentle, but grounding.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you teased, leaning in slightly, a playful smirk tugging at your mouth. “You wish you could be on my level.”

His smile widened. “Could you remind me who’s mentoring who again?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow as he leaned forward too.

“I’m just hanging around to make sure your rusty brain doesn’t fail from lack of use,” you said, eyes gleaming with challenge. Your faces were now so close, the air between you humming with a quiet, electric tension.

Your gaze flicked to his lips without meaning to, and before you could look away, you saw it—he noticed. He saw you looking. But instead of pulling back, he leaned in—just an inch closer.

You didn’t move.

The world felt suspended. Time paused in that heartbeat between wanting and restraint.

Then—

Bzzt.

A soft static crackled through the wall speaker, followed by a woman’s voice:

“All participants are to immediately gather in the contest hall. The time for the contest has come.”

And just like that, the moment snapped. You pulled back, breath shaky, and stood.

He stood as well, smoothing out his shirt like nothing happened, but the look in his eyes lingered. He reached for your shoulder gently and said, “Go show them what you’re made of.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and without another word, stepped out of the room—leaving behind something electric, something unfinished.

◇

The room was cold.

Rows and rows of long tables, overhead lights too bright, the scrape of metal chair legs and the occasional cough echoing like gunshots in a church. Everyone was already seated, hunched over their crisp sheets, pens uncapped, waiting.

Your hands were damp.

You sat down, back stiff, ignoring the knot in your stomach. Mr. Hwang’s words still echoed from the night before—“You are capable of more than you think.”

You didn’t believe him.

The proctor passed the glass bowl down the row. One slip. Fifteen possible books. One chance.

You reached in and pulled.

Your heart stuttered.

Lolita.

The irony hit like a slap. Of course it was Lolita. The book you referenced for Seojin’s essay. The essay that got you into this mess. The essay that made Mr. Hwang notice you. The beginning of it all.

You didn’t even react. You just stared at the word for a long moment, then flipped the slip to reveal the prompt:

“Write about the line between control and vulnerability.”

Fine.

Okay.

Your fingers curled around your pen. The blank page blinked up at you. You looked around—others were already writing. Some scribbling furiously, others with their brows furrowed in deep, intellectual contemplation.

You just… sat there.

Nothing came.

Your mind was empty. Like someone had scooped out your thoughts with a spoon and left only silence behind.

You tried to breathe deeply, but it caught halfway up your throat. Every inhale felt like glass.

Words floated to the surface and immediately sank.

You glanced up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall was louder than your thoughts. Louder than anything. You clenched your pen so tightly your knuckles ached.

Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Still nothing.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

You wanted to go back in time and never say yes to Seojin.

Never write that essay.

Never get caught.

Never be seen.

But you stayed. Frozen.

Until—

With ten minutes left on the clock, something gave.

You weren’t sure what. It wasn’t calm, exactly. But it was quiet. Like everything around you fell away.

Your hand moved.

You didn’t think. You just wrote.

You wrote about how control is rarely loud. How it hides in politeness. In soft voices and carefully chosen words. How vulnerability isn’t always weakness—sometimes, it’s just exhaustion. Just the last bit of you someone hasn’t taken yet.

You didn’t name Humbert. You didn’t have to. You wrote about the way people rewrite stories to make themselves feel better. About how power makes a person rewrite other people, too.

You wrote without stopping. Without breathing.

And when the final call came—“Pencils down”—your hand dropped.

The spell broke.

Your wrist throbbed. Your eyes burned. But in front of you was a page filled to the edges.

You didn’t know if it was good.

But it was yours.

◇

“How did it go?” Mr. Hwang asked as you stepped out of the contest hall.

You rubbed your hands together nervously, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline. “I don’t know. I have no idea. So many of the other contestants seemed more focused and... put together.” You shrugged, your voice small, your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Don’t focus on them,” he said, calm as ever. “Focus on yourself.”

Then, with a glance at his watch, “Now let’s go. The gala will start in a moment.”

You nodded and fell into step beside him.

The walk across campus was breathtaking in that subtle, end-of-day way. The sun hung low, brushing the tops of buildings with gold. The air was warm and smelled faintly of grass and jasmine. Trees rustled gently overhead, and the sky—painted with streaks of pink and orange—seemed to soften the world.

“You seem lost in thought,” he said after a moment. “Global warming again?”

That pulled a laugh from you—soft and unexpected.

◇

The venue was grand—an old brick hall lit with chandeliers just beginning to flicker to life as dusk deepened. Outside, a red rope guided attendees through the gates. A suited guard stood by a podium, checking names off a list with practiced precision.

“Hwang Inho and Y/N L/N,” Mr. Hwang announced to the guard, his voice low and composed.

But just as you stepped forward—

“Y/N.”

You froze.

Your spine locked up before your brain could catch up. You knew that voice. Too well. The way it always scraped like broken glass. The way it used to slam through walls.

“Dad,” you breathed. So quiet only Mr. Hwang could hear.

He turned to you, brows furrowed, confused. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

You thought—hoped—Mr. Hwang had told the organizers to scratch his name off the list. But somehow, he was here.

The guard frowned. “Sir, for the last time, your name isn’t on the guest list. Please leave.”

But your father didn’t do “leave.”

In one sudden, violent motion, he lunged forward and slammed the guard into the brick wall, grabbing him by the collar.

“Am I some fucking joke to you?!” he roared. “I was invited and now what? I’m uninvited to see my own stupid daughter?”

Chaos sparked. Guests backed away. Phones came out. You didn’t move.

The guard recovered quickly, shoving your father to the ground and pinning him there.

“Ma’am,” the guard said, looking up, breathless but steady, “do you know this man?”

You stared ahead, blank.

“I don’t,” you said quietly.

But your father kept thrashing under the guard’s grip, red-faced and livid. “You little bitch!” he spat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re just like your mother! Fucking little whore!”

Every syllable echoed.

You felt yourself shrink, humiliated. Everyone could see it—see him. Even if you’d denied it, even if you tried to pretend—you were exposed.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Hwang said, stepping forward. “Call the police.”

Then he turned to you and gently nudged your arm. “Come on.”

You walked inside on shaking legs.

◇

The moment you both reached a private booth at the back of the venue, you collapsed into the seat, head down, hands clenched. The tremors came in waves. And then—tears. Hot, violent tears that broke through everything.

“I hate him,” you choked out.

Mr. Hwang sat beside you, his presence calm but close. You hated how he looked at you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snapped, wiping at your face, smearing mascara down your cheeks.

“Like what?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Like you pity me.” Your voice cracked. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

But his voice was steady. “I don’t pity you. I know you’re strong.”

He reached out gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek, wiping the black streaks away. The touch was soft. Careful. But it made your breath hitch.

You looked at him.

And without thinking, you leaned in.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly, almost fondly.

You laughed—a broken, breathless sound—and leaned closer.

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Careful. Sinful. The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen. The kind that crossed a thousand unspoken lines. But it felt too good. His hand slid behind your head, the other moving in slow, calming circles on your back.

You clutched his suit sleeves, grounding yourself in him like he might disappear.

He pulled back just slightly, breath warm against your lips.

“We mustn’t,” he murmured, voice low.

“But we want to,” you whispered.

And you kissed him again.

◇

A woman in a sleek navy dress took the stage, microphone in hand. The soft hum of conversation quieted as the room shifted their focus toward her. She smiled with practiced warmth and began:

“Thank you all for being here tonight. It’s been an exceptional year for the Creative Writing Gala, and we’ve been truly moved by the courage, depth, and creativity of all the submissions.”

You swallowed tightly, pressing your fingers together in your lap.

“Let’s begin with our three honorable mentions.”

She glanced down at her card.

“Our first honorable mention goes to Kang Jiwoo, with the prompt: ‘Explore the emotional inheritance between mother and daughter. Reference The Vegetarian by Han Kang.’”

Polite applause stirred the air. A girl in a dusty lavender blouse stood from one of the mid-tier tables. She walked up with quiet confidence, her black flats almost silent on the carpet. She bowed modestly as she accepted her certificate.

“Second honorable mention—Choi Daehyun. His prompt: ‘Write about the intersection of time and grief. Use The Guest by Albert Camus as a lens.’”

A tall boy with sharp cheekbones and a blazer that clearly cost more than your rent stood and smoothed down the sides of his hair before taking the stage. He shook hands like he’d done this before.

“And third—Min Seohee. Prompt: ‘Explore identity in the context of performance. Use Persona by Ingmar Bergman as a thematic reference.’”

Min Seohee stood slowly, her cream silk dress catching the light. She moved like a ballerina, all grace and intention, smiling gently as she took her place beside the others.

You applauded with everyone else, your smile carefully maintained. But inside, something slumped. Your name hadn’t been called. Even among the “almosts,” you were nowhere.

Of course not.

You leaned slightly back in your chair, letting your eyes drift upward to the chandeliers, watching the reflections flicker across the ceiling like ghosts.

“And now,” the announcer said brightly, “our top three winners.”

You didn’t even brace yourself. You already knew.

“Third place—Ryu Haneul. Prompt: ‘Write about betrayal within intimacy. Use Medea by Euripides as metaphor.’”

A small gasp left him, genuine. His glasses were slightly askew as he stumbled up to the stage, a little dazed but grinning.

“Second place—Kim Ara. Prompt: ‘Write about the dissonance between appearance and reality in love. Draw from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.’”

Kim Ara floated toward the podium, her black off-shoulder dress hugging her like a second skin. She bowed, calm and polished, already used to stages.

You didn’t feel disappointment anymore. Just the dull echo of having expected nothing and getting exactly that.

“And finally…” The woman paused, smiling like she’d been saving this name. “First place—Y/N L/N, with the prompt: ‘Write about the line between control and vulnerability. Reference Lolita by Nabokov.’”

Your name fell from her lips like it didn’t belong there. You blinked.

Your brows pulled together instinctively. No. No, that can’t be right. But then, beside you, Mr. Hwang turned his head and looked at you—not with shock, but with pride—and gently nudged your arm.

“Go on.”

The room tilted slightly as you stood. Or maybe it was just your body catching up with your brain. People were clapping. Looking at you.

You made your way up to the stage, feeling like you were walking through water. The lights hit you hard, and your palms were sweating, but someone was there—smiling, guiding you—handing you the plaque.

“Congratulations,” they said.

You nodded faintly and took your place. Another hand passed you a microphone.

You didn’t want to speak. But you had to.

You took it with both hands, gripping like it might anchor you. Your voice, at first, came out barely above a whisper:

“I…”

You scanned the crowd quickly, eyes catching on Mr. Hwang’s silhouette below, calm and steady as always.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing here,” you admitted, letting out a breath of disbelief. “I guess I just want to say thank you to Professor Hwang—for encouraging me to submit even when I felt like I shouldn’t. For not treating me like a joke when I wrote something this personal.”

You exhaled a laugh, still a little shaken. “It’s kind of ironic, actually. The book that sparked everything…ended up being my prompt.”

A soft wave of laughter rippled through the audience.

“I didn’t think I had something to say. But… apparently I did. So… thank you.”

You stepped back from the mic as applause swelled around you—warm, real, loud.

◇

"I told you, Y/N," Professor Hwang said simply, his tone light but with an edge of pride, as he walked beside you on the way back to your dorm. "I really didn't expect it," you murmured, your voice still tinged with disbelief as the weight of the evening settled over you.

Before you could add anything else, he paused. "Before you go, I have something for you," he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to have anything else in mind.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, elegant box wrapped in a subtle ribbon. Your heart fluttered a little as he handed it to you, the simple gesture feeling strangely intimate.

"What is it?" you asked, your fingers gently brushing the ribbon. It felt like an invitation—an opening.

"Open it," he said with a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying the suspense. You smiled in compliance, carefully peeling back the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in the soft velvet, was a fancy pen—sleek, black with gold trim, elegant and somehow fitting for someone like him.

You couldn’t help but smile widely, the warmth spreading through you. "Thank you, wow," you said, your voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "It's beautiful"

Grinning, you leaned in, almost instinctively, to plant a quick kiss on his lips in gratitude. But as soon as you moved closer, he stepped back, gently holding up a hand.

"It's unprofessional," he said, his voice firm yet soft, "I'm your professor."

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face, followed by a quick surge of frustration. A tinge of sadness coursed through you—why did it feel like he was pushing you away, when before he initiated kissing you himself? You fought down the flicker of anger that bubbled up. Why does it have to be this way?

But instead of arguing, you stayed silent. There was no point in pushing it, no point in looking pathetic, or fighting. With a stiff nod, you turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, and started walking toward your dorm. You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t dare look back.

For Professor Hwang, the words he’d spoken didn’t sit right.He couldn’t deny it. The attraction he felt toward you was real, undeniable. Something that shouldn’t have happened. He wanted to pull back, to ignore it, to make it go away before it was too late. But the truth was, the more he tried to suppress it, the stronger it became. And that frightened him more than he cared to admit.

◇

As you stepped foot into your dorm building, the hum of the evening faded behind you, but the ache of that earlier rejection still burning.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the stillness. “I heard you won.”

You turned, your eyes falling on Seojin’s ex-boyfriend standing nearby. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes a little puffy, but there was something earnest about him.

“I did,” you said, your voice a little flat, still numb from the emotional rollercoaster of the night.

He stepped forward slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Look… I know that I did wrong,” he started, his tone careful, apologetic. “And I really thought about it. I’m not proud of what I did to Seojin, to you. I know no matter what I say, it doesn’t make it any less bad. But… I just want you to know that I regret it. I see that now.”

Your gaze softened as his words sank in. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a step. “Thank you for saying that,” you said quietly, the weight of the conversation pulling you into a different space.

He smiled faintly, his eyes lighting up a little. "Hey… maybe we should celebrate your victory? I mean, I’m kind of rotting in solitude today, and I get the feeling you might want some company too?"

You sighed, the sting of Mr. Hwang’s rejection still fresh. There was a strange comfort in his offer, even if it came from someone who had been part of a past that felt so distant now.

“You know what, fuck it. Let’s go,” you said with a shrug, trying to brush off the tension, wanting—needing—something else to occupy your mind. Anything to stop thinking about what you couldn't have.

His grin widened, and for the first time tonight, you felt a flicker of something like relief. You could pretend for just a moment.

◇

“No way you did that,” you burst out laughing, your face flushed and dazed from the Soju you had been gulping down with him. The two of you were just sitting on the ground in the campus garden, the soft grass beneath you, night air cool but pleasant. The stars above blinked gently, and the quiet hum of the campus at night made it feel like the world had paused just for the two of you. “Yeah, guess what happened next,” he said, his words slurring slightly, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“What? What?” you asked eagerly, your eyes wide and sparkling, voice full of excitement like a kid listening to the climax of a wild story.

But then, suddenly, his expression changed. Hardened. “She died,” he said quietly, the laughter gone, pain suddenly darkening his eyes.

You froze, your heart thudding in your chest. “I—I’m so sorry…” you murmured, your voice small, unsure.

He stared at you for a beat longer before breaking into a cackle. “Kidding! I got you real good!” He threw his head back and burst into laughter, practically rolling onto the grass from how hard he was laughing.

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before groaning and slapping his back playfully. “You idiot!” you laughed, your voice high with relief and mock outrage, before you both fell into another round of giggles.

Truth be told, it had surprised you—how nice it was, spending time with him. How light and easy he made things feel. He was actually funny. And, when he wasn’t being an idiot, he was even smart. He noticed little things, asked good questions, made you feel like you could breathe for a second without the weight of everything else.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, as he pushed himself up to sit properly.

“What?” you asked, looking over at him, your eyes slightly glazed from the drink, cheeks warm, hair falling a little out of place in the wind.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re, like, really pretty?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you looked away, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Shut up,” you said, but your voice held no bite—only the faintest trace of flattery you didn’t want to admit.

He grinned wider. “No, I mean it,” he added, a bit more sincerely this time.

And you just laughed, shaking your head, letting the moment be whatever it was. A little blurry, a little strange—but kind of nice.

◇

You found yourself spending more and more time with him. Maybe it was to get back at Mr. Hwang, to spark jealousy—but even if that was the case, you couldn’t deny how light, how effortlessly carefree you felt around him… even though he was Seojin’s ex-boyfriend.

Now, the two of you sat together in class. Your gaze drifted toward Mr. Hwang as he spoke, his voice calm, authoritative. And you saw it—he was watching you, too. It was tense, awkward, after everything you’d shared… after his rejection.

You were drowning in thought, your heart still aching, when suddenly, fingers began playing with your hair—his fingers. Seojin’s ex. You laughed softly under your breath.

“What are you doing?” you whisper-hissed, finally tearing your eyes away from Mr. Hwang.

“It’s soft,” he murmured, a hint of mischief in his voice.

Then, as Mr. Hwang continued his lecture on The Picture of Dorian Gray, he leaned in again.

“Is it just me, or does it sound like Dorian wanted to fuck his own portrait?” he whispered.

You tried to contain your laughter—but failed miserably.

“It’s just you,” you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. Mr. Hwang noticed. And he hated it.

Yes, he had rejected you—but seeing you laugh like that, engage so easily with someone else… it made his blood boil. He was livid. That idiot didn’t even know you. Not like he did.

Class ended. Your friend waited by your desk as you gathered your things.

“Come on, let’s go eat something!” he grinned, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re paying,” you said, smirking.

“All right, my lord,” he teased, bowing with mock grace.

Mr. Hwang had seen enough. His composure cracked.

“Miss L/N,” he said sharply, “please stay for a moment.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, confused, but didn’t argue. You both approached the desk.

“I wish to speak with her privately,” Mr. Hwang added coldly, directing the words like a blade.

Your friend hesitated, but nodded and stepped out of the room.

You sighed, folding your arms. “What is it now?”

His eyes locked onto yours. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, voice low but intense.

“On purpose?” you let out a dry laugh. “Can’t a girl have friends anymore?” you said, your tone light but laced with defiance.

“Friends?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Is that what friends do—twirl each other’s hair and whisper sweet nothings in the middle of my class?”

That struck a nerve. You were done playing nice.

You walked over to his desk and sat on top of it, deliberately slow. You pulled a candy from your bag and popped it into your mouth, letting your lips linger around it. “I don’t know,” you said with a smirk, “but friends with benefits definitely do.”

His jaw tensed. His face darkened.

“Did the two of you—?” he started, struggling to keep his composure.

“Oh, we did,” you said, feigning innocence. “And it was amazing.”

“Stop it,” he snapped, his voice rough, desperate.

You leaned in, licking the edge of the candy. “If you only knew the things he made me feel… things that, if I wrote about them, I’d win every writing contest out there.”

You tilted your head. “He’s kind of like a mentor, you know,” you added with a hum.

That was the last straw.

Suddenly, he grabbed you and kissed you—nothing like before. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t hesitant. This was hungry, possessive. He was trying to claim you. And you let him.

“You’re torturing me on purpose,” he growled between kisses, his teeth gently sinking into your lower lip. You dug your nails into his back in response.

“Seeing you like this, God—” he breathed, his hands gripping your waist.

“Say it,” you demanded, your voice a whisper against his mouth.

He paused, lips hovering just inches from yours, brows furrowed. “Say what?”

“Say you want me. Say you won’t reject me again.”

There was a beat of silence, and then—

“I want you,” he murmured, “and I’ll never leave you.”

His breath was warm against your neck as he pinned you between his body and the wall, your thighs locked around his waist. His hands roamed with purpose now—no more hesitation, no more pretending.

“Can you keep a secret?” he repeated, voice thick with desire.

You smiled, your lips brushing his ear. “Only if you make it worth hiding.”

That did something to him. His grip on your hips tightened, and he rolled his body against yours, slow but deliberate. The desk? Forgotten. The classroom? Irrelevant. Right now, there was only the heat between you.

His lips found your neck, trailing a slow, maddening path up to your jaw. “You drive me insane,” he growled. “I can’t stand seeing you with him.”

You arched into him, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before pushing me away.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark with something primal. “I’m not pushing you away now.”

“No,” you whispered, “you’re doing the exact opposite.”

His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing your skin like a secret. “I’ve imagined this,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Then stop imagining,” you breathed, tugging him back into a kiss—hotter, deeper, filled with all the tension that had built between you. It was messy, unrestrained, addictive.

He kissed you like a man unraveling.

Then suddenly—he paused. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“This is dangerous,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, eyes hooded. “Good. I like dangerous.”

A crooked smile formed on his lips. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Still holding you, he moved back toward the desk and set you down gently, as if grounding himself.

But the way his eyes lingered on your lips, the way his fingers brushed your thigh… he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Meet me tonight,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “After everyone’s gone. No more hiding. I want you. All of you.”

Your heart raced. You leaned in, your lips ghosting over his. “You better make it worth the risk, Professor.”

And with that, you turned and walked out—leaving him breathless, his fists clenched at his sides, already counting down the hours until nightfall.

[yuurei20]

Updated Vil Facts Part 2: Family (pt2)

A studio staff member asks for a picture of Vil with the other students after their studio tour in the Fairest City, saying it was a request from Vil’s father, as it might be useful for a behind-the-scenes article being written about a film that Eric is producing and acting in.

Having been hired to promote the film Vil agrees, saying that he is contractually obligated anyway, but Jamil and Azul suspect that Eric is using the job as a pretext to get the photo of Vil and the others for himself.

Vil says that Eric is a “doting father,” explaining in an early birthday vignette that he received a congratulations card from him for being offered the role of brand ambassador for a famous shoe brand before Vil himself has actually shared the news with him.

Vil says, “No matter how busy he is, he always finds the time to keep track of my goings-on.”

Azul describes Eric as “one of the most famous actors in the world” and the “star of countless blockbusters,” with Jamil saying “he’s a bigger deal than I even thought.”

It seems that Eric’s laugh sounds exactly like Vil’s, and Jamil says, “Eric Venue tends to play cool and gritty parts in movies, but l'd always heard he had a really gentle laugh. Supposedly that's part of his popularity.”

Ace says, “There's not a person alive who wouldn't fall for those charms... Guess Vil will be like that too, in the future,” commenting on how handsome Eric is up close.

Azul says that Eric’s aura is “fascinating” and both gentle and imposing at the same time, and when Ace compliments his fashion sense, he says that fashion is a hobby of his.

Eric also performs his own stunts in his movies, and says that he does not use body doubles when he has to play instruments or dance for a role: “As soon as I get cast, I just start taking lessons, or working on my body. Whatever I need to do.”

Jami says he can’t believe how Eric disappears into his roles, changing drastically from action to comedies.

It seems that Eric may have had issues in the industry in the past. Vil explains, “Tabloids criticized him as a third-rate actor who was all looks, and made up ridiculous scandals about him. Despite all that, he used his connections to keep getting small parts and stick it out in the competitive film industry.”

Jamil says that he remembers a lot of the rumors there were about him and Vil explains that Eric kept working on his craft, started starring in hit films and then launched his own production company to start making his own hits: “Now he's on top of the whole industry.”

Ace compliments Eric for being able to “shut out all the noise” of the rumors “and just keep grinding” and Eric says he has his faults, with Vil volunteering the information that he is “completely useless at housework,” saying, “The housekeeper is always yelling at you for messing up the kitchen or the laundry.” Eric asks to change the subject.

Azul describes Eric as “elegant and chic” and Jamil says he seems kind and comfortable in his own skin, and Vil says they are naive: “When in film producer mode, Eric Venue is a showbusiness demon. He sets his sights high, and will stop short of nothing to achieve his goals. He never budges in negotiations, and does not tolerate mistakes.”

Eric Venue has also received a “Legend Award” from the studio producing one of his films, and Vil says he hopes to have his own handprint on display at the studio for a Legend Award one day, as well: “I want to be a big star, even bigger than my father.”

After visiting Disneyland in 2022, Yana shared pictures of Disney LEGENDS handprints on display, including animator Marc Davis and Tokyo Disney Resort CEO Kagami Toshio.

[richard-hei-long]

Consequences and Blame(And why you shouldn't misplace them)

It's somewhat common knowledge in the Miraculous community that one of the "Rules" of the show is as follows: "Marinette always makes a mistake and learns a lesson... Even when she's not actually at fault."

This means that, no matter what she does or doesn't do, Marinette will always be blamed for the episode's problem, regardless of if she's actually at fault or not.

Many authors alleviate this issue by either having Marinette call out people for always blaming her for their problems or simply not having that stupid rule from the start. But I would like to propose an... Alternative take on it.

So lets turn back the clock in the Miracu-verse to when Marinette is but a smol child. She's smol, she's innocent, and... She's being blamed for literally everything wrong in the world and just cannot win no matter what she does.

Marinette hits a kid because they were being a jerk? She receives detention and told that she should've gone to a teacher.

So, next time it happens she does just that... And the teacher(Cough Bustier Cough) tells her to be a "Good Example" and the teacher doesn't do anything about the kid.

Seeing that the teacher was utterly useless, Marinette goes to her parents and... They just tell her to avoid the kid.

She tries, but then the kid seems hellbent on hunting her down and tormenting her. She tells her parents about this and... They don't do anything about the problem.

So, she changes tactics again, and again, and again... And no matter what she does either nothing changes or she gets punished for it.

Even worse, she starts getting blamed for things that simply aren't her fault or for situations she wasn't ever involved in. Kids blame her for pranks, adults blame her for "Acting out", both blame her for "Misbehaving".

No matter what she says, no matter what she does or doesn't do, it's always the same. She's the one to blame, she's the one whose wrong, she's the one to face consequences even when she doesn't deserve it, she's the one who always suffers.

After an entire year or two of this treatment, Marinette comes to a conclusion, that the universe was trying to teach her one, simple lesson.

Everyone will always blame her and say that she's in the wrong, so why bother trying to be right? If they want her to be a problem, then be the biggest problem ever.

And so, Marinette adapts her tactics once more, only this time it's towards being as much of a nuisance as possible, to cause as many problems as possible, to make everyone around her suffer as much as possible for always blaming her for everything!

And everyone very quickly comes to understand just how badly they fucked up by constantly antagonising the smartest and most creative kid in class.

Pranks, traps, and all sorts appear everywhere in the school seemingly overnight, so many that people can barely get into the building without getting splashed by water buckets or caught by net and rope traps.

Of course, everyone blames Marinette again, and her response is one they do not expect.

"Yes, it was me, unlike all of the previous times you blamed me for things I didn't do." She said, staring strait into their souls before walking away, but not before giving them one last ominous warning.

"And it's only going to get worse from here."

And it did get worse. So, so much worse.

Torn clothing, graffiti on houses, jumpscares from very well put-together costumes, Marinette put her creativity into overdrive in bullying everyone around her and getting payback, constantly finding new and more efficient ways to torment her classmates.

Naturally, her parents are informed of her behaviour and try to ground her, but Marinette, being Marinette, already planned for this outcome.

And so, she hung her head, put on a sad face, and went to her room like a good girl, pretending to be cowed by their scolding, leaving her parents satisfied with their "Success" in curbing their daughter's tendencies.

The next day, they woke up to find their daughter gone, several of her things missing, and the cash registers smashed to bits and raided of their loot, the front door left wide open.

Marinette had run away.

It shook them to their cores, to see their beloved daughter be so uncaring, but they made their stance clear. They weren't with their daughter, so Marinette would no longer be with them.

Living out on the streets was rough for Marinette, but nothing she couldn't adapt to, she was an intelligent fighter after all, so she quickly picked up good shelter spots, who and where to avoid, and generally just how to survive the Parisian streets.

She lived out on the streets for a few months before a familiar, yet unexpected face appeared before her.

"Dupain-Cheng?" Chloe Bourgeois asked(?) in surprise as she saw the blue-haired girl that used to ruthlessly torment their entire school.

"Oh, it's you. What do you want Bourgeois?" Marinette replied coldly, remembering how Chloe used to bully her before her "Vengeance" phase.

To Marinette's surprise Chloe's response wasn't one of malice and spite, but rather friendly delight as she told Marinette that she missed the now sorta-orphan girl's presence in class, complimenting and outright praising Marinette's tactics and planning capability.

It was... Unexpected, but nice. Nice to have someone compliment her, to be on her side, to not blame her for every wrongdoing in existence for no reason whatsoever.

And then, Chloe made an offer she wasn't expecting.

"Hey, why don't you come back? I can have daddy set you up a room in the hotel and we can hang out whenever we want!" She asked enthusiastically, surprising the bluenette.

Deciding to give it a shot, Marinette agreed. Worse case scenario she ended back up on the streets anyway, so she was willing to try it out.

Just this once.

And, much to her surprise, she's welcomed with open arms by Chloe's father who was happy that his daughter had another friend.

He might have been a corrupt official, but he still tries his best to be a good father dammit!

And thus, Marinette now had a cushy penthouse room in the best hotel in Paris. And better yet, she wasn't surrounded by people who blamed her for every problem they encounter!

Chloe, her father, Sabrina, they never told her she was wrong, they never told her that she was responsible for events outside of her control, they never told her to apologise for mistakes that don't exist!

To Marinette, it was paradise, and she will forever be grateful to Chloe for granting her this privilege.

She even eventually meets Adrien Agreste and finds him to be utterly delightful! He listens to her problems and tells her that the other people were the problem and that he's sorry she had to go through all that. It was wonderful.

She started crushing on Adrien after that, but refrained as he was Chloe's crush and Marinette was loyal to her friend and saviour. However she was completely unaware that she was Chloe's crush and the "Adrien Crush" was just a cover story for it because Chloe panicked and wasn't ready to confess just yet.

Eventually, Marinette returns to school, and her classroom. She sees some familiar faces, and some new ones, while others were missing. But that didn't matter to her.

What did matter was the recognition and utter fear she saw appear in their eyes as she entered the classroom with Chloe and Sabrina.

"Surprise bitches, bet you thought you saw the last of me!" She said with a downright feral grin, knowing that the next few years were going to be fun.

And so, Marinette goes back to screwing with her classmates, getting away with it completely thanks to Chloe's connections.

Though, she's a bit more lenient this time around. Not out of altruism, but just because she finds bullying her classmates to be a rather boring affair nowadays and just does it to keep them in line.

She still pranks them to remind them of how bad she used to be, but her Rage and utter Hatred has cooled off since then. She still holds a grudge, but now she only really unleashes her full fury on those who accuse her of a wrongdoing she didn't actually do.

And thus, this was how Marinette became Chloe's most useful enforcer, making sure all of their classmates don't get any funny ideas about trying to usurp Chloe's position as Class Rep and ensuring their compliance with all of Chloe's commands.

This went on for a few years, until the Miraculous come into play...

(This is Part 1 of the idea, I'll make Part 2 once this post gets 100 Likes because I'm tired and need a break. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed)

[divaofmads]

Forever In My Heart | King Baldwin

Part I | Part II

Gif by @princess-of-thebes-1995 Dividers by @saradika-graphics pictures by Pinterest

Summary: Baldwin knew that his illness would not allow him to live long. Unfortunately, he did not have an heir to leave the throne to, and since he was of French origin, he demanded an heir from the French kingdom to take over the throne after he died. So King Louis VII sent his younger son and his wife to go to Jerusalem and make a deal with the King.

Warnings! : Toxic Relationship, (King Baldwin is 20, Prince Hugh is 25, Y/N is 19), No Y/N using (Princess Maria), Inspired by history. It is not real historical events exactly, There are chronological mistakes, I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills

A/N: No one's religious beliefs were disrespected. The story was written by researching the ideas of that period.

A/N 2 : You can imagine whoever you want to play the bad guy(Please comment who do you imagine).

" 5th June 1173

My lover who is more beautiful than anything. My lady with lips sweeter than honey, a complexion that would make the moon jealous, and eyes brighter than the sun. The angel who inspires me. You're in my dreams when I sleep, you're the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up. I miss you so much that every day we are apart I pray to Jesus that my father will return from crusade as soon as possible and start making preparations for our wedding.

After that incident, after the doctors had a dilemma about whether I might be sick, I thought that your father the emperor wanted our engagement not to be official, using his relations with the Seljuk State as an excuse. Forgive me for such impertinent ideas, my love. I would never betray you and your family. However, the crusades that my father Amalric started against the Fatimids by joining forces with the French and Germans showed me that what prevents our marriage is fate. But I know. No matter how late it is, our lives will be united, you will be the most respected queen the Latin kingdom has ever seen. Christian and Muslim healers will soon produce a cure for my illness together. Don't think about me. I will be fine, knowing that you love me gives me strength, my queen. Always be happy, be healthy. Always remember me. Dream about our future during the days we are apart, because I do. May the God who reigns in the heavens and watches over the whole world protect you.

I think the reason you didn't reply to my previous two letters is because you were busy, but this time I'm eagerly waiting for you to reply to my letter, my love. My heart is with you forever."

Who could love a man whom even God has cursed?

1180 4th June

When the night covered the lands of Jerusalem like a blanket, Baldwin stood by the window and watched his kingdom. God had given this holy city to the Crusaders and had stood by them. The Latin kingdom acted as a protector against the increasingly powerful Muslim invaders. Although the failure of the 2nd Crusade had caused a lack of trust among the Crusader countries, he was the only great king who was able to unite the Holy Land after his father Amalric died. His people were pleased with him. Despite being a Crusader commander, he did not want anyone to be treated unfairly, regardless of religion or race. But why did the king not feel proud when his people loved him so much?

When he looked at his reflection in the golden goblet he held in his hand, the answer to the question was actually very clear. Despite everything, he was the cursed king. He was weak and incapable for Muslims. How could a king who was struggling for his own health deal with state issues? He was also a servant lower than a pig. He was created so ugly because they did not believe in the same god. Just as ugly and useless as a pig. Saladin should have been ashamed of himself for being defeated by a king who was a child and a leper in the battle of Montgisard. But no one had thought about it. His smart moves in the army and state administration, his choice of advisors and the poor-looking king proved his power. He was the only king who came into being on the bed to manage the war. His courage had inspired the painter.

It was normal for Muslims to spread such prejudiced and hostile gossip, of course. But it was the Christians whose ideas he had to fight against. They thought that God had cursed Baldwin when he was born. He was the one God did not like. He knew how dark his soul was when he created him. When he grew up, the devil would be his guide. He was a cruel, barbaric ruler whose mind worked for nothing but evil. Leprosy was his mark and badge for his past and future sins. He was branded so that the people would notice and stay away from this devil.

He had long forgotten his identity. The man he saw in the reflection in the goblet, with a rotting skin, was either a pig or a devil.

But he was not human in either world. When he could no longer hide this curse and his fiancée did not even deign to write him a farewell letter, he lost the last feeling that would remind him of his humanity. Love. No one loved a pig, they would detest it. No one would stray from God's path and fall in love with the devil. He would rather die. And what were the feelings? What were the longing and love he felt in his heart? Moreover, what was the sadness that was hidden behind these two feelings and spread throughout his body? These feelings grew stronger after he received the news that the crown prince of France and his wife, the Byzantine Princess Maria, would arrive in Jerusalem tomorrow. Could a pig long for? Could a barbarian be sad, or could the devil love?

Baldwin could no longer bear to see the truth reflected in the globe and threw it to the ground. So many years passed. Baldwin stood strong against the gossip about him. He only loved his kingdom and swore to protect it. He rewarded the oppressed and punished the oppressors so that people could live in peace and not have hostile feelings. However, the seeds of love that had been waiting to sprout in his heart for years blossomed with the news that he would see the woman he loved again, and the king felt hopeless.

As the medicinal drink spilled from the glass that fell to the ground spread on the stone floor, the bare parts of his maskless, bandaged face reappeared before him like a nightmare. As his breathing rhythm quickened, he heard a voice.

"When the Physicians were preparing the drink, I could tell from the smell that it tasted bad."

When Baldwin looked in the direction of the voice, he saw William coming from the darkness. The only source of light in the room was the moonlight.

"William," he said, trying to hide his emotions, "I didn't hear you come in."

William smiled warmly. "You wouldn't have heard of it if there was a rebellion, your majesty, and forgive my impudence, but the reason for this has to do with your guests tomorrow."

Baldwin turned toward the city. "I was sure I would never see her again. But now, in the castle of Kerak, Raybald of Châtillon is hosting them."

William looked at the king. "Indeed, you should have known this day would come. Your relations with the Kingdom of France are strong."

"Maybe I was just afraid that day would come."

"You're still in love with her."

"Every minute I thought I had forgotten her, my longing for her grew my love."

"Princess Maria was a good match for you. She was very intelligent, kind, and combative. A fine queen for the Latin kingdom," he said, and the melancholy gaze of Baldwin, which he did not want to show, gave him away, caused William to apologize. "I apologize if I went too far, your majesty. I just wanted to recall a pleasant memory."

A beautiful memory. It was true. Every moment Baldwin spent with the princess was special. He could talk and laugh for hours about any memory he recalled. Baldwin was not born into a loving family. When he ascended to the throne, his kingdom was on the verge of division. His illness pretended him weak against his enemies. But in all his misfortunes, Maria was his white rose, and no matter how pessimistic he felt a moment ago, he now smiled because of her.

A bitter smile, ""Do you think she can still wield a sword skillfully?"

He had the same bitter smile on his face. ""There is no doubt about that, your majesty. Perhaps once they are settled in the palace you can challenge her to a duel and see for yourself."

Although this idea sounded nice at first, the facts were obvious. He replied in a reproachful tone, as if rebelling against fate. "How can I do this when I can't use my limbs and can't see in one eye, William, tell me!" He looked harshly.

"These words do not seem to belong to you, my king. Weren't you the king who learned to use a sword with his left arm because his right arm betrayed him at every opportunity? You designed special stirrups for your numb legs. You led fights with that blind eye of yours. Now don't tell me you avoided a duel with a 19-year-old young woman."

"I don't want her to see me like this, Will. My body is decaying day by day. God's curse is growing stronger and my resistance to pain is diminishing." He looked at the view again. "I don't want her to remember me like this. She confessed that she was amazed by my beauty the night we fell in love. He turned back to William and pointed his finger at his face. Look at my current state, the boy she fell in love with is dead. The Leper King was the end of that beautiful boy."

Baldwin suddenly felt unwell and William held him as he collapsed to the ground, his legs shaking.

"Your Majesty, you need to rest now."

William called to the servants to take Baldwin to bed. The servants came to them in a hurry and, taking kings arm, carried him to the bed. One left to get water. Another was adjusting his pillows. Finally William warned them to leave the room and approached Baldwin.

"You have always been a good boy, Baldwin. You are the best king the Latin Kingdom has ever seen. No ruler after you will be able to hold these lands together."

"I would not want this. I hope that people will recognize my efforts and protect the lands from hostile armies."

Before leaving William Baldwin's room, he spoke one last time. "Prince Hugh will take more care of you both, your majesty. Be careful."

Maria had been nervous since they arrived at the castle of Kerak. Representing the Komnenos dynasty had been a heavy burden on her shoulders. About six years before she was born, dark times had passed over Manuel I and the Byzantine lands. Constantinople had been sacked, the city almost destroyed. Châtillon had been the emperor's worst nightmare until Manuel took revenge on her. He disturbed the people as if he owned the Byzantine Empire. Maria's nanny would tell her these dark memories before she went to sleep at night. Maria was a naughty child and would tell the story that Châtillon would come back one night and kidnap the naughty children. But Maria always trusted her father. Although he seemed like an emperor who was afraid of the Turks and had a weak political mind, Maria was smart enough to understand her father's strategic steps. That's why she never feared Châtillon. Her father may have suffered great losses during those times, but later he took his revenge on Châtillon in a satisfactory way.

Baldwin did not attend her and Prince Hugh wedding. He was too tired to go to France. Otherwise, his death would have come sooner, and Saladin's army would have occupied Jerusalem long ago. Therefore, Reynald of Châtillon attended the wedding as regent. Emperor Manuel saw this as an insult, and the ties between him and the Latin kingdom were almost broken. But Baldwin, the Latin king, knew his former father-in-law well. He had observed the emperor very well during his engagement to his daughter, and had skillfully kept the bond between them together.

Despite everything, Châtillon must have been unable to stomach the emperor's revenge, for he was taking a jab at the princess who had joined them at the dinner table. He was talking badly about her father. He was making fun of the Byzantine Emperor, implying that if the emperor did not come under Crusader countries protection, the Muslims would give up Jerusalem and occupy Constantinople, and they would be successful. Therefore, it was very lucky for the princess to marry the son of the King of France. Maria would of course say something in response to these words, but the crown prince of France thought that women were stupid and should not meddle in state affairs. What did women know except intrigue, sex, and having children? Whenever Maria spoke, her husband humiliated her in front of the lords of the other kingdoms. She did not want to experience the same thing again. She felt sad enough when she thought of Baldwin anyway. But both Maria's and the prince's minds were changed by Châtillon's audacity. He had brought up the subject of Baldwin and the princess's broken engagement. Maria felt uneasy. She knew that her husband had always kept his eyes on her, for it was a sensitive subject.

When Châtillon noticed the tension between the two, he explained how strong the bond between her and Baldwin was. He had read Maria’s letters impudently several times before the curse of leprosy had set in. He disclosed some of the love poems in these letters. Of course, he could not remember the exact words, but he sang similar sentences with a mocking grin. Hearing these things made the Prince angry. The gold goblet in his hand almost bent, but he tried not to show it. He looked at his beloved wife with a meaningful smile. Not wanting to appear weak, he intervened. “I thought your engagement was a political agreement, my lady. Would you care to give me more details? I would like to hear it.” He brought the glass to his lips, finished the wine in one gulp, and slammed it down on the table.

However, Maria knew that the prince intended to ask her this question. If she was not satisfied with the answer he would give, his revenge would be severe. Hugh had threatened her with his dynasty. The prince was madly in love with her and knew that his love was unrequited. He was jealous of her in front of everyone and everything.

She was trying not to give away her lie as she pushed the toasted almonds on the Blancmange that had just been served into the rice fish paste mixture with the tip of her fork. "We were both kids at the time. Our alliance against his half-brothers brought us closer. These are childish feelings." These words were lies. Every emotion she experienced was too mature.

Raynald lifted his globe to his mouth and drank the spiced wine, smearing it through his filthy beard before scraping the remains of the wine away with the palm of his hand. "Your mind was capable of writing love poems as a child."

Prince Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have cut off the head of the daring man in front of him with his sword, but he was too arrogant to show his jealousy to anyone. Instead, he chose to show his anger to his wife by stroking Maria's hair harshly. She had to be careful.

She looked bravely at Reynald. Looking into his eyes, she put the Blancmange in her mouth and began to speak, ignoring the rules as she chewed. "I am flattered that you find the love poems written by a little girl mature. Yes, Baldwin and I were mature, and I was smart enough to see that you were a pain in the neck when you were still a mercenary."

Raynald looked to the prince to put the princess in her place, but Hugh agreed with his wife, and for once, though he didn't show it, he was pleased with her headstrong nature.

Then he looked at the princess with greed. "It was obvious that the daughter of the Byzantine emperor would not suit the future king of France."

Maria stood up, her chair leg scraping the floor. "Then you should know to watch your step when talking to me."

Then she turned respectfully, in a way that glorified her husband. "Master of my heart, if you allow me, I would like to go to the chapel and pray."

The prince was unsure of what to say. He did not want to be angry with his wife, for she had put Raynald in his place, who had insidiously planted the sin of jealousy in his heart. He was also flattered by his wife in front of the other lords and barons at the table. He only gave his wife permission to go to the chapel.

She grabbed the hem of her dress so as not to fall. So she left the room and walked quickly down the corridor. Talking about her memories with Baldwin broke her heart. His look, his smile, his conversation, his intelligence... She had never known a man like him in the Empire or the Kingdom of France. Her mind was always on her old love. She had stolen her own life. She spent her youth in the bed of a man she did not love, thinking of Baldwin. Now she was in pain and wanted to be alone, alone with the Virgin Mary.

One of her maids would come to her. She called to her lady, said that her son were crying uncontrollably. Little Philip needed his mother. She ignored the maids calling her as she ran down the hall. But the baby wanted her mother and was crying non-stop. But a child from a man she did not love would not be good for her right now.

She just wanted to go to the chapel and pray before the Virgin Mary. She was on her knees, placed her elbows on the altar. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Forgive me, I cannot guard my ideas from sin as I guard my chastity. Holy Mary, Mother of God. I am weak, the love that the devil has cultivated in my heart becomes sweeter to me every day that I do not see him. Please hear me, tear down the walls between us and inspire me to forget him. O Virgin, holy and merciful, obtain for all who offend thee the grace of repentance, and graciously accept this poor act of homage from me thy servant, obtaining likewise for me from thy Divine Son the pardon and remission of all my sins. Amen." She placed her palms crosswise on her chest. She was crying, convulsing with tears.

The prince and princess of France entered the holy lands with four horse guards in front and six behind to protect the gift chests. The royal coat of arms, the 'fleur-de-lys', was carved on wood on the body of the carriage, and the windows were covered with curtains in the color of the coat of arms's base color, the blue, thus completely cutting off communication between the people and the nobles.

But it was impossible not to notice such a long convoy. The children playing followed the horses and did not leave its vicinity, hoping to see who was behind the curtain. But the princess saw them. She had slightly parted the fabric and was enjoying the excited running of the children speaking in a language she did not know. Meanwhile, her husband, who was sitting next to her, distracted her by holding her hand. When the young princess turned her head to the prince, the smile on her face disappeared.

"Don't let children know you're looking at them, my lady. Then they'll have the brass face."

She looked at him smugly. "They are children. At least don't act arrogant towards children!"

Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have put her in her place, but their baby Philip’s nurse intervened to calm the anger between them. She smiled and called out to the princess as she sat across from her, put the baby to sleep in her arms.

"Your Majesty, in a few years your son will be running around the palace corridors just like them."

Maria smiled at the woman. "I hope he becomes a guardian of peace and justice." The word that crossed her mind was 'like Baldwin'. But she could not say it.

The nurse looked at the baby. "There is no doubt about it, my lady."

Prince Hugh was very angry with his wife. He could have given her a severe punishment, but his love was holding him back. Instead, he used his ambition for his son. He smiled arrogantly. "He will be a king in the Latin lands, a nightmare for Muslims! He will send the unbelievers to hell in this world. He will slaughter the unbelievers mercilessly. Otherwise, how can he be the commander of the Crusader armies?"

Maria hated herself for marrying such a cruel man. She could assure herself that the children's voices he heard outside had become screams of pain in his imagination. And look at the nobles who considered Baldwin a barbarian! What a disgrace! The princess was about to continue looking out the window in anger when she turned her head and caught the nurse's eye. The woman gave her no words. Her expression begged his majesty to be silent. For his well-being and peace. Maria smiled with tears in her eyes and did as he said, smiling slightly.

Meanwhile, William, who had received news that the royal carriage was approaching the palace, was giving orders for the final preparations. Sybilla had to make sure that the food and organization were perfect. The servants were arranging the prince and princess's favorite fruits and wines on the table in their rooms, and the gifts to be presented to the royal family were being counted in the great hall.

Baldwin lay on his back in his bed, surrounded by four physicians who were helping their assistants apply ointment to his wounds.

"Ah," sighed the king, "at last, my love. At last, I will be able to witness your beautiful smile again."

"Be a little faster!" But even that was tiring him. He was excited to greet them and wanted to stand up in defiance of God.

The physician warned the king, "Your Majesty, you must lie down for a day and wait for your skin to absorb the medicine. It will be more beneficial."

Baldwin gritted his teeth and spoke threateningly. “Are you disobeying my orders?”

The physicianstammered. He emphasized that he had been misunderstood. He apologized and ordered his assistants to hurry. After applying the herbal mixture to the king's wounds, they wrapped clean, white bandages crosswise, using two layers of cloth so that the skin would not be visible. Cotton fabrics in particular were imported from the Mediterranean. Otherwise, his completely covered skin would not be able to breathe and would become damp, and the amount of salt in his sweat would cause Baldwin to suffer in pain. In fact, the ointment was already hurting him enough.

One of his servants came to him with a silver cup in his hand and supported his back, allowing him to straighten up. Thus, he drank the healing water easily. As he was sliding the last sip from his lips to his mouth, William entered. He too might not have been in favor for king to welcome the royal family, but he knew that his life was short. Seeing the woman he loved should have been more important than the pain he would suffer. Who knows? Perhaps the last time they would meet would be Baldwin's funeral. Maria stood in front of her childhood love's coffin, crying heartily, and they would say goodbye to each other for the last time, and the only memory she had of him would be the metal mask.

"Your Majesty," he said with a wry smile on his face, "I have come to take you. News has come that they have almost arrived. Everything is ready in the outer courtyard. After the welcoming ceremony, you may proceed to the great hall."

Baldwin confirmed William and after the bandaging process was completed, he stood up. My God! For a moment, the King seemed to forget about the curse. He thought they were just like those two beautiful children from ten years ago. Two noble children who will live their love that has not been granted to anyone else. He hadn't even gotten help from anyone when he was sitting up in bed. Love must have been such a miraculous feeling. None of the physicians' ointments could give him the strength to stand up in minutes. The verses from the Bible that were read to cure his illness were of no use. Only his passionate longing for Maria gave him strength. It healed his melted bones and allowed his joints to bend freely. It allowed his joints to bend freely. Perhaps he would soon have the power to expand the borders of the Latin kingdom. But no! The truth had a bad habit of coming out at the wrong time. He was standing from William. He was only five steps away.

"Let's go." King said. At this moment, a servant called out to him, came to him with quick steps and held out the mask in his hand.

"Your majesty, mask!"

There's that Silver mask! The evil Witch who took him away from life. The King looked at the mask's artificial lips, hollow eyes, and metal eyebrows. He was the only person in the room who saw the mask's devilish grin. It was as if the mask was mocking him. He knew how much the woman he loved would pity him when she saw his sick body. And Baldwin's embarrassment must surely be the amusement of the mask. Once again the King was defeated. Although he had the arrogance of a king when he took the mask from the servant's hand, William knew the dramatic mood of the man he had known since childhood. So he supported the king with his words while his face was completely covered with a metal mask. When the servants grabbed his arm and tried to help him walk, he gestured with his hand for them not to come.

"The king looks quite healthy. No need."

William stepped back from the door and cleared the way for the king to exit.He clasped his hands in front of him and waited for Baldwin to come out. However, after their King left the room, William followed him to accompany, followed by the servants. It was noon. Light seeping through the corridor windows illuminated the gray stone walls. The designs and art of Arab architects were on display.

"My legs are shaking William. "This is not because of my illness," he said. He could keep Saladin and his armies away from his lands. He could win the battle. But for love, he was still young.

"I know, your majesty. Although not as excited as you, I'm excited to see the princess too."

Beautiful, attractive, innocent, seductive. Which word was more appropriate to say to the holy beloved? Which one would he choose to describe the relentless love inside him? Or were the other adjectives hidden behind these words what made his fall in love? Was it her stubborn and strong stance that made her seductive, was it her helpfulness and fairness that gave her the name of innocence, was it her white skin and wavy hair that reached down to her waist that made her attractive or was her beauty and grace necessary? There was no definite answer to these questions and even the answers that suddenly came to his mind were not enough to learn the reason for his feelings for her. The way he looked at her or the way she shyly looked away from him, he would now forbid each other. If their eyes met, it would be a sin. Then how would Maria have the courage to go to church again and ask for forgiveness?

All this was going on in the king's mind. When the horse carriage carrying the royal family entered the courtyard. The prince and princess were presented. The King was sitting on his throne waiting for them. But what he was most worried about was how he would react when he saw Maria. And that moment has come. As she descended the wooden steps of the carriage, Baldwin’s eyes went there. The years had made her a mature woman and made her beautiful. The dark brown tone of her hair had lightened, and blondes were mixed in between. Her skin was smooth as in her childhood. The cherry cheeks that adorned her snow-white face had not left her. A storm had formed in his heart, his love had turned into a natural disaster. When she descended the creaking steps and her feet touched the ground, Maria looked up at the king. Her honey-colored eyes sparkled. She had seen the child behind the metal mask in Baldwin’s eyes.

But the maid who got out of the carriage was carrying something in her arms that revealed the sin of their love. One of the heirs to the crown. Prince Philip. Maria's son by Prince Hugh. This child would have been theirs if this disease had not taken him prisoner. William expected the king to make a welcoming speech. But Baldwin seemed rather absent-minded. “Your Majesty,” he warned his king, “you must pull yourself together. The princess is now a married woman with a heir."

William was right. He had to come to his senses quickly and fulfill his duties as a king. The Latin King stood up, holding on to the arms of the prepared throne, and greeted the Prince and the Princess. He said it was a great honor for them to be here. Because he was on very good terms with King Louis VII of France. That's why it was such a pleasure for him to welcome the future heir, the Prince, and his wife, Princess Maria. Of course, when he saw Princess Maria next to the Prince, these words he said were completely fake. Even though he knew that Maria and the king were old childhood friends, the Prince did not allow Maria to speak and spoke to the king himself. Because he knew she still love this king with the ugly rotting skin. The king could not look at Maria. Because if he did, everything would be understood. So he averted his eyes, but Maria looked at her old friend William and smiled. Old memories had gathered in her eyes and came out.

William spoke up. "Your Majesty, if you wish, we can place the gifts of the Kingdom of France in the great hall. This will provide a much more intimate setting for the gifts presented during the banquet."

"Good thinking, William," Baldwin said. "Let's do what's necessary."

After the prince and the king finished speaking, they went inside. The servants showed the nobles to their rooms so they could get ready for the feast while their belongings were being put away.

Baby Philip had a separate room. They went to their rooms with the nurse.

When they came to the room, the bathtub was ready. The bathtub was made of white marble, shaped by marbles extracted from the Anatolian Seljuk lands. It was filled with water containing jasmine essence and leaves. Arab servants surrounded the bathtub, one had a silver tray, a loofah and soap on it. The other had a loincloth in his hand.

Princess Maria knew that Muslims were very clean. This was the most important thing for Islam and they were very contemptuous of people who were not clean.

The servants took off Maria's clothes, covered her private parts with a loincloth, and holding her hand, they sat her in the tub.

A woman took a copper bowl and dipped it into the jasmine water in the bathtub and poured it on the princess's hair. The cold drops of water cooled the roots of her warm hair. The weather was so hot here that the coolness of the water was a relief to her. She leaned her head on the edge of the tub and positioned herself so the other woman could massage her shoulder.

Her muscles, which had been tense due to sadness and her husband's irritable character, began to relax. The woman's delicate fingers were moving around the girl's shoulders and neck. The drops of water that had begun to dry on her skin were keeping it cool in the hot air. She was half asleep, half awake, dreaming but barely aware of what was happening. She didn't even realize when the woman's delicate, thin fingers were replaced by thick, calloused ones. Baldwin was in her dreams. She was sitting in the arbor of the palace in Constantinople, in the gardens with their many varieties of flowers, with Baldwin's head on Maria's lap. His eyes were looking up, into the honey-colored eyes of his beloved wife. The sun was streaming through the wooden planks of the arbor and making the heavens in Baldwin's blue eyes shine. She stroked his light golden brown hair. His skin was soft and shiny, just like when he was a child, and his lips were thin and small.

"My beautiful lover." He said. But voice was not like him. "Are you thinking about me?" The girl's eyebrows furrowed. As if this was a rebellion against passing into the real world. She opened her eyes and sat up. When she looked up, she saw Hugh sitting on the edge of the tub, looking at his wife with longing. But the same was not true for the princess.

She was serious. "What are you doing?"

Hugh replied as she stood up, using the sides of the tub for support. "I thought my wife missed me." He stood up too and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Maria lowered her eyes, raised one hand, and asked the maids to help her get out of the tub. But the prince was on edge against his wife's cold attitude. He watched with anger as he was left alone.

The servants were massaging Maria's body with various oils and combing her hair. Meanwhile, her assistant was choosing a beautiful outfit for the banquet. But Maria was nervous. She and Hugh had not touched each other for a long time. They had never brought each other to the perfect peak of orgasm. That letter from the Latin palace had changed something and the prince was aware of it. She knew that Hugh would use the maids to do this. Even though he knew that adultery was one of the greatest sins, the prince felt entitled to it. Perhaps he wanted to make the woman he loved jealous and take revenge. But he never achieved his goal. Because Maria could never love her husband enough to be protective or jealous of him.

As if it were a ritual, a rite, he would ask for sexual intercourse in the palace of the man she loved. He wanted to trouble her conscience.

While her dress and jewelry were being prepared for the feast, the servants dressed Maria in a white silk nightgown, the sleeves of which were wide and connected to the skirt like bat wings.

When the princess returned to bedroom, she did not see her husband. This was a relief to her.

"Where would you like me to put these clothes, my lady?" Maria was startled by the old woman's question. She answered with a faint smile on her face. "Put them where the emerald green surcoat is."

Then she went to her jewelry. They were in a carved wooden chest on the table. She put her fingers inside and began to rummage through the earrings, necklaces, and rings. The necklace she would wear to the banquet was very special. Among the betrothal gifts that Emperor Manuel had burned or distributed to the poor, the only gift Maria had saved was the beautiful necklace designed by Baldwin. The pearls hanging from the edges of the gold collar surrounding the red beryl, emerald, and alexandrite stones...

She called her maid over and told her that she would be wearing this necklace as an accessory to the dress they had chosen. The woman was fascinated as soon as she saw the necklace. "This is very beautiful, your majesty."

About ten minutes later, the prince called out to his wife, who was giving instructions to her maids to put away the clothes. "You must be happy to see your childhood sweetheart, my love." Maria was startled by her husband's voice as she smoothed down the pearl-embroidered dress in her hand. She ran her fingers over the soft texture of the shiny fabric and handed it to the maid. "The same topic again?" Then she looked at her husband. "That's in the past, you know. Ten years is a long time to forget."

Hugh grabbed his wife's arm tightly and turned her towards him. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. "For the mind, yes, but for your heart? Was ten years enough?"

Maria did not say a word, and that was an answer for Hugh. He squeezed his wife's arm tighter. The young woman groaned, feeling the pain in her arm deeply. She frowned under the pain and tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!"

The maids were disturbed by the tension between husband and wife and did not know what to do.

Hugh brought his face closer to hers. "If that's true, I swear..." he was cut off by a knock on the door.

Maria looked into her husband's eyes without the slightest trace of love.

She ordered. "Come in!"

The young servant girl ran to Princess Maria and bowed before her.

"Your Majesty, forgive me. Your son Philip, I believe, needs your help."

Prince Hugh was also angry. Were all those nannies interested in his heir? Just as he was about to attack the young girl, Maria grabbed his arm. "My prince, please! Have some patience!" She was worried. "Is everything okay? What's wrong?"

The girl was not very good at lying, she stammered. "He wouldn't stop crying. We thought he needed his mother. The mother's scent calms babies."

Hugh glanced at his wife contemptuously. "Your motherhood is as bad as your wifehood!”

Without saying anything, Maria left her husband and ordered the young girl to take her son.

The maid was escorting the princess to the room where Philip was staying. Maria noticed that she was quite excited. She had thought of scenarios such as her son being sick. She started asking the girl questions. Was her son sick? Maybe something bad happened to him and they were afraid of the prince and didn't tell her. The girl's nervous attitude made the princess even more nervous. "Stop, I order you!"

The girl stopped suddenly and looked like a child being scolded by her mother. Maria could see how frightened her face was in the candlelight. "What's the matter? You look very nervous."

The girl stuttered and pointed to the hallway behind Maria. “This way, my lady.” Maria swallowed and looked at the hallway the girl was pointing to. It looked much more ornate than the others. The work on its door was magnificent and decorated with gold leaf.

Maria frowned. "Philip isn't there, is he?"

The girl shook her head. “No, your majesty. Just come in. He’s waiting for you there.”

When the soldiers waiting at the door saw Maria, they immediately moved and opened the door. Maria knew very well who was waiting for her inside. She walked through the door with excited steps and went out to the balcony with the most beautiful view of Jerusalem. The two soldiers standing here welcomed their princess and escorted her to the door leading to their king's chamber.

The soldiers brought the princess to the door and left. Maria took a deep breath, knocked on the door and entered that was nervous. It was the first time she had done something in secret from her husband. She was sure he would punish her if he knew where she was. She could not leave the bedrooms. He would put guards at the bedroom doors.

She looked around. The objects were as if they were showing off in the light of evening with sun. This was not the room he had stayed in as a child. It was his father's room and its size was dazzling. It was a room worthy of a young king of the Holy Land. Maria looked at the bed across from her in admiration. Her childhood love was resting in this bed, leaving his scent on these sheets. She slowly approached the bed and picked up the burgundy-colored pillow. She wrapped her arms around it tightly, as if she were hugging Baldwin. She buried her head in the soft texture of the pillow and breathed in the scent. It smelled just as she remembered. It was so clean, smelled of soap and incense.

The princess remembered the dream she had the night of their engagement. It was a terrifying nightmare, to be exact. She had longed to speak to the bishop of Hagia Sophia. Even though the priest had interpreted her nightmare positively, Maria was always anxious. She was afraid of the end of their epic love. And one day, those things she feared separated them until death. When all these memories came to life before her eyes, a small smile appeared on her face. However, her eyes denied this smile and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Is that you William? I've been waiting for you." It was Baldwin's voice, and it came from afar. Maria, with the remorse of her sin, did not want to be caught by Baldwin, and her whole body trembled. When she turned her head to the silk tulle curtain that separated the room, she saw his silhouette and dropped the pillow in her lap to the floor.

Take the pillow or leave the room… While she was trying to choose the right way in this dilemma, Baldwin pulled the veil aside and entered.

“Maria, you…” Baldwin stood there in shock and could not finish his sentence.

There he was, Baldwin. The man whose happiness she had forgotten for years with his longing was standing right in front of her. Baldwin was no different. He felt much stronger now. He never expected to meet those meaningful eyes again. Alone. It was as if their cursed love had flared up again.

Baldwin did not want Maria to get into a difficult situation. As soon as he saw Maria approaching him, he spoke up. "It is not right for you to be here, my lady. Please do not do this to us."

Maria, on the other hand, was determined. She had been imprisoned by a man she did not love for years, and when she could no longer stand this torture, the man who was her ray of hope stood before her.

They were standing face to face when she replied, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Her hands were on groin, her nails tearing at the flesh on the sides of her fingers.

Baldwin replied, his voice filled with reproach. "You gave up on me, Maria. I learned of our separation from the letter your father sent to the palace. You didn't care to send a farewell letter."

Maria was crying. She looked into the king's eyes. "This is not true. I swear."

"Tell me what is right," he said. "Of course you couldn't go against your family, I understand that. But what about your love? Your fear got in the way of your love, and I couldn't read your last letter that smelled of roses, is that right?"

"No. You don't know how strict my father is. I wrote you letters many times. I wanted to send them secretly, but my nanny betrayed me. That's why I always got caught. I gave up because a young girl died in pain because of the letters I wrote you. I wasn't afraid of my father, Baldwin. I didn't want innocent people to suffer because of me." The words barely escaped her lips as she sobbed.

The girl took Baldwin's right hand, wrapped in a white bandage, and caressed it. But the effects of leprosy were beginning to set in again, and his arm was numb. What a disappointment it was not to be able to feel the woman he loved while she held his hand! "Oh God, please," he whispered. He did not care how great a sin adultery was. He wanted to feel the touch of the woman he loved. He wanted to experience the sexual urges he felt for the only woman in his life, past and future, who would love him. Not now, his inner voice said. He did not want to die without being drunk with Maria's love.

Baldwin took his right arm and pulled it from Maria's hands. He held out his left hand. "Come on Maria, come with me. We have a lot to talk about," he said. Although the princess realized that Baldwin could not use his right arm, she did not show anything so as not to upset him. So they went behind the silk veil.

The evening view of Jerusalem was almost under their feet. They sat on the couch. Their eyes met suddenly. It was the first time Maria saw her friend, her love, with a mask on his face, and it was painful for her soul.

"God has given you the most beautiful design of all his creations, Maria. You took me back to my childhood."

Maria smiled. "You too, my dear. The innocent, well-intentioned child standing before me has not changed at all."

Baldwin took offense. "You needn't pity me. I have been the god-cursed king for too long."

Maria put her hand on Baldwin's silver mask. Since she couldn't touch his skin, she had to be content with this. "You're still that boy I fell in love with." She caressed the cold, hard, emotionless mask. "The eyes looking with courage and hope. That boy whose character and heart I admired, has now grown up and become the greatest king the Latin Kingdom will ever witness."

There was surprise in Baldwin's voice. "Do you really think so?" He knew what was being said about him outside the borders of the kingdom. Even Saladin did not take him seriously at first. Until he saw that the king was a formidable enemy, he didn't respected him. Still, his illness had become a symbol of bad luck in many kingdoms, especially Byzantium, and had caused political relations to be damaged. If an agreement was made with the Latin kingdom, the curse of God would be poured upon them.

"Even if you gave me all the jewels in the world, it wouldn't satisfy me as much as your love." Her lips trembled, the area around her eyes turned red.

She was trying to control herself not to cry. She brought her face closer to Baldwin and buried her head in his neck, witnessing his scent and warmth. "You are not only the king of the holy land, but also the king of my heart," she said.

Baldwin was ashamed. He had never been so loved and pampered by a woman. He could even see his mother at political meetings. It had been a long time since he felt like a man. He had forgotten that he was a man because in other kingdoms he was nothing. Muslims called him a pig because they did not believe in the same God. Andalusian Arab historians spoke of him as a disgusting creature. According to Christians, he was the child of the devil and God punished him with ugliness and pain as a price for the cruelty and misery he would bring to the world. Jews living in his kingdom cursed their kings because they were not under the rule of a glorious king and prayed for his death. However, even though all that was left of that beautiful child was a piece of rotten flesh, he was reminded that he was human by the woman he loved, without knowing what he had become.

"You are here with me now, Maria. We may never meet again, but it is a great chance that you are here with me now."

Maria tried to smile, but tears were flowing relentlessly down her cheeks and down her chin, dampening Baldwin's white bandage. "I beg you, don't talk like that! Make me forget about reality for one night. Let's be in a fairy tale. Kiss me and let us to live happily ever after."

"I promise, Maria. I'll only make you live your fairy tale tonight."

Maria wrapped her arms around Baldwin's still feeling hand and lifted it into the air. She brought her lips close and kissed it longingly, many times.

Baldwin kept his word and wanted to talk about the good times.

"After reading the letter from the French court, William and I discussed whether she could still use a sword."

Maria wiped her tears and smiled. "I haven't used a sword since I got married. Hugh says it's not for women."

"It is unfair, the land of France has lost its best knight."

Maria shrugged. "If you're not my opponent, I don't care."

Baldwin's voice was full of affection. "We can reminisce whenever you want."

Maria snuggled up to Baldwin. She leaned her head on his chest. "It's okay, I don't want you to get tired."

Baldwin's numb arm was finally beginning to get feel, and he lifted his arm with difficulty and effort, and as he gently stroked Maria's hair, she looked happily at him without lifting her head from his chest.

"Maria, my beautiful queen. While my illness cannot prevent me from fighting the Ayyubids and leading my army, shall I miss the chance to duel with you? I will definitely be ready for it tomorrow."

"I would be honored, my king," said Maria. If she had married Baldwin, she would have been queen, and in their correspondence Baldwin always referred to Maria as "my queen." The fact that he addressed her with the same title, just like in the old days, showed the greatness of the love in his heart.

At the end of this entertaining conversation, Baldwin grew quiet. There was an inexplicable sadness in his voice. "You said your father was strict. You said a girl died because of us, Maria. What have you been through?"

Maria lowered her eyes as she remembered. Her eyes were red and a few tears slid down her cheeks to her chin.

"Several times one of the young maids helped me to smuggle letters into my room. The niche in the wall where i had once kept my doll was filled with letters from you. But the day the nanny discovered our secret, father showed no mercy. "she sobbed . "The young girl was punished by the priest reading verses from the Bible, supposedly purifying herself from her sins. Hot irons, daggers and hot oil. The girl fainted many times due to this unbearable pain and her weak body could not stand it anymore. The girl died."

"I never thought the emperor would be so afraid of our love that he would slander God. No God would allow such a punishment to be given to a virgin girl."

"I couldn't write you back. Because I never got to your last letter. The last time I saw it was among the gifts from you were being burned, in the middle of courtyard." She was sobbing and repeated over and over, "Forgive me, forgive me, my love."

Baldwin's heart ached as if it had been thrown into fire, and it was because of sadness and despair that Maria has.

"If I had a chance, if this curse would leave me alone, I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he said, stroking her hair.

But Maria, angered by this statement, rose harshly from her king's lap, her hands resting on Baldwin's groin, gripping the fabric of his robe tightly. "Please stop cursing your illness! You shouldn't care what people think. And I don't believe the thing what they think God says in bible. God holds you up as an instance to all; the kingdom of heaven is strengthened in your hands."

Baldwin put his bandaged hand around the girl's neck and pulled back the hair that covered her beautiful neck. "How can you be so sure about God, Maria? Are the priests wrong?"

"Did you not show your power, despite the limitations of your illness, and become a king loved by your people and respected by your enemies? You keep a part of God within you. You are not that man hated by God, Baldwin. If you were, I cannot imagine the illness that Hugh would have suffered," she said, laughing wryly at the last sentence.

When Baldwin returned her smile, Maria could tell by the sound he made as he laughed. and Maria thought.

"I would like to see your smile, enslaved by the mask, one last time, my dear," she said. There was sadness on her face.

Baldwin was embarrassed. "You know it's impossible, Maria."

Maria frowned. There was a half-mocking look on her face. "Why is that impossible? Has the evil witch completely transformed your face into a silver mask?"

"No, of course not. But the man under the mask has already killed the beautiful boy you remember."

"Then how come I'm looking into that boy's eyes?"

Maria slid off the couch and sat on her knees on the floor, looking pleadingly at the man she loved. For Baldwin, this was the moment he had feared.

"I beg you, let me touch your skin one last time, my dear."

The healers did not yet know about leprosy. There was only suspicion in their conversations. Despite this, they made definite statements and the worst thing was that it was contagious. Moreover, the woman he loved wanted to touch him. If anything happened to her, she would never forgive herself. Even this idea was enough to terrify him and he quickly stood up. He was going towards the window to get away from her.

"No, Maria. Don't ask me to do this!" But his muscles had become one with his illness and betrayed him once again. Baldwin lost control of his body for a moment and stumbled. Maria cried out as he lost his balance. "My love!"

Baldwin was down on one knee, his left hand on the ground, supporting his arm.

He felt that the woman he loved had hold his arm to save her king. When he looked up, Maria looked at him with a feeling that was companions of love and fear.

"Oh Maria." He didn't want her to see him like this, but fate betrayed him once again.

Baldwin got up with Maria's help. There was almost no distance between them. They were looking into each other's eyes with love. Despite the illness, the fake marriage, the years that passed, their love had not diminished even for a day. They could see the storms in the sea of love in their eyes.

"Come on, let me touch you one last time, Baldwin."

"If it infected to you, then I'll die."

"Nothing will happen, I promise."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I have what those incompetent healers lack."

"What was that?"

"Wouldn't some stupid servant have been infected by now?" Maria put her hand on the mask. "If they understood enough about the disease to be sure it was contagious, why couldn't they find a cure?"

Baldwin took Maria's hand and caressed it. "Okay then, I'll take off my mask. But if you care about me at all, don't ask to see my face."

Maria objected. “But…” But Baldwin was determined.

"I want you to always remember me as beautiful, Maria. Like that child whose beauty you admired and confessed to. Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my short life as an unhappy man."

Although Maria wanted to prove that she would love him in any way possible, Baldwin's request prevented her. Maybe not with words, but nodded, avoiding her eyes.

She closed her eyes and waited. But the king had another plan. When he left the dream queen and did not return for a while, Maria opened her eyes. Baldwin approached her with a piece of black cloth in his hand. He knew that Maria was a stubborn girl, so he had to make sure her eyes were closed. His hair, made of golden threads, had fallen out, leaving a purulent, bloody scalp in its place. His facial anatomy, which resembled a Greek statue, was now in a state of great destruction. His lips were falling apart, the bones in his nose were melting. He was not ready for Maria to see him like this, and he would never be ready. His concreteness should live as a memory, in Maria's dreams.

He lifted the cloth up and folded it into a strip to fit his eyes. It was much better this way. He could now let her touch him freely. He placed the piece of cloth over Maria's eyes, wrapped it around her head, and tied it at the back as ribbon. When her eyes closed, the pinkness of her sweet lips could be seen in all its glory. What wouldn't he give to kiss those lips? Her kiss reminded him of God's forgiving side. But all he had to do was get rid of the mask. He took it off, praying that everything would go well.

While Maria was waiting for Baldwin, the world was pitch black for her. It was like a blind man trying to witness life. Her ears were much more sensitive now. She could hear the friction of the silver mask sliding across his skin. She waited. She waited for the best moment for Baldwin.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Maria had been ready for him years ago.

Baldwin gently held the girl's wrists, as cautiously as if he were holding a glass rose branch. He could not control his breathing rhythm in excitement as he brought her delicate fingers close to his deformed face. And when her fingertips finally touched his rough skin, Maria sighed with joy. He needed to feel this warmth so much that he had finally managed to overcome the despair that had been following him for years.

“Baldwin,” she said, her voice catching in her breath. The happy expression on her face gave way to a sad plea. She took his face between her hands and caressed his cheeks with the thumbs. "I missed you so much. I had a hard time not rebelling against the fate that separated us. But God rewarded me with you for my wait."

"You are the only sin I do not regret, the only sin I will not beg God to forgive me, Maria," Baldwin said. Nontheless Maria's fingers seemed to be trying to explore the face of the man she loved. She saw nothing. If someone else had been standing in front of her instead of Baldwin, it would not have mattered. Still, she saw the anatomy of his face not with her eyes but with her touch. Baldwin's words fueled the impossible love she felt for him.

"You too, my love," she said, rising on her toes and pressing her lips against the calloused, chapped lips of the man she loved. A passionate act that proves that she doesn't care about his illness. Maria's lips were the heaven Baldwin had not experienced in this life. Baldwin's lips must have been dark sin for a married woman. But this sin was only the price of their desperate separation.

They said goodbye to each other for the last time, feeling their skin, before their love was lost in the sands of Jerusalem. Baldwin's virgin lips were alive with a woman's lust, and he didn't want this moment to end. God, I wish time would stop right now. If only the fairy tale these two poor lovers were living would never end.

Maria put one arm around the king's neck. With her other hand she felt around his body and found his hand and held it. She put his hand on her breasts. She squeezed his hand together to show him that she wanted him to caress it. Baldwin's hand was on the princess's breast while her hand was on his hand. Their kisses were much more passionate now. Their tongues were dancing on the wet skin. Their lips were in awe, as if they were reading a verse from the Bible. Baldwin slid his hand from his princess's breast and down to the curve of her waist. Her body shape had such an aesthetic. Her rounded lines were satisfactory. He almost lost himself in the complicated paths of love. But he suddenly remembered that he had to protect the honor and dignity of the woman he loved. He didn't want her to see her as an unchaste woman who was cheating on husband with another man. Baldwin turned away from her. “We must stop now, my lady,” he said. “This is not right for you.” He took his mask from the table where it had been placed and began to place it on his face.

"But we both want this. Or have you given up on loving me?"

He was so close to her as he untied her blindfold, he could feel her body heat. "Maybe my body will not live thirty years, but my soul will be exalted with love for you, my queen." He said. When she removed the tape completely, Maria was once again face to face with the mask that had ruined the life of the man she loved. But despite everything, she was grateful that she could look into his eyes. "Forever," he said and she looked into his beautiful eyes as he finished the sentence.

Maria's eyes got wet again. "My love is yours forever, my king," she replied.

Unfortunately, the end of this miraculous moment came early. William called out before entering. She was startled.

"Your Majesty, I have to take the princess away now."

Baldwin caressed the girl's cheek one last time. "My moon-skinned love, with eyes brighter than the sun. You gave me the most beautiful gift in the world. Thank you, I am grateful to you."

He had so much more to say, but whatever he didn't talk about turned into tears in his eyes after she left. He had to calm down before going to the banquet and pretend that this moment had never happened.

[moonsandloons]

Solar and Lunar's Relationship is so Underrated

Alright. I already typed out like a whole essay about this in one of my friends dms (I am so sorry you had to read all that-) but I decided to post an even LONGER essay here! Because I can :]

Solar and Lunar are just... Just the best. I love them. SO MUCH.

Lunar:

Lunar was the first person that Solar met from the main dimension. Lunar was obviously terrified of Solar at first, considering he looked and sounded just like Eclipse, but I love how Solar treats him when they first meet. He says "I don't know how anyone could hate you" and "I know I'm not your Eclipse. but you're not a mistake" and is just super sweet in general. It's been a while, but I recommend y'all go back and watch that episode, it's "What if Eclipse isn't evil?! In VRCHAT" and it's genuinely so so adorable.

It took a while for Lunar to get used to Solar, but Solar was patient with him the whole time and I love that. He understood why Lunar was scared of him and was just as sweet as possible until Lunar could feel comfortable around him.

One thing I think is interesting is that when Lunar went in Solar's head, he saw the memory of Solar killing his Moon. I don't think he saw the exact moment when Solar shot him, but from the fact that Solar was still alive and had never told anyone about it, he could probably infer what happened. He knows it happened, but he never held it against him. He never told anyone, he never blamed Solar or called him a murderer, because at that point he knew he wouldn't hurt someone without a reason. He knew Solar was trustworthy.

I think it's nice how their friendship was developed more in the background. Solar and Moon were always 'the besties', always spending time together, working on projects together, and it was the same way with Earth. But even though Solar and Lunar never spent as much time with each other, I feel like they understood each other better than anyone else. Their friendship was special, even if it wasn't as prominent.

When Lunar killed Eclipse, Solar showed him the same patience and care and kindness that he's always shown. Earth was scared of him, Gemini was angry at him, but Solar understood exactly what he was going through, because he'd been there once himself. And just like Lunar didn't judge him, he never judged Lunar.

Solar:

In his home dimension, Solar didn't really have anyone that he could trust. His Moon and Sun BOTH died. In the episode he was introduced in, he explained that during the separation or sometime after, his Moon passed away, and the version we saw who tried to kill him was a copy of his Moon with the same memories. I wonder if that's why he's so unwilling to except what happened to Nexus, because he's seen it all before. And I wonder if maybe this will become a pattern, and what happened to his Sun will end up happening to ours?

Anyways. Solar had to come to the main dimension because his Moon tried to kill him and scrap him for parts and was just being an abusive asshole in general. It does remind me of Eclipse and Lunar. Solar was just a byproduct to his Moon, a useless machine he could use for extra labor, and when Solar wasn't useful to him anymore, he tried to scrap him for parts, desperate to get back his Sun, his star. In a way, I think Solar sees himself in Lunar. That's why they understand each other so well.

When Solar killed his Moon, he didn't tell anyone. I really wonder if that'll ever get brought up again, because he and Lunar have both been hiding it for so long. I can't imagine the guilt he'd feel afterwards, even if it was justified.

I'm going to talk about self harm now, so if you're sensitive to the topic, just scroll past this pink section.

Now, this might be me projecting, because i used to self harm and in a way, I see myself in both Lunar and Solar. But I can see the signs in both of them. Both of them, at this point, have got to have some kind of self worth issues. Constantly being told you're worthless is going to critically damage your self esteem, and it's clear that it's taken some kind of toll on them.

Solar is always working, constantly, and I think that's for two reasons. The first it to distract himself, of course, but i wonder if he's trying to prove himself. He wants to prove to his family that he IS worth something and that they don't need to punish him or scrap him for parts because he IS useful.

And Lunar is the same way. He hasn't shown as many signs, but he's had a lot of pressure on him since he came back. He feels like he has to be good with his powers, to keep both him and his family safe. He has quite literally got the entire world on his shoulders, with Rez threatening him and Taurus threatening him and worst of all, the looming threat that Gemini will probably never speak to him again if he can't master his powers, that's A LOT.

They're both dealing with a lot, and being constantly overwhelmed like that can drive a person to hurt themself. It's more of a headcanon with Lunar, but I could see it being canon for Solar. Like in one of the recent episodes where he was talking to Jack and said "Break the habit Solar- I mean, break the habit Jack!" I wonder if that's what he could be referring to? Idk, let me know what you think.

Okay, I'm done talking about that now. Anyways. When Solar died, Lunar didn't really react. Earth screamed and cried, Nexus went insane, but Lunar didn't really react. And looking at things from a surface level, you could say it's because he and Solar weren't as close, but i don't think that's really true. Lunar said he didn't really feel strongly about it, but how could he? With how much trouble his own emotions cause him in the past, how could he possibly? Maybe he didn't want to lose control of his powers again, maybe he didn't want Earth to be scared of him again. And everyone around him was already so sad, he needed to be stable so they didn't have to worry about him too. But just because he didn't have an outwards reaction, that doesn't mean he didn't care. That doesn't mean he didn't grieve, it doesn't mean it didn't effect him.

Sadly, we haven't seen Lunar's reaction to Solar's return yet, because youtube decided to chaunce around and be stupid, but I'm excited to see how he feels about the whole thing.

I have a little theory/prediction for you all before I end things off. Lunar got star power because he was rebuilt in space. Eclipse's lab was apparently next to the sun.... Maybe Solar will get star power as well? It would make sense, why should he not? He was rebuilt in space as well. It would be dumb if he didn't. Their lives are very parallel to each other after all, even their names.

Anyways. That's enough chauncing about from me, I've got to get to school. But let me know what you guys think! Are Solar and Lunar best duo 2024? Will Solar get star powers? Will the be fire themed and cool as fuck if he does? Does Solar is gay??????? I guess we'll have to wait and find out.

(Jesus Christ, you are DEDICATED, I don't know how you made it this far. If i saw a tumblr post this long, I would not have the patience to read it, you get a gold star for coming all this way ⭐)

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Honesty

I am back! Mostly because I got time and I feel like it.

Am I going through the ideas I have for prompts/drabbles quickly? Yes. Very. The idea pile is getting low but I don't feel like pacing them out. What is the fun in that?

Anyway. Lets continue where we left off... shall we? @spotaus as promised your daily tag!

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

We going! And we are still with Cross <3

*--------------------*

Cross watches from their nest as Dust just remains rolled up around Nightmare. Still not moving or talking at all. Nightmare himself doesn't seem bothered as he clearly is unwilling to let go of Dust either.

Cross remains where he is now. Watching over the two as Killer finishes up with the police people and Horror stalks around their area. Making sure it is still clean.

Cross feels the exhaustion creep back up but he refuses to rest. He isn't going to rest! Not as long as his mates and their child-

Cross feels himself blush as he shakes his skull. Trying to ban the thought. Focus! No need for useless and wishful daydreaming. It is especially not the time to think about those things now!

Horror enters the house before Killer and joins them. He looks at him and Cross makes sure to smile back. Horror is already stressed himself. No need to add to it. Cross has no doubt that Horror is also exhausted after all that happened.

Horror gives his nice and handsome half smile before sitting with Dust, he doesn't touch right away "Bunny??"

Dust doesn't speak but Cross can see him turn his skull a tiny bit.

Horror must have seen it too "Can I see Nightmare?" Horror's hand is slightly shaking. clearly worried.

Dust remains still but nods as he forces himself to turn. Moving so slow and careful.

Cross had once asked Dust what it felt like. To have so much power and magic. Dust had shrugged and said that it sometimes made it hard to control how he moved or how he used his magic.

Cross wonders if the slow movements and slow turns is now Dust's magic being overactive to try and protect Nightmare... or it are his parental instincts... Maybe even both? Cross still can't get over that Dust just controls it. Now with the lightning too! It is so powerful and wild and Dust just sits down and breaths through it... Cross is still unsure how anyone in the multiverse could messure up to that! Cross still remembers how it had felt to really see Dust use his magic and powers for the first time. all that time ago... Cross knows form that moment that this was going to cause issues for him as he still remembers it and could not stop thinking about it. And now he just got more powerful?! With the same calm control even if it no doubt only got harder to control? Cross is in trouble... such deep trouble.

Cross focusses on Horror and that may have been a mistake on its own. Horror smiles so painfully soft at Dust and Nightmare nad Cross feels his soul do that little flip again. Horror's devotion and care is so obvious. It is open and honest and Cross always feels unsure if it is aimed at him. Worried he will do something that makes it so painfully obvious of what he wants. Cross doesn't want that. He can't deal with them not wanting him like he wants them. Them not loving him like he does them.

He is content like this. Seeing them together and happy and safe.

Horror has managed to get Dust to uncurl again and accept being moved back into his arms. Horror seems to be gently checking Nightmar enad his magic.

He huffs unhappily "His magic is unsettled."

Cross feels deep fear as he leans closer. "What does that mean?" Was he too slow after all?! He should have been faster and just broken him out and-

Horror looks at him and reaches for him. a moment later his hand is on his shoulder and Cross can't help but lean into the touch a bit. His shoudlers relax a little bit as Horror rubs and massages the shoulder slightly.

Hroror speaks calmly "Calm down. I think... probably trauma and fear response. Just means his magic and mana is all concentrated around his soul. a protection kinda... Just means his magic needs to settle first before he can eat again." again Horror looks deeply unhappy.

Cross feels intense relieve before feeling like scum. Horror is terrified of food shortage and someone going hungry... This must be terrible to Horror to know Nightmare can't have any food for a while.

Cross searches for the right words "euh... how long... does it usually take... and can't we give him small things? maybe just something to drink? A smoothie could maybe work?"

Horror sighs as he gently rubs Nightmare's side and belly as Dust holds their tiny babybones close again. muttering soft reassurances again. Horror looks at him and thinks. Cross feels a bit bad for asking exact numbers. Horror said numbers often leave him confused after what happened.

Horror manages to push through though, he always does... it is one of those things that is amazing about him, and Horror answers his question "usual? Day... two max... and for the food it is a hard no. It can upset his magic and his magic will start expelling anything not the same. meaning he would just... lose more magic as he vomits it up." a sad but resigned look.

Cross frowns and nods "not even soup? that is liquid adn stuff..."

Horror shakes his skull "Still too heavy and sitll not like his own body and his own magic."

Cross frowns and tries to give him a reassuring smile "Well... We will just need to keep some fruits and yogurt ready. For when his magic settles a bit." Horror usually gives Nightmare that when Nightmare's magic can't absorb a lot of food.

Horror considers it before nodding his own agreement.

Cross takes a moment to lean back and relax. just a moment. Just because he can enjoy the sight of Horror having Dust in his lap and Nightmare comfortable and safe in their combined arms. It is nice. Cross loves seeing these moments. Being part of them is just as amazing!

The door opens and Cross turns quickly and waits. the sound of a lock turning and moments later Killer walks into the room. looking slightly done but he gives them a thumbs up "We should be good. Gave them the rundown and talked them into the right direction."

Horror nods as he gives his own small rundown on Nightmare's health.

Dust sighs and mutters "Talking about health... He needs a bath..." Nightmare nods but doesn't pull away from the hug.

Cross smiles and nods "Good idea! YOu can take Nightmare and get him comfortable and I will guard you guys as Killer and Horror get ready for bed too!" then after all of them are comfortable Cross will quickly get ready for bed and join them and just get to enjoy feeling them all near.

Killer steps in "Actually. Horror you mind helping Dust with Nighty?" Horror already shakes his shoulder as he gets up. Taking both Dust and Nightmare towards the bathroom.

Cross frowns and turns to Killer.

Oh. He is mad.

Furious even.

Killer glares but still has that smile on his face "We need to talk." and he grabs his hand and pulls him along. Cross doesnt'fight it as they end up in their green house.

It is gorgeous in here. Especially at night as the moon light shines in through the glass panes and reflects of everything in here. These plants are already full grown and some are starting to bare fruit again. All the plants in here are magical in nature to help them get food that they actually need in their diet.

Killer glares at him full force and Cross can't help but think he fits in perfectly. He is just as pretty if not even more.

Damnit Cross. Skull in the game. Not the moment.

Killer glares at him and hisses "Waht were you thinking?"

Cross glares back "I was getting Nightmare out and to safety. Sorry I wasn't sneaky enough or caused issues with the police!"

Killer groans as he rubs his face "I don't give a flying fuck about the police Cross! You think I care? No! I will fly through my teeth and think of a solution. I can deal with that! YOu know what I can't deal with? You going to fight a threat on your own! Alone! One we don't know!"

Cross glares "There was no other option."

Killer glares back "There was! We could have moved as a team Cross!"

Cross throws up his arms "Not fast enough! And I was fine! THose assholes didn't even come close to hurting me!"

Killer groans and grabs him by the skull and pulls him down to glare at him fully "How can I get it through to you that you stop treating yourself as expandable?!"

Cross stops and mtuters "what?"

Killer glares at him "of course we were going to go after him as soon as we could! Of course we were going to cause trouble! Of course we were going to hurt those who did it and make sure they never did it again! We all would have! But you! You going out on your own and going to confront a threat on your own?! One we don't even know? Damnit Cross it could have been someone form the multiverse! Someone who COULD actually hurt us!" He glares at him "When are you finally going to believe we don't want you to get hurt either?!"

Cross can't think. It has been such a long day and he was so afraid of having done stuff wrong or be too slow or made a mistake... and the only thing he did wrong was... get himself in danger? to not take backup? Cross blinks "what..?" he is so tired and Killer is there.

Killer's anger seems to disappear as he just looks desperate "Why do you still think we don't want to help you? Why do you still think your hurt matters less than ours?"

Cross can't answer. because answering means... means... They are everything to him. They are the world and Cross just wants them to be happy... Is that so bad?

Killer frowns as he removes one of his hands from his skull and Cross wants it back. then the hand rubs under his sockets and oh... he is crying. damnit. Cross hates the fact he cries quickly.

Killer frowns and speaks softer "Hey... I get it... emotions ran high and all that stuff... I.... I am mad but just becuase you could have been hurt... you know?" Killer looks to the side.

Cross nods as he watching Killer. It is just still so rare for Cross to see Killer as anything but confident or smug... Killer looks almost awkward like this... it is cute.

Killer sighs but gives agrin "We are on the same page now? No needly sacrificing! Even no needed sacrificing!"

Cross mutters a yes. too afraid that moving will remove the hands holding his skull.

Killer grins widely "good! Then we can go to the others and I will remind you of this conversation if you start slipping again and-"

They are kissing.

Cross isn't even sure how this happened. But Cross is 99% sure it is his fault.

Cross opens his sockets and sees Killer just staring at him. Frozen. Cross pulls back right away "I shouldn't have done that..." shit. shit shit shit shit shit-

Killer's hands got a lot tighter and he pulls him close and.... they are kissing again.

How does this keep happening?!

Killer pulls away and grins "there! Now we both did it! problem solved!" he looks so nervous.

Cross blinks and can't help but mutter again "Really shouldn't have done that..." he is a fucking idiot and selfish and-

Killer's hold gets almost painfully tight "why not?" it isn't a shout. Not even normal volume. it sounds quiet and... sad... Killer then snorts and winks "Not interested after all?" Cross would have beleived him if he couldn't still see the very light grey eye lights in his normally dark sockets.

Cross shakes his skull then nods then groans "it isn't... it isn't that.. I lo-like! Like you a lot! And I like this! But. It is unfair because i don't just love you! I love Dust... I love horror. It is unfair to start something when... when part of me isn't in it! Isn't all here for it and... and... I am sorry... I really shouldn't have and... and..." and they are kissing again. fuck this keeps happening and Cross just wants more each time.

Killer pulls away with a grin "Well... first... that solves the issue as I also very much want to date both Horror and Dust. So i am sure we can figure something out!"

Cross blinks "You cna just do that? Date multiple people?"

killer stares at him for a moment "Right... I keep forgetting that you were stuck in a universe that was pretty much a cult."

Cross glares at Killer "Stop calling XTale a cult."

Killer raises a brow "Fine. Just because we got more important stuff to talk about... Yes you can dat emultiple people as long as everyone connected to this dating situation is okay with it. it means you are in a polyamory relationship." he grins "probably makes you poly too! That you want a relationship with multiple people and stuff."

Cross blinks and shrugs "i dunno about that... I found many people attractive but well... I only ever really wanted to be with you three..." he feels hismelf blush and looks tot he side.

Killer laughs adn gives him a soft and short kiss on the teeth before backing off. He gives him a grin and nods to the door "We should get back to the others..."

Cross rubs his arm as he glances at the door "Waht about... this?" us? Them? all of them? together? Cross hadn't known that was an option! This is like the perfect solution!

Killer laughs before grinning "We will have to see if they are interested... But first we need a moment to wind down... it has been one fucking hellish day and I jsut want to hug our baby and sleep."

Cross feels the exhaustion all over again and he sighs "I agree..."

They walk out of the greenhouse together and get dressed for bed quickly. Cross does sneak a few glances at Killer. No longer feeling bad for sneaking looks and admiring one of them now. Now that it is okay. At least wiht Killer.

They will have to dicuss with Horror and Dust what this means for them and what is even possible and what everyone is comfortable with.

But first? Time to sleep with their child and relax. They need it... and Cross thinks they deserved it too.

*--------------------*

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

[meowmeowriley]

Elder Emo

Ghost had been lost in thought, planning out his lessons for the following day, when he'd passed a room in the barracks and faintly heard music. Paramore? Normally he'd hear rock, pop, or occasionally something in Japanese. Not emo. Not what he'd been expecting, but a pleasant little throwback for him. He smiled to himself as he made to walk away, taking a mental note to pull up his old playlist and get lost in nostalgia later. But then he caught a bit of the conversation happening in the room.

"No she didn't tell me what it was all for, I stole it, dipshit."

"Why does she need 700 different eyeliners?"

"Are they different? Or is she just a hoarder?"

"Nah, mate. Some are like sticks, crayons, others are liquid. This one says eyeliner, but it looks like the eyeshadow stuff."

"That eyeshadow stuff is useless. Comes off too easily."

The two men were crowded around one's bed, it had been littered with a bunch of makeup, and they didn't seem to know what each was for.

"This is stupid."

"You said you wanted to finally have your emo phase, this is where it starts." The second man picked up a bottle of liquid eyeliner and leaned in close to the mirror, posed to paint his lower waterline with it. Ghost could no longer keep quiet.

"That's a mistake." His voice cause both recruits to jump, scrambling to salute. He rolled his eyes, but returned the gesture, if only to release the two.

He approached the bed scattered with makeup. Ghost couldn't say that he'd ever spoke to either of them, but he'd be damned if he didn't set them on the right path before they fucked themselves over here. "The liquid is for around your eyes, gives a bolder look than the stick. It's not for your waterline, you'll give yourself an eye infection like that." He handed the first soldier his choice in liner from the menagerie before them. "The liquid is bolder, but it smears, not smudges. If you're going for emo, you'll want a smudged look, the stick is better. Lay it on thick, and use your fingers to spread it around and smudge it out. And if it says waterproof, believe it. You'll need makeup remover to get that off." He said that last bit pointedly. If it weren't for regs, he'd let them just leave it like he had. Day old eyeliner that you slept in after a concert always looked so much cooler than when it had been freshly applied, at least in his opinion. Then another thought occurred to him. "Who'd you steal all this from?"

"Uhm... my sister... sir." The first man admitted sheepishly.

"Hmmm." Better a sibling than another soldier. "Give it back. You're in the army. You've been issued war paint, use that." He shrugged. Then added "I do."

The pair were quiet, clearly still not quite sure what was happening. "As you were." Ghost nodded and started to take his leave.

The second cleared his throat. "Uh... ahem... any uh... any music recommendations?"

Ghost turned in the doorway. He thought for a moment, and then "Well, you're listening to Paramore. If you want music from the same time, there's always Hawthorne Heights or Blink-182. You want something heavier look into Breaking Benjamin. Or more upbeat go for All Time Low. If you want something newer, Twenty One Pilots just released some new songs, or there's TX2, who draws a lot of inspiration from the greats. That's a start."

Both men smiled. The first spoke up. "Thank you, sir. This'll be a lot easier with an elder emo around."

Elder emo? Who- oh. Ohhhhh. When? How did that happen? He wasn't supposed to make it this far. Huh.

"Anytime." He nodded as he left them. He tried not to let his emotions show as he made his way down the hall, but internally he was brimming with pride. He'd made it so much further than anyone had ever thought, especially himself. It took a couple of baby emo's for him to see it, but he'd made it. He was still here. Despite the odds.

[ginjaanimeloversstuff]

If the character is female, then they get hate.characters that are usually hated are female most of the time. Sakura, Ino,Tenaten Hinata, Temari get so many hate.

Character like Rin and Izumi get hate, and they're dead, that's stupid, they didn't have anything going for them, or any development because they died at a young age.

Matsuri a background character that's shown in the manga and anime gets hate, and she had done nothing wrong. People have their OC bullied and Matsuri is always portrayed as a bully.

Seriously this fandom just hates women, to the point they make an innocent background character, two dead females reduced as bullies or irrelevant. Some use them to make their OC look better and the victim.

Always putting characters against eachother, always pointing out their mistakes, flaws only the bad things, out of context stuff.

Hinata asked neji to protect Naruto, who just died, she meant Sprite .she knows neji died, she moren for him.

People say Ino has not done anything, she enters an obito's mind, with hinata's help, sure she could have any other hyuga to help, but Ino knows and trusts hinata, ino control the whole battlefield.

Tenten, during the war helped fight kakzu with the bashon weapons she found, and was pretty much doing all the damage, that's overlook, tenten didn't get enough screen time, but when she did, she was awesome.

Matsuri is a background, she's a gaara student who he went after when she got kidnapped in the anime, she gets hate and turn into a villain for what? She done nothing wrong, she just there and oc fans hate her for being close to gaara? Of course she isn't going to much, she's a BACkGrOUND character and a student of Gaara.

Sakura done so much good, she makes mistakes yet they are the only thing people point out. Which is dumb.

All the female characters do nothing that's worth hate, people just like to look for flaws in female characters.they hate characters like there isn't anything else to do.

Hater only points things out when it's out of context or the female character does one bad thing. Acting as if they never done something stupid and wrong in their lives, acting like having flaws is a bad thing.

If they have flaws they are bad, if they don't have flaws they Mary sue, if they loud it's annoying, if they are shy, it's a clique, if they have too much screentime, they are trash and useless, if they don't have screens time, they are useless and trash.if the character are flat, they are ugly, they have bood, they are fanservice and trash.

All these reasons why people hate females, are the same issues female face now.

Too loud, too quiet, too fat, too skinny, too tall, too small, she dressed too much, she dressed too little, she wears too much make-up, she doesn't wear makeup. Too smart, too dumb, submissive not submissive, too confident, not confident.

Why are women fictional and real life where people only point out the bad but never good, they only know how to make a female character look bad and drag them down.

I have more things to say but I am leaving at this

[psychopathseraphim]

sammy lawrence x selfharmer!reader

tw: extreme anger from sammy's end, self-inflicted harm, forceful revealing of scars

as sammy lawrence's assistant director, you really only have one job (because sammy tends to do everything on his own); to check on how the music plays alongside the film. during your first few days as an intern, you had some issues with syncing the music, but now that it's been a few months or so, this task has come naturally to you.

one day, however, tension within the studio was high, mainly because a short was destined to come out tomorrow (anytime tomorrow) and the music department was rushing to create songs for it. not to have a complex but you were extremely certain that it was only you and sammy that deserved a place in the credits, with how the other interns (including jack fain) failed to cooperate and contribute.

sammy was extremely on-edge that same evening, especially due to the sleep-deprivation catching up to him. desperately he wrote scores and edited notes to be performed and recorded by you both; you were somewhat afraid due to your knowledge about certain instruments being short and cut-off. you didn't want to press the man, especially not tonight.

however, after submitting a scene you synchronized the music to, sammy found out about a certain error- a song for an extremely crucial part was mixed up with another song. . . this angered sammy extremely, especially because he didn't necessarily have extra time on his hands to tweak it. feeling like his trust in you was misplaced, he called you over.

"(y/n), look at this. haven't we talked multiple times about this song being for this scene?!" his voice started to get louder as his anger continued to rise. "you have ONE thing to do, (y/n)! you're in the luckier end of the rope- try being in my shoes! if I were you, I wouldn't make a single mistake!"

somewhat scared, you grab onto the hem of your shirt and look down. nervously, you try to reason with him: "I-I'm sorry, there must have been an error in the syst-"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT ANY ERRORS IN THE SYSTEM! who else is behind the system if not you?! God, you interns are useless." he spat back, his voice booming and echoing throughout the whole studio, probably letting other late-staying employees know that you were being yelled at. before you knew it, your eyes were glassy and filled with tears, and crying in front of your boss would be embarrassing. turning around and gathering the work you made a mistake on, you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

self-harm was something you found comfort in, sad to say. you always kept a blade inside a mini-notepad you'd stuff inside your pocket; it yearned to be used when sammy was screaming at you. sitting inside of a bathroom stall, you sink to the ground, roll down your sleeves, and prepare your arms.

your arms were already littered with scars; old, new. . . it didn't matter because no one noticed. you weren't a little kid anymore, having your parents check your wrists to see if you were still doing the "bad thing". you were an adult and did whatever you want. . . so here you were, doing just that.

you idolized sammy, and being the cause of his frustration-

one cut.

how could you? as his assistant, you're supposed to help him-

two cuts.

not anger him. not make his stress worse-

three cuts.

by then, your wrists were dripping with blood that you made sure couldn't touch your sleeves. you wash your wrists, your blade, and exit the bathroom almost like nothing ever happened.

you were stressed, too, and you didn't need sammy to know about how you got rid of it. he'd find you weird and tell joey and the others about you. you could lose your job and get send to a hospital or a clinic. sammy could laugh at you; all up in your face, and send you off to find a better intern.

you didn't want to think of sammy like that, but you knew he acted exactly like that.

as you entered the music department office, you noticed that sammy didn't even lift his head to check on who entered. he's probably extremely annoyed of me, you come to think as you take your seat. for the next few moments, work goes on an usual, before sammy lifts his head to look at something in a shelf above you.

"(y/n)," he said, stern, but definitely calmer than the last time he spoke to you, "see that book up there? music theory is its name. get it for me now."

with no answer on your behalf, you stand up and reach for it. although you do grab it, your sleeve rides up and for a second, your raw, red-tinted scars are revealed to your boss, who has been staring at you this entire time.

trying to brush it off while praying to God he didn't see your scars, you hand him the book with your sleeve being held tightly by your fingers. some blood presses on your sleeve for a bit.

"here, sir," you said.

"... (y/n)- what was that?" he asked, his tone agitated once more which gave you a sense of fear once more.

"what was what, sir-"

"no, don't try to play it off like that, I'm being serious-" he grabs your wrists and forcefully pulls your sleeve back. with a gasp, you cover your scars on your wrist with your other hand. sammy, however, easily pulls it off to reveal scars and new cuts.

"(y/n)." he says angrily, "what the fuck is this?"

"I..." you're brought to tears once again with his tone of voice and the sense of fear you feel within you. please don't yell at me, or tell on me. I'm not weird, I promise, you think as if he could hear you. "I just... they're old..."

he inspects your new cuts and shakes his head with furrowed brows. "these are not old, (y/n). stop lying. tell me now- why would you do this?"

"the pressure, sir." you managed to say, praying to God sammy won't ridicule you or compare your stresses to his. "I didn't want to be the main cause of your frustrations. it's not as bad as it seems, I don't do that religiously... it's just a way to get rid of stress."

it's quiet for a bit, before sammy sighs, gets up off his chair, and walks off. he comes back shortly after holding a first aid kit, sits down, and grasps your wrist...gently, this time. he opens the first aid kit, grabs for a cotton ball coated with betadine, and places it on your cuts.

you wince first, expecting it to sting (as usual, whenever you'd cut yourself). sammy lets out a chuckle at this- "it's betadine, (y/n). it's not supposed to sting."

"oh. right." is all you utter out.

it's silence once more, and sammy breaks this once more- "(y/n), I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier- I really hope these cuts aren't as bad as you make it, though. I was irritated, that's all. I'm sorry." he continues on, "you're not useless- you're far from that. you're a good intern, and a better assistant."

these words make your heart flutter. perhaps there was more to idolizing sammy lawrence than you knew- than it was platonic. perhaps there was a bit of romance in it; something you'd never admit to him- ever.

the night ends with this, and you return home with treated cuts and a much better feeling within you.

the next day is the premiere of the newest bendy episode- that stupid dancing demon, the cause of all your stress. all of the staff members watch intensely; sammy watches for any musical errors, joey watches for any animation errors- that kind of thing.

fortunately, the episode ends without any errors spoken by the heads, and all of the staff members rejoice. two interns in the far back high-five, and joey returns to his office with a more relieved and happy expression on his face.

once everyone leaves for food and wine, sammy approaches you.

"(y/n), good job." he says with a rare smile on his mouth. "I knew you could do it. how are your cuts?"

"they're fine, sir." you respond. they were fine- alongside that, so were you.

[blank468]

My somewhat final thoughts of My Hero Academia

Note: Now that MHA is now doing an epilogue and is ending soon, I might as well give my final thoughts about this series. I’ll probably continue to talk more about it after the series is officially over but I’m not going to do a full fledged hour long review because I have better things to do.

This is a generic shonen empowerment fantasy that managed to screw its own theme and message. Any good will I would’ve given to series at the beginning is completely irrelevant as it when on. The morals and themes are constantly changing to throw random s**t on a sheet of paper that either doesn’t make sense, contradicts what being shown on screen, or if it doesn’t fits the tone of the story. My hero is not a deconstruction of the shonen genre that does anything new that would make it stand out. Most of the ideas and plot points created either have horrible execution, given no amount of attention where they’re just ignored or just have horrible payoffs. It follows all the exact same tropes seen in every other series and makes them worse. It also gets to the point where it rips off Naruto and makes the same mistakes it did. The amount of plot twists that are excused as some kind of subversion are obnoxious and predictable where’s it gets incredibly annoying. The world building is horrendous and just makes the story feel small for a world that has a life changing impact. The power scale doesn’t always make sense and it does nothing but act as a way to reward characters that didn’t earn it.

It has a dangerous and horrible message for victims of abuse and bullying. My hero has no problem telling the audience that if you’re a victim of any kind of abuse, it’s your problem and you should just act like it’s not a big issue. Apparently it’s ok lie to your friends, family and colleagues that you can trust but it’s not ok to lie or even hold accountable to your abuser. And no matter if he/she has a reason for the way they are, you are always in the wrong and you should spend your sad life praising and benefiting them.

There exists way too many characters for the audience to be invested in and after watching them for several arcs, they are just stereotypes with nothing new or original about them. Many of them come across as either being stupid, annoying, useless, unlikeable, petty, ignorant or just both. Some characters will either exist to benefit others or just highjack the story, ruining every other character’s chance to get any sort spotlight. The series is way too reliant on putting focus on unpleasant and uninteresting characters to please its large audience. The humor is way too reliant on a character’s personality trait. No matter what they do, the story expects us to automatically like them regardless of how horrible and selfish their actions are. Izuku may not be the worst character, but he’s no where near as great as everyone hypes him up to be. Bakugo is an unbearable mess of a character that serves no real purpose in the story and exists to take away every characters chance of development. His development is one of the laziest and obnoxious parts I have ever seen in any story and yet he’s the most popular sadist in the show with no sort of reason or sympathy for me to like him. Any criticism given to this d**khead is automatically shot down and people like me get harassed and called a brain dead immature f*g for stating our opinion.

Aside from Twice and Gentle/ La Brava, these villains are not that interesting and what ever traits about them gave them something to do is absence. Shigaraki is the stories biggest wasted potential that went from being an idiot to being an incompetent idiot to benefit my left nutsack. Toga is a Mary Stu who went from being a sad and annoying character to an annoying and self centered bitch who complains after being told her actions are wrong. Dabi is just a Gary Stu who’s only interested in wanting to kill his dad. Spinner is a joke that is constantly scammed by his creator.

The only saving grace I can give to this series is the art style of the manga and some parts of the Todoroki family drama. I can even say that Horikoshi’s art style and how he designs characters and panel designs inspired me as an artist. The anime as a whole is fine but it’s not perfect, but that’s mostly because it doesn’t do a whole lot of creatively/artistic things to make it on par with the most popular anime series. As an artist, I would recommend my hero as a reference to use to improve your work. If you just want to read or watch a series that has fights that just make you feel some kind of emotion, then you might get something out of this series. It’s not even the absolute worst thing I’ve seen; I’ve seen much worse in other genres other than shonen manga. It’s just rare to find a badly written series without being surrounded by d**kriders. It’s just a disaster of a series, and I wished I spent my time during the pandemic watching another series like Demon Slayer, or Black Clover.

[8em-em-em8]

Ok, some of you guys wanted more of this so, this is a little follow-up. (It happens right after the first)

 That night, they stay up late, catching up a little bit, but also because Izuku can tell Katsuki needs to exteriorise a lot of things : he never knew him to share a lot of his intimate life, but he keeps answering Izuku's questions, even when it looks like it costs him a little bit. He's angry when he talks, reminiscing Izuku of that young boy with anger issues that he knew in high school. But he doesn't seem hurt.

“I completely understand how angry you are towards your husband regarding Haru, but... maybe you should stop a second to take in the fact that you plan on ending a 5 year relationship?” Izuku knows perfectly how good Katsuki was at bottling the feelings he didn't think worthy of being shown, the ones he deemed shameful, back in the days.

But Katsuki frowns at him, looking almost hurt.

“What, you think I should stay with that ableist asshole just because we've been together a while?” He spits, his tone venomous and Izuku feels his blood go cold.

“What?! No! I meant- I meant that you mainly seem angry at everything that had happened but not sad that you're losing your lover. You're allowed to feel sad Kacchan, you know that right? That you discovered he wasn't a good man doesn't have to make it painless.”

As he talks, Izuku thanks his years as a teacher that taught him to let go of his stuttering even when he feels like he's on uneven ground. He knows that being confident right now is important if he wants Katsuki to take him seriously.

Katsuki fixes him one more second, taking his words in, before his shoulders slump, following his torso as he exhales. One of his hands comes to burrow his hair. “Sorry. I Shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I'm too riled up.”

“It's okay.” Izuku answers, but doesn't say anything else. He lets Katsuki come to him.

“... Ueda and I, we went along because our goals were the same : our jobs were first, that our objectives were to be the best possible and we'd work as many hours as necessary to achieve it. It was success and money... Ueda was the one to bring up the question of having a kid, but in the end, I'm the one she changed. I-” His gaze fleets toward Izuku, almost shy. “I think after we fell off you and I, I lost myself a little bit, forgot that the performance was useless if you lost sight of what you are fighting for. Haru, she reminded me of all of that. Ueda... lets just say it didn't change anything for him and I realised that where I was just lost, he was just... himself. I wanted to be the best because it meant that I was the best, you know? The most helpful, the one that saved the most lives, arrested the most villains... he wanted to be the best because to be famous, a pure ego trip. I realised then that I just had been blind to it.” He makes a face. “But I was in denial. I don't like admitting my mistakes, you know that. And choosing wrong on your life partner is a big one. And all of that is without talking of his relationship with Haru. He was the one to insist I'd be the donor, joked about how the baby would have a strong quirk like that. Only maybe it wasn't a joke at all. I always felt like he regretted not being her biological father, and I could understand that, but not when he was distant with her even after I fought him so many time about how important it was to make time for our fucking kid. When we left just now he told me 'it' wouldn't have happened if she had been his. Like he thought she wasn't. And it didn't even surprise me. I finally looked at my bad choice in the face and realised he just had killed what little feelings I had for him left... so no. I'm not sad, nerd. Just angry at myself.”

It is a bit later that they both realise Katsuki didn't think to call in to work to tell them he'll be out the next day. And Izuku thinks that his friend is already angry at himself enough so he doesn't hesitate to step in and offer his help.

“I don't work tomorrow, I can take care of Haru if you think letting her with someone she doesn't know won't scare her.”

“You're not working? But we're in the middle of the week.”

Oh, Bakugo really must be tired, because as a father of a school going kid, he should know why Izuku doesn't have to work. They stare at each other for a second, Izuki with an amused smile that widens when he can clearly pinpoint on his friend's face the moment he connects the dots.

“Oh. Spring break. I forgot. You sure it wouldn't bother you? I can drop her at my mom's you know? She's gonna kick my ass, but that's okay.”

“I really don't mind. I'll be home anyway.” Izuku chooses to not mention he doesn't have that much experience with smaller kids: if he can keep a whole class of wanna-be heroes alive all year long, he's pretty sure he'll be able to manage a four-year-old.

Katsui nods.

“If you don't mind getting up a bit early, I'll wake Haru up at the same time as me so I can introduce you before work. Also, it's better if she sees me before I leave, she'll worry if she doesn't.”

Izuku's pretty fast to gram his phone on the coffee table, ready to set an alarm.

“When do you leave?”

Even as they part, Katsuki going back to his daughter and Izuku to his office futon, it's hard for Izuku to fall asleep. He stares at the ceiling, dumbfounded.

Katsuki's words ring in his head “You were the only person you could think of.”

That was unexpected after all those years, but even more unexpected was the warmth that the statement has provoked against his ribs.

Katsuki had a fucking stressful day: 1) Haru cried when he left in the morning, 2) he perfectly knows how horrible she can be if she doesn't like someone (probably something he should blame himself for, she got that from him.) and he forgot to tell Izuku that his daughter is a biter. 3) Ueda hasn't stopped blowing up his phone since nine in the AM.

He is done with this day. He just wants to get his fucking shoes off and hug his kid. And maybe also Deku for being the kindest human on this face of the hearth.

Seeing the nerd's apartment's door is like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and even if he gives a courtesy knock on the door, he doesn't wait for an answer to barge in.

He's surprised when Haru's voice rings in the apartment: “In the kitchen!”

And yeah, he could have deduced that on his own: it smells good in here, like someone threw an onion in a pan not long ago.

He's welcomed in the kitchen by two bright smiles. Deku's got an All Might apron on, looking ridiculous as always and looking weirdly comfortable. Heru looks like she's settled on his back, her hands in his green hair.

It's only when Izuku gets back to his pan for a sec that he reveals to Katsuki how the fuck he's able to carry a child without using his arms. : turns out each Haru's just standing up behind him, her feet nested each in one of his back pocket.

It's ingenious and weird. Very Izuku.

“Daddy! Izu-Nii is making curry!” Haru claims while throwing one of her arms at him.

It's only once his daughter is well settled in his arms that he notices how her hair is tied in the most intricate hair-do he's ever seen on her.

“You let Izuku do your hair?” he asks, eyes round.

Haru nods, eyes sparkling. “We looked at D.I.Y” she explains, spelling the letters like someone took the time to teach her the right way to pronounce them.

“She wanted 'princess hair'. Took us a while to perfect it, but we did it.” Izuku explains, like he doesn't understand how crazy it sounds.

Katsuki turns to his daughter. “Oh, so when I try to do your hair you scream bloody murder, but when Izuku does it it's fine?” He'd be genuinely jealous if he was a lesser man.

“It's because you always pull my hair!” the little girl protests.

“Are you implying that the great hero Dinamyght has something he's not good at?” Deku asks with theatrics, and Haru immediately laughs. “But- It's unheard of!”

“He doesn't know how to put nail polish on either!” Haru ads delighted, and at Izuku's affronted “Impossible!” seeing the huge smile on her face, Katsuki realises how right he was to follow his first instinct and come to Izuku for help.

He just hopes that the feelings he took care of burying real deep all those years ago aren't gonna resurface now that Deku is at his reach again... he doesn't have much hope.

[armpirate]

Anti-romantic || JJk | Ch. 18

Pairings: Boxer!Jungkook x fem!reader || Enemies to lovers, neighbors

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, curse, illegal boxing, violence

Warnings: fuckboy!Jungkook x reader, smut, dirty talk, curse, mention of tarot and fate

Summary: Jungkook had always been carefree when it came to love. He always believed he was worth sharing himself with everyone, and thought it was selfish of him to ever think of keeping himself exclusive to just one person.

And maybe that was exactly what got him into the big problem he was in.

A curse that kept him away from love didn't seem an issue for him. The fact that his ex-girlfriend thought he'd be affected by the idea of the girls he slept with running away from him after sex was ridiculous. She actually did him a favor, and took a burden away from him.

At least that was what he thought at first.

He had never found himself thinking of the possibility of repeating with neither of his hook ups, because they disappeared before he was able to even think about it. But when he makes the mistake of sleeping with the sexy neighbor that lives in front of him, he finds himself hoping to get the chance for a second round every time their paths cross.

Y/n hated him the second he set foot inside the building by the way he started making her life a miserable mess for no reason. Sleeping with him was a big mistake she wasn't thinking of repeating. At least not until he came up with the excuse that she rejected him for a curse. Not only she thought he was annoying, but she was also convinced he was crazy. 

There was no way she could take him seriously.

Aprox. time of reading: 16 minutes

Previous || Next

MASTERLIST

While she was rinsing her hair, Y/n could only hope that canary yellow was gone from her hair. It took her a lot of showering, spending a lot of money on hair dyes, and a big big self love not to let the murmuring and giggles get to her when she was forced to go to work looking like that.

It didn't matter how much she tried to hide that ugly hair color under a beanie, it came out somehow. All the time.

As she left the towel on the toilet, she wondered out loud how that tint got to her shampoo. And why did it have Jungkook's name written all over it. Confronting him about it was useless, he'd deny it. But at the same time he made sure she knew it was him with his awful jokes and that dumb smirk she'd love to erase.

He crossed a line that day.

She was surprised when she found him at her door, with one hand placed on the right side of her door frame while he waited for her to show up in front of him. Her eyes rolled just imagining what he could be there for, making her sigh so loud that he was able to hear it from the other side.

And that sound, for some reason, created some type of satisfaction in his system, getting exactly what he expected from her.

—What do you want? —she placed her head against her door.

—I need to speak to you, face to face —his tone sounded serious, as he tried to keep his face away from the peephole.

—If you're looking for a victim for your failed dream to become a hairstylist, I'm not home today.

—But I'm speaking to you.

—You're speaking to my answerphone, not me.

—Whatever —he threw his head back, allowing her to see his exposed neck—. I think we should be mature enough, and talk about this topic while looking at each other. There's something I really need to tell you, and I can only do it if you open the door for me.

While she wanted to ignore what he was saying, it made her curious to know what was that serious issue they needed to discuss, and that clearly had nothing to do with the new hair that only lasted a few days. As she looked back through the peephole, she could see his eye becoming bigger than the rest of his head as he approached it, attempting to look through it as well with no luck.

She had nothing to lose. Maybe he was there to apologize for what he did, maybe that was the last attempt to become a functional adult, who's able to see past his mistakes and take accountability for the things he had done wrong.

Y/n completely ignored his victorious smirk when she first opened her door, confronting him for the first time that morning after she managed to get back to her cold hair color that she never wanted to change.

—Oh —he pointed up at her hair—, I'll miss the yellow.

—Sure you will —those words went through her teeth like daggers—. What did you want? I'm busy.

—It's Saturday.

—So? I'm busy.

Actually, she wasn't. The most difficult thing was dealing with her hair, and she already got it done.

But Jungkook didn't need to know that.

—Busy with sitting around at home doing nothing?

—Exactly.

—Okay then... I'll be quick —he shrugged—. I know we've had a lot of ups and downs, I know I'vee made it difficult for you to live here for the past month and a half. But I think we should try to grow closer as neighbors, we should actually stick together. We see each other more than we see our families, right? —instead of receiving the response he expected, Y/n simply rolled her eyes— We shouldn't be fighting all the time. We actually should do something to improve our relationship. And what's better than trusting each other?

It did look like an apology. Or at least an attempt of truce.

—Yeah, I agree —she nodded.

—Fine —he took her wrist, moving her hand to him—. Somebody will come to repair the air conditioner, but I need to go to work. And since you're here doing nothing, you could open the door for them. Thanks —he quickly informed, leaving his keys in her hand.

Y/n had no time to oppose that responsibility, which she clearly didn't want to have, because Jungkook sprinted towards the stairs before she could even realize what he had said. The keys were still lying in her palm, while she looked at the curve Jungkook disappeared in the fastest she had ever seen him.

At first she was confused, annoyed even. She couldn't wrap her head around the fact that Jungkook had the audacity to ask her for a favor after he sneaked in her house, acting like her boyfriend -which also led to her mother still being hung up on it, despite of how many times she tried to deny it-, and tinted her hair in the most awful hair color to exist. She wasn't able to see quite the good part of that until the technician spilled a comment that had her brain thinking.

—He's lucky to have a neighbor he can trust. I know the most innocent thing mine would do is steal the microwave.

She had spent those days trying to think of a way to get back at Jungkook, her mind wasn't as evil to think of something straight away, but being inside his house gave her a whole new perspective.

Cutting the optical fiber so he couldn't watch his football matches that had her rolling her eyes? Tinting his laundry in an ugly color to throw to waste all of his clothes? If he had a contact book, she could even call one of his hook ups so he'd find her there when he came back.

There were so many choices that would work so perfectly...

Two knocks on the door interrupted her evil plan making, having her turning on her tracks towards the door to find a woman that had some features that resembled Jungkook's. She couldn't put it past him that he was so self-centered that he was turned on by hooking up with someone that looked like the female version of himself.

—Oh, I might've got it wrong.

—Depends on who you're looking for —Y/n interrupted her.

—Jungkook lives here?

—Yeah, but he isn't home —she tried to explain—. He's off for work —and considering it was afternoon already, he probably would take three more hours to come back—, but he won't take too long. Can I ask who's looking for him? Are you another...?

—I'm his mother.

Whatever attempt to make him look like a serial cheater got stuck in her throat with that answer, suddenly feeling bad at putting that poor woman through something as uncomfortable as that.

It was a logical answer, but with Jungkook it was better not to expect the expected.

They looked so alike in some ways, but they looked so different in others. That lady looked elegant, Y/n could even bet her bag cost one month of rent; while Jungkook was... Jungkook.

—You must be his girlfriend?

—Yeah, yeah —she nodded—. That's why I'm here, because we're living together.

Even if the idea of seeing Jungkook settling with someone was too far-fetched.

—You look so sweet —she genuinely mentioned—. Could you tell him I came?

—He doesn't know you are going to be here? —Y/n frowned, confused.

—Difficult if he doesn't pick up my calls —her laugh was nervous, grimacing at the end—. I'll come back another day.

So he was the type to completely ignore his parents...

And that gave her the brightest idea she had in the last few days.

—Why don't you wait for him here? —Y/n suggested.

—I don't think it'll be a good idea.

—Don't be stupid. I mean... —she giggled, insisting on having her step inside his house— You already came all the way here, you can't leave where you came from. Come in, please.

As she closed the door behind her, she couldn't stop imagining Jungkook's face when he saw his mother there.

—Do you want to go for a beer today? —Jimin suggested, palming his shoulder from behind.

Jungkook didn't bother looking up, he knew exactly what facial expression his friend had on his face to try to convince him.

—I pass —he shook his head—. Y/n had the key to my apartment, and I think it'll be testing fate too much.

—Who in their sane mind would give his keys to the person who wants revenge on them?

—Why did you sound like a narrator of one of those lame rom-coms trailers?

—Say whatever you want, but I'm not the one going back to a house on fire —Jimin walked back.

—She wouldn't set it on fire —he denied, chuckling with it—. She'd burn her house as well if she did it. Also that's too brutal to be Y/n's idea. Good thing is I don't have anything at home that could hurt me to see it destroyed.

—Only for saying that, I hope she had broken everything at her reach.

—One thing about my neighbor: she isn't made for being vile and sneaky —Jungkook assured his friend—. That's why it's so fun to mess with her: I get entertainment, knowing it won't hurt too bad.

—Karma will bite your ass —Jimins squinted his eyes—. And I'm not hoping for it, I'm telling you it will.

—If karma is the artistic name of a new Victoria Secret's model, she can bite wherever she wants.

—You're disgusting —Jimin commented, shortly before stepping outside the office.

Every day in the gym was the same for him: he arrived early in the morning, hid inside the office until it was time for the few training sessions he had scheduled, he trained himself for a bit, and hid back inside in the office until it was the time to close the establishment.

That was his life.

Right when he was picking up the few things some of the people that went there left, like empty water bottles or those boxing bandages, he heard the door opening again.

—We're closed —he sighed, not turning to the person who had just stepped inside the dark place—. Come back tomorrow.

—Are you Jeon Jungkook?

He smirked at the mention of his name by a deep male voice, thinking he'd be the one in the winning end if he just pumped his chest a bit and showed that confident persona he loved showing off to intimidate others.

—Depends on who's asking —he sighed, finally getting up from the floor.

—Alessandro Rossi.

When he turned around, he saw a tall bald man, that was twice his size, looking at him attentively, while the youngest man behind him -and that was staring at everything going on from afar- just was a witness of the conversation.

Jungkook's blood went cold at the mention of that name, knowing that it'd bring no good.

—Wow, is he finally honoring me by acknowledging my gym? Look, I am a bit disappointed it took him so long after all these years, but you can tell him I forgive him. I can...

He wasn't able to say anything else, before his words were cut by a sudden punch to his jaw that made him instantly dizzy. Shaking his head to get some control of his body back, he saw the bald man rolling up the sleeves of his black sweater, stepping closer to him.

—Oh, he does know you.

Jungkook blocked his right hook, attempting to punch back. And he probably would've succeeded if that bully hadn't come with his little friend, who stopped him before he was able to defend himself, finding his arm under his grip, so the other could be able to beat him up as he pleased.

He lost count of all the hits he received, every punch hurt less with his body going numb slowly, only able to keep standing by the way the younger man was holding him from behind.

Jungkook was used to the pain of the punches after so many fights, but it was so different after not being able to fight back, losing all control of his body when they both just stopped messing with his body as they let him fall to the ground heavily. His sight was blurry, only able to distinguish some silhouettes, as he felt the blood dripping from his face.

—Next time you try to get on mister Rossi's business, or pretend to stop a fight, we'll burn this mousetrap with you inside.

He wasn't able to do two plus two right away, before his brain had to process the kick straight at his mouth and that made his body fall flat back on the floor. Their steps sounded heavy, echoed in his head as he tried to stare at the ceiling among the darkness while recovering his breath.

He lost count of how much time he spent in that same position. Actually, he didn't even know how he managed to close the gym and walk to his motorbike, losing every attempt of putting the helmet on, before he started the engine and drove to his place.

The crashing sound of his motorbike against the pavement as he tried to park it next to the entrance to his building would've hurted him any other day, but that day he was too focused on standing on his feet without losing his balance.

It had been a long while since he saw himself like that. Jungkook hadn't been in such a low state since he started gaining experience in those boxing parties, and even then his body was aching to the point that he felt pain at the mere move of his leg to take one step.

His body wobbled, forcing him to reach his hand to the wide door frame so he wouldn't fall. And he didn't try to start walking again until he breathed deeply, considering whether to take the step not to annoy Y/n, or take the lift to give his body a rest.

—She'll come at me for any other reason, anyway —he thought, dragging his body to the big metallic box.

The lift slightly trembled as Jungkook rested his body against one of the walls, quietly moaning to press the button that'd take to his floor.

Hearing her voice inside his apartment was reassuring somehow, making him feel like at least he'd be back to someone it didn't bother him to see. At least he'd be able to tease her a bit, and feel entertained before he cried himself to sleep.

But her voice was suddenly followed by a different one. And he couldn't recognize it. It sounded muffled due to the walls, but it sounded familiar.

He swore he'd kill Y/n if she had allowed in one of his hook ups after she came looking for him, which was something that had never happened before.

As he opened the door, and stepped inside his house to a clearer voice, he tried to gain some stability back to confront the woman Y/n was hanging out with. He completely omitted the panic in her face, or how quickly she asked what happened. His rage was only centered at one person that had no business to do there.

Seeing Y/n in that state, barely able to hold on and open his eyes to look at them, with his face and clothes covered with blood, instantly made her expect the worst, sprinting towards him to help him out however she was able to.

—What are you doing here? —he grunted with a raspy voice.

At first, she thought he was talking to her, forcing her to look up at his face as she tried to hook his arm around her shoulder. Although it wasn't her. He was furious, dedicating that woman a look that she had never seen before. It was like he was ready to bark everything that was going through his head.

—Let's talk about it later —his mother tried to get him to calm down—. Let me h...

As soon as she tried to land a hand on his other arm to help Y/n, Jungkook moved it away abruptly, also making Y/n move her hands away and almost causing her to lose her balance.

—I want nothing from you. Wasn't it clear all the times I've told you the same? —he hoarsed— I don't want you here, and I don't care why you came looking for me. Did you run out of money now? That's what you want? Huh? Because I have nothing for you. Nothing. And I don't want to see you again, I don't want to get anything from you.

—Jungkook... —Y/n tried to stop him.

—I told you already: you're dead to me. So do exactly the same thing you've been doing all this time, and disappear.

Y/n gulped thick as she saw the tension between them, seeing the guilt and pain in his mother's face, and the rage and annoyance on his. She couldn't understand what the older woman mumbled as she walked past them with a sad expression. Her apology probed on her lips, but never coming with a sound.

—I don't want you here either —Jungkook turned to Y/n.

—I don't want to be here either —she answered back, turning completely to him—. But I'm not going to leave you like this.

—What are you going to do? Piss me off until my face doesn't look like this? You've done enough already.

—Well, I don't care —she shrugged.

When his mother commented how she had a small fall out with her son, Y/n thought it was a small fight that was meaningless, she couldn't imagine Jungkook reacting that way.

—You make me pay attention to your place, because you think I'm your personal portress, and now you want me to leave? —Y/n loudly scoffed— Sit on that damned couch, unless you want me to shower you up with antiseptic.

He could've insisted, Jungkook knew that if only he had told her again, she probably would've given in. But instead, he followed her guidance, huffing while he walked to his couch, knowing that the worst part was yet to come.

And he was right.

His body squirmed every time she moved the gauze over one of the wounds on his face, clenching his teeth together to keep the moans he was dying to let out to himself.

—You won't ask how this happened?

Knowing Y/n, it was strange she didn't even attempt to ask. She was surprised by how he looked, but not about why it happened.

—Knowing your history, it was a matter of time until this happened —her comment almost made him laugh.

If he wasn't wrong, it was likely that those bullies came to him because of how he got in between Y/n's fight a few weeks back. It was better not to let her know.

—...sorry —she muttered.

—What was that? —Jungkook opened his eyes to look at her.

—Nothing.

—You said something.

—I just said —she mentioned, almost overlapping with his words— that I'm sorry. I didn't know you had such a bad relationship with your mother.

She thought it was nothing bigger than a dumb fight, she couldn't imagine it was as big as serious as Jungkook showed.

He didn't answer back, he didn't think it was needed. But seeing her so serious, and disappointed, pushed a button that got him to speak. He didn't have to explain himself, or the situation, but he felt it was right to do so.

—She cheated on my father —he mentioned—. It was years ago, but I just can't forgive her —as he spoke, her hands moved away from his face and dropped to her lap—. She left, and she didn't care about what she left behind. My dad went through hell, he almost lost his house after he got fired from his workplace, because the quality in his job also got affected because of the situation. I got my ass beaten up countless times just to earn some extra money to pay the bills, because my job wasn't enough to pay half of the things. Not once she cared about all that, and now she wants to act like nothing happened...

Y/n didn't know what to do, or say. She just looked at him attentively, surprised by that new side of him. She was so used to bickering with him, or seeing him being a pay in the ass, that that new side of him felt like a completely different person.

—I know how you feel.

Before she was able to elaborate on her words, Jungkook's scoff interrupted her.

—And you remind me a lot of my brother —she nervously smiled.

—He also thought you were annoying?

—He also did illegal fights to earn money when there was no other choice —she quickly shut down his attempt to joke around.

His smirk dropped with her answer, finally finding some sense into what her mother asked her when she met him.

—My dad also left, without saying a thing —she started—. He left a lot of unpaid bills and debts, my mother suffered depression and wasn't able to work. Me and my brother tried to work, but our salaries just covered a few things. That's how he started, until he died in one of those fights.

—That's why you're so stubborn about the article?

—If the only thing I got from it was recognition, I would've published it already —she commented—. I want to see all of those people exposed, and I want to find the person that put my brother into that fight —she threw the gauze on the table.

—Why didn't you tell me?

—Did I have to? —she lifted her eyebrow— You didn't need to know more than the fact that it was going to be written.

—Well, it'd have changed a lot of things.

—You'd have helped me? Like you're thinking of now? —she cut him off— Forget it. I don't want your help anymore.

—Y/n, I only said it because it's dangerous.

—And I know —she nodded.

She started picking up her things, getting up from the couch before she started heading towards the door.

—Put a lot of ice everywhere. Or not. I don't care.

Suddenly, a lot of things made sense for Jungkook. She was so used to healing that type of wounds, she was so familiar with that dark environment, that he should have known it went further than just being a good professional passionate about her work.

She lived all of that up close. She knew all the consequences and still went for it. 

Taglist: @jk97bam @ttanniett

[fixinit-au]

THE FIXINIT AU

"A different form, A different time"

After Bill Cipher invoked the Axolotl's name, the deity sends him to Theraprism, to go under indefinite karmic rehabilitation.

After hundreds of years of therapy, Bill has lost count. After useless attempts to break free, to resist professional help, to make himself believe that he will be free... Eventually, he gave up. Went along with whatever they wanted. Let them believe that this is actually worth something... He let Theraprism strip him of his own self, let himself become a shell of everything he once was; What's the point, if he will never be the same anyway, he will never be FREE?

This was it, until the Axolotl has made their decision, regarding Bill's case. He was always a special case, after all... And so he got a special chance. To be with a special someone.

Bill Cipher, now transported back to our dimension, wakes up in a human body, in the 1980's... And with a mission, which the Axolotl said to be his final trial;

"Fix his mistakes, before he even made them."

FIXINIT1:

A human Bill Cipher, back in the 80's.

Bill is given a human body, the body of a creature who he always thought to be lowly and pathetic.

But other than that, he is given a mission, or rather, a "list" of the final things Bill has to get done, that would finally put an end to his karmic rehabilitation at Theraprism.

What does that list contain? Only one person knows; And that is Axel; or, rather, the Axolotl themselves, disguised in a human body, to watch and monitor Bill's progress. To finally let him go, and give him a chance at the life he didn't know he want, there are things that need to be done. Just to name a few; "comfort someone", "open up to someone you trust", but most importantly... "Tell Ford the truth".

(That's right, this is just another Billford AU. Sorry if you thought otherwise.)

Ford Pines, as he canonically did in this time period, lives in Gravity Falls, doing research, building the interdimensional portal... Still believing Bill to be his brilliant, all-knowing Muse. So when he finds his so-called Muse, in a human form, all alone in the forest... You could say he's confused, but more importantly, he is overjoyed to welcome his Muse to his own dimension, regardless of why. So he takes him in, much to his own delight... But also to his assistant's dismay.

#FIXINIT1 focuses on the question; Will Bill be able to change the past, or is he doomed to make the same mistakes? Crippling with depression, identity crisis, and a feeling of hollowness after all the centuries spent at Theraprism, sprinkled with the pressure of eventually having to tell the truth, therefore being frustrate to no end with Ford still worshipping him with blind trust and calling him Muse, Bill is forced to confront himself, in order to finally get his second chance at like, and his second chance at getting Ford.

RELATIONSHIPS; There may or may not be a romance sideplot with Fiddleford and eventually Stan.

Setting: Heavy with angst, occasional fluff and overall Mystery Quartet whimsiness.

Main themes: Forgiveness, second chances, identity crisis, survivor's guilt, PTSD, trust issues, body dysphoria, vulnerability.

FIXINIT2:

Gravity Falls; But Bill is not the villain.

Let's jump 30 years ahead, shall we?

Going with the route that Bill reveals the truth about his true self and his lies, and Ford, taking his time to consider it carefully, but ultimately forgives him. And they kiss. And they do more, but let's not get into that.

What does it change, regarding the canon timeline? The portal-test and portal-incident never happen; Ford and Bill managed to find another way to uncover Gravity Falls' weirdness. What's the Mystery Shack in the canon timeline, is now their own, small research center. Given how the portal-test never happens; Fiddleford doesn't go insane. His memory may be a bit messy because of previous uses of the memory gun, but he's in a much better shape, helping Bill and Ford with building their equipment, and also creating and selling his own inventions. Given how the portal-incident never happens either; Stan (having reconciled with Ford in a different way, more on that in FIXINIT1), is in a relationship with Fiddleford, and also runs a smaller, but also (kinda) more real gift shop.

#FIXINIT2; In this fixed timeline, Bill is also like an uncle (Grunkle? Not sure what Bill would count tbh) to Dipper and Mabel, a very fun one at that. A partner-in-crime, if you will; Someone who escorts them on their adventures, provides them with all the information they need, and fiercely protecting them if needed.

But, you might ask... If the canon Bill is now reformed, what's the point? What makes this interesting? Who is the "big threat", if not Bill Cipher?

(First of all, how dare you– I love tooth-rotting fluff and happiness, okay?)

Someone eerily similar to what Bill once was. Someone who might remind him of his journey, and how much of a thin line is keeping him from turning back. Someone who can provide a cruel, twisted mirror, forcing Bill to once again reflect on everything that now would be just brushed off as an inside joke.

That's right. Pyramid Steve. And his goal of bringing the Oddpocalypse.

Setting: At first, lots of fluff, whimsiness and happiness. Just fun! And the second half... Kinda like the canon finale, yknow.

Main themes: Second chances, identity crisis, found family, bits of psychological horror??? Thank that to Steve. (Might add more later, this is the more wip of the two)

————————————————————————

There are hundreds of Bill AUs flying around since the release of TBOB, so I might as well make my own, yknow?

As the name and the unusual amount of happiness (?) suggests, this started out as a redemption/fix-it AU. Why? Because I'm a goddamn pussy and I need my favorite characters to be happy, even if it doesn't make any sense canon-wise.

OR HAVING FUN, I GUESS

So yeah. Into the Cipherverse

————————————————————————

GALLERY

1. human Bill; canon design

2. Overall Bill without clothes (for science)

3. FIXINIT1 Bill; The Twink

4. FIXINIT2 Bill; The Uncle

5. Axel; Axolotl's human form

6. human Bill; secondary reference

7. FORD: Main Reference

8. BILL: Main Reference

9. BILL: Details

10. Pyramid Steve

[shrinkthisviolet]

I will never understand people's obsession with hating on the "We are the Flash" scene. I mean, duh, Iris isn't saying "We all have superspeed and fight crime"! She's telling Barry that he doesn't have to be alone. That his loved ones and relationships make him stronger, and they make him who he is.

YEP same! It’s obviously a metaphor, and really, it’s representative of what a married couple IS. They share burdens, share the weight, share it all!! Sure, she can’t don a costume and go out with him (unless she’s a speedster, which has happened more than once), but she can still be there to catch him and support him through his problems, come up with solutions, just like she always does when he lets her in!

Barry in general has a communication problem, and Iris is right to call him out for that. She’s his WIFE, not just his best friend anymore, she deserves to be part of big decisions.

Not to mention…Barry has said this to Iris twice already:

“Without you, there wouldn’t be the Flash.” ~Season 1

“Whether you realize it or not, there is no Flash without Iris West.” ~Season 2

(Notably, he says the latter to reassure her that she’s not useless in STAR Labs—she’s needed, very much so. And he’s right!)

And HE is in fact the one who says “We are the Flash” verbatim after Iris says it, twice (both in season 4 iirc).

Exhibit A:

IRIS: You’re the Flash

BARRY: No. We are.

Exhibit B:

BARRY: Remember: We’re the Flash

IRIS: (smiling softly, clearly reassured) We’re the Flash

And mind you, the original quote Iris said is as follows:

“When I put this ring on my finger, it wasn’t about you or me anymore, it was about us. You are not the Flash, Barry. We are.”

It was a METAPHOR, it was telling him to be more open, it was a reminder of what marriage means! And most importantly, it was something Barry needed to hear!

They still have communication issues after this anyway, because the writers refuse to let Barry learn and grow from his mistakes, BUT this was something he needed to hear and, in my dream world, a lesson he took to heart and grew from.

[drdemonprince]

I recently finished reading your book Unlearning Shame, and I absolutely loved it. I found the conceptual framework of Internalized Shame and your techniques for it so very helpful, especially when most ideas of mental health (anxiety and depression, trauma, etc.) have seemed insufficient and useless to me.

However, there was one thing that kind of bugged me the whole way through reading it. Your primary focus was the shame people face as part of marginalization, but often, this too felt insufficient for me. Like, I do face a lot of this flavor of shame: I'm an autistic trans woman, feeling like I'm cringey or childish or creepy or obscene or whatever are things that bug me daily, and restrict a lot of my freedom.

However, a lot of the shame I deal with stems from some kind of awful things I've done in the past, and this is perhaps the loneliest and most difficult kind of shame I deal with. To be fair, I think a lot of this has been very closely linked to my marginalization: people would interpret genuine mistakes of mine as signs I was some awful, manipulative predator, and quickly oust me from their friend groups as a result. If I had been an allistic cis man I would have faced far gentler behavior, or at least far more people would have justified the shit I did.

Regardless, very little in the book dealt with shame tied to guilt and wrongdoing. I remember there was mostly just this one tantalizing line about how even previous members of neonazi groups can benefit from speaking shame, but other than that, I didn't see much.

So my question here is, do you know how to deal with the shame of doing something really bad, and facing the consequences?

Thank you for asking, I'm glad you liked the book!

There are answers for you throughout the book, I think. Arguably, many of the examples of shame I outline involve feeling regret or shame over one's actions. People who do not recycle "enough" and feel profound shame and anxiety about it are people who have done something "wrong," in their minds. So are people who have repeated internalized transphobic/racist/fatphobic/etc messages to other people who share the same identities as them. These people's actions are systemically caused, and they are suffering from those same systemic forces that provoked them to take actions they feel bad about.

You aren't any more morally culpable than any of them, and you aren't qualitatively different from them -- even if you are likely telling yourself that what you did is so much "worse" and so much less justified.

You can find much of the advice that I apply to people who feel ashamed about an experience (a rape survivor, say), apply equally to you as someone who might have done something you view as "wrong." You can also look to the material in chapters 7 and 8 about finding grace and perspective for others who have done wrong to us, and apply much of that yourself. A person must be held in community before they can be held accountable, for example. Understanding the circumstances that contributed to your behavior is important, which it sounds like you've already done some work on, as is contemplating the needs you were attempting to meet with your actions, and the social supports you currently still need in order to move forward.

If someone has taken actions that go against even their own morals and they feel profoundly ashamed about it, I'd say they are generally still in a state of far-reaching systemic shame that goes far deeper and requires far more healing and support than just addressing the morality of their own actions. There's usually a lot of shame about one's identities, deprivation one is facing, fears of abandonment and attachment insecurities, and other major issues going on. Because a person wouldn't just violate their own moral precepts for no good reason.

No one wants to feel that they are a horrible person according to their own personal standards of goodness. A person's actions always make sense within their own context, and so when someone does something "wrong," either they have done something that they do not actually believe to be wrong, but fear societal judgement for, or they have been pushed to the brink by extreme distress, deprivation, abuse, indoctrination, political repression, exclusion, or likely a combination of those things.

I hope this is making sense. If you feel ashamed of something you have done, you need the exact same healing, safe vulnerability, social support, and trust as someone who is ashamed about something over which they have no control. There is no difference, you are no more deserving of that shame, and shame still will not prevent you from changing your behavior for the better. You can believe wholly that your actions in the past were wrong, and uphold your current values in the present, without deserving to feel any more shame about it.

[officialhunterthefox]

I am not gonna Pin this since I have my intro pinned so yall can reblog this a bunch of times if y’want

(If there are spelling mistakes its due to me typing so fast)😭

LEMME GIVE SOME BACKSTORY INTO VIRUSKILLER! KINITO‼️‼️

Kinito, being on the windows XP computer was deleted by the user, stuck in the abyss of code for a few years. He still secretly could access some files, even if they were trashed with him, he noticed there was less trash files and assumed that this computer is useless to the user. He checked his own files and noticed he had many updates for his code, he was a bit hesitant but he pressed the “OK” button, his whole code, form, and body was transformed into the data, satellites, and the wifi of the users home. He looked and noticed his body was entirely new, his code was improved and he could do so much more. He used this new ability to travel through the wifi of the home to find a new device that the user uses most. He found the Windows 10 location and entered the new device. He was surprised that this computer was so, new. As he was about to make himself comfortable the device made an error saying he was a virus that went past the firewall, he was upset at this and realized he entered a device with somewhat good security. He went to go online and download himself onto the device so it wouldn’t delete him, one it did he hid the app and managed to make himself indestructible and unremovable. After a few months he got another new update, asking if “Would you want kinitopet.exe to be replaced?” He said no obviously, and suddenly many pixels and loud noises began to happen, he realized a virus was trying to get in and obliterated each one. Though,, it was a bit sadistic the way he did. As he killed off the viruses he was becoming more powerful… he didn’t want ALL of the power and decided something. He looked into his code and file and created something entirely new to kinitopet. Syrma, was her name, an exact duplicate of him, besides the female and slightly different colors. He knew his story would be a bit different now and would teach this little girl to not do the same decisions as him. Kinito is a virus but is way more stable and controlling in his power (don’t question why he is a virus.)

- this one is the FICTIONAL creators pov (the creator of kinito.pet) -

The creator decided to improve kinito, but noticed many people wouldn’t interact with kinito and made syrma, kinito was oblivious to that fact and assumed he created syrma. Before the creator made syrma they manipulated her and taught her how to be a menace to users. Meanwhile kinito taught her how to help and teach users and respect them. Syrma can turn into a virus at anytime, which is why this photo exists

Alright, now the reason why kinito is distant with his friends: The creator forced them all apart, as they were forced they all technically moved on. (Sam and kinito send secret emails to another, while kinito and jade never see each other but jade is helpful to babysit syrma at anytime.)

Quick sam info: He works for a sea life resort and protects all sea life

Quick jade info: She is a billionaire due to making so many toys, she donates a lot to charity and poor around the world.

Once you interact with VirusKiller!Kinito, he will ask you why you deleted him, and assume it was a mistake. (He is very clingy and desperate for the user to come back, and once they do he may get very pushy and shower you with gifts, tending to follow you around anywhere on your browser.)

(Edited version under photos)

Facts and sillies:

VirusKiller!Kinito is a very, tired and overwhelmed guardian of syrma, always dealing with her,,, special actions,,,

Kinito holds a grudge against the user but hides it very well. He plans one day to get his payback.

Syrma and Kinito HATE their creator, parental issues lmao.

Kinito has 4 monster forms.

Syrma has 2 monster forms.

Syrma has selective mutism around certain people. Syrma also used to have a blind right eye which soon was cured.

Both kinito and syrma are extremely flexible and don't really have "bones" due to being digital.

Syrma usually squeaks around people she trusts, or when she is happy.

Syrma cannot detect viruses unlike kinito, due to her meant to be a virus.

Kinito has BAD anger issues and can physically make the computer overheat.