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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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“If buying isn’t owning, piracy isn’t stealing”

20 years ago, I got in a (friendly) public spat with Chris Anderson, who was then the editor in chief of Wired. I'd publicly noted my disappointment with glowing Wired reviews of DRM-encumbered digital devices, prompting Anderson to call me unrealistic for expecting the magazine to condemn gadgets for their DRM:

https://longtail.typepad.com/the_long_tail/2004/12/is_drm_evil.html

I replied in public, telling him that he'd misunderstood. This wasn't an issue of ideological purity – it was about good reviewing practice. Wired was telling readers to buy a product because it had features x, y and z, but at any time in the future, without warning, without recourse, the vendor could switch off any of those features:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/29/cory-responds-to-wired-editor-on-drm/

I proposed that all Wired endorsements for DRM-encumbered products should come with this disclaimer:

WARNING: THIS DEVICE’S FEATURES ARE SUBJECT TO REVOCATION WITHOUT NOTICE, ACCORDING TO TERMS SET OUT IN SECRET NEGOTIATIONS. YOUR INVESTMENT IS CONTINGENT ON THE GOODWILL OF THE WORLD’S MOST PARANOID, TECHNOPHOBIC ENTERTAINMENT EXECS. THIS DEVICE AND DEVICES LIKE IT ARE TYPICALLY USED TO CHARGE YOU FOR THINGS YOU USED TO GET FOR FREE — BE SURE TO FACTOR IN THE PRICE OF BUYING ALL YOUR MEDIA OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AT NO TIME IN HISTORY HAS ANY ENTERTAINMENT COMPANY GOTTEN A SWEET DEAL LIKE THIS FROM THE ELECTRONICS PEOPLE, BUT THIS TIME THEY’RE GETTING A TOTAL WALK. HERE, PUT THIS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’LL MUFFLE YOUR WHIMPERS.

Wired didn't take me up on this suggestion.

But I was right. The ability to change features, prices, and availability of things you've already paid for is a powerful temptation to corporations. Inkjet printers were always a sleazy business, but once these printers got directly connected to the internet, companies like HP started pushing out "security updates" that modified your printer to make it reject the third-party ink you'd paid for:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Now, this scam wouldn't work if you could just put things back the way they were before the "update," which is where the DRM comes in. A thicket of IP laws make reverse-engineering DRM-encumbered products into a felony. Combine always-on network access with indiscriminate criminalization of user modification, and the enshittification will follow, as surely as night follows day.

This is the root of all the right to repair shenanigans. Sure, companies withhold access to diagnostic codes and parts, but codes can be extracted and parts can be cloned. The real teeth in blocking repair comes from the law, not the tech. The company that makes McDonald's wildly unreliable McFlurry machines makes a fortune charging franchisees to fix these eternally broken appliances. When a third party threatened this racket by reverse-engineering the DRM that blocked independent repair, they got buried in legal threats:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Everybody loves this racket. In Poland, a team of security researchers at the OhMyHack conference just presented their teardown of the anti-repair features in NEWAG Impuls locomotives. NEWAG boobytrapped their trains to try and detect if they've been independently serviced, and to respond to any unauthorized repairs by bricking themselves:

https://mamot.fr/@[email protected]/111528162905209453

Poland is part of the EU, meaning that they are required to uphold the provisions of the 2001 EU Copyright Directive, including Article 6, which bans this kind of reverse-engineering. The researchers are planning to present their work again at the Chaos Communications Congress in Hamburg this month – Germany is also a party to the EUCD. The threat to researchers from presenting this work is real – but so is the threat to conferences that host them:

https://www.cnet.com/tech/services-and-software/researchers-face-legal-threats-over-sdmi-hack/

20 years ago, Chris Anderson told me that it was unrealistic to expect tech companies to refuse demands for DRM from the entertainment companies whose media they hoped to play. My argument – then and now – was that any tech company that sells you a gadget that can have its features revoked is defrauding you. You're paying for x, y and z – and if they are contractually required to remove x and y on demand, they are selling you something that you can't rely on, without making that clear to you.

But it's worse than that. When a tech company designs a device for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades, they invite both external and internal parties to demand those downgrades. Like Pavel Chekov says, a phaser on the bridge in Act I is going to go off by Act III. Selling a product that can be remotely, irreversibly, nonconsensually downgraded inevitably results in the worst person at the product-planning meeting proposing to do so. The fact that there are no penalties for doing so makes it impossible for the better people in that meeting to win the ensuing argument, leading to the moral injury of seeing a product you care about reduced to a pile of shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

But even if everyone at that table is a swell egg who wouldn't dream of enshittifying the product, the existence of a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature makes the product vulnerable to external actors who will demand that it be used. Back in 2022, Adobe informed its customers that it had lost its deal to include Pantone colors in Photoshop, Illustrator and other "software as a service" packages. As a result, users would now have to start paying a monthly fee to see their own, completed images. Fail to pay the fee and all the Pantone-coded pixels in your artwork would just show up as black:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

Adobe blamed this on Pantone, and there was lots of speculation about what had happened. Had Pantone jacked up its price to Adobe, so Adobe passed the price on to its users in the hopes of embarrassing Pantone? Who knows? Who can know? That's the point: you invested in Photoshop, you spent money and time creating images with it, but you have no way to know whether or how you'll be able to access those images in the future. Those terms can change at any time, and if you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself.

These companies are all run by CEOs who got their MBAs at Darth Vader University, where the first lesson is "I have altered the deal, pray I don't alter it further." Adobe chose to design its software so it would be vulnerable to this kind of demand, and then its customers paid for that choice. Sure, Pantone are dicks, but this is Adobe's fault. They stuck a KICK ME sign to your back, and Pantone obliged.

This keeps happening and it's gonna keep happening. Last week, Playstation owners who'd bought (or "bought") Warner TV shows got messages telling them that Warner had walked away from its deal to sell videos through the Playstation store, and so all the videos they'd paid for were going to be deleted forever. They wouldn't even get refunds (to be clear, refunds would also be bullshit – when I was a bookseller, I didn't get to break into your house and steal the books I'd sold you, not even if I left some cash on your kitchen table).

Sure, Warner is an unbelievably shitty company run by the single most guillotineable executive in all of Southern California, the loathsome David Zaslav, who oversaw the merger of Warner with Discovery. Zaslav is the creep who figured out that he could make more money cancelling completed movies and TV shows and taking a tax writeoff than he stood to make by releasing them:

https://aftermath.site/there-is-no-piracy-without-ownership

Imagine putting years of your life into making a program – showing up on set at 5AM and leaving your kids to get their own breakfast, performing stunts that could maim or kill you, working 16-hour days during the acute phase of the covid pandemic and driving home in the night, only to have this absolute turd of a man delete the program before anyone could see it, forever, to get a minor tax advantage. Talk about moral injury!

But without Sony's complicity in designing a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature into the Playstation, Zaslav's war on art and creative workers would be limited to material that hadn't been released yet. Thanks to Sony's awful choices, David Zaslav can break into your house, steal your movies – and he doesn't even have to leave a twenty on your kitchen table.

The point here – the point I made 20 years ago to Chris Anderson – is that this is the foreseeable, inevitable result of designing devices for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades. Anyone who was paying attention should have figured that out in the GW Bush administration. Anyone who does this today? Absolute flaming garbage.

Sure, Zaslav deserves to be staked out over an anthill and slathered in high-fructose corn syrup. But save the next anthill for the Sony exec who shipped a product that would let Zaslav come into your home and rob you. That piece of shit knew what they were doing and they did it anyway. Fuck them. Sideways. With a brick.

Meanwhile, the studios keep making the case for stealing movies rather than paying for them. As Tyler James Hill wrote: "If buying isn't owning, piracy isn't stealing":

https://bsky.app/profile/tylerjameshill.bsky.social/post/3kflw2lvam42n

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill

Image: Alan Levine (modified) https://pxhere.com/en/photo/218986

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #playstation #sony #copyright #copyfight #drm #monopoly #enshittification #batgirl #road runner #financiazation #the end of ownership #ip

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solxamber · 6 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want a Refund || Trey Clover

When the universe dunks you into a dumpster fire of a novel as the villainess, survival is key. Except your husband, Trey Clover, turns out to be such a green flag that it gets a little harder to function.

Series Masterlist

You prided yourself on being a normal, decent person. Maybe even a good person, depending on who you asked. Sure, you weren’t out here saving kittens from trees or solving world hunger, but you did your part.

You recycled when you remembered, held the door open for strangers (if they were close enough, you weren’t that kind of hero), and even tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons outside your apartment every now and then. It wasn’t much, but it was honest work.

So, really, what you didn’t expect was to be completely betrayed by the universe. The betrayal began small, like a mosquito buzzing in your ear: the newest novel you’d been anticipating for months was sold out.

“Are you serious?” you grumbled, glaring at the empty display like it had just insulted your mother. A handwritten sign on the shelf read: ‘SOLD OUT! More in stock soon!’ in cheerful cursive, as if mocking you.

What were you supposed to do now? Go home empty-handed? Waste your perfectly good afternoon plans of curling up with a book? Absolutely not. Refusing to admit defeat, you scanned the bookstore until your gaze fell on the “New and Best-Selling” rack.

One book immediately caught your eye. The cover was... well, something. It looked like someone had raided a middle schooler’s stash of Barbie stickers, splattered glitter over the whole thing, and slapped on an aggressively curly gold font that screamed, I’M A ROMANCE NOVEL!

You sighed. “Fine. How bad could it be?”

It could be very, very bad.

The first red flag was the synopsis. It introduced Trey Clover, the Grand Duke, who loved his spouse, the villainess, with a devotion so pure it made you want to gag. But then came the second male lead, the Prince, who confessed his love to Trey and the villainess, because monogamy was too boring for this book.

And then there was the heroine. The synopsis just called her “the Saintess,” because why bother giving her a name when her only personality trait was being the worst human being imaginable? She appeared out of nowhere, became the Saintess overnight (because logic?), and made it her life’s mission to ruin the villainess’s life while somehow convincing everyone she was an angel.

Oh, and the Prince? The book had him slip on a rock and die halfway through the plot, like the author had a word count limit and didn’t know what else to do with him. The villainess ends up dying too, right aftetr asking Trey for a divorce to "protect him." The ending involved Trey marrying the heroine, despite spending the entire book side-eyeing her like she owed him rent.

You closed the book slowly, your soul drained of all joy. “What in the fresh hell did I just read?”

But no, you couldn’t let this stand. You were a taxpayer, a contributing member of society. You did not deserve this literary slap in the face.

With righteous indignation burning in your chest, you marched back to the bookstore. You slapped the book onto the counter with a dramatic flair that deserved a standing ovation.

“Refund,” you declared, glaring at the cashier.

“Uh... we don’t usually do refunds on books you’ve already read...” they began hesitantly.

“I don’t care,” you snapped, pointing at the glittering monstrosity. “This isn’t a book. It’s a hate crime against literature. A refund, please, before I start sobbing in public.”

After a long pause—and possibly fearing a customer service meltdown—they handed you store credit. Satisfied but still simmering with rage, you stomped out of the store, muttering to yourself about bad authors, worse editors, and the existential crisis of knowing someone got paid to write that garbage.

And that’s when karma struck.

A segway—a SEGWAY—came hurtling toward you at Mach speed, piloted by a man dressed in full medieval knight armor.

“MAKE WAY FOR SIR SCOOTINGTON!” he screamed, his voice muffled by his helmet.

You froze. Your brain could not process this level of absurdity in such a short amount of time. Was this a prank? A hallucination? Had the book actually been cursed and now you were living out its bad writing?

The segway didn’t stop. It hit you with a solid THUNK, sending you flying backward into a suspiciously well-placed pile of garbage bags.

As you lay there, buried under the remains of someone’s takeout and a very old banana peel, as your vision started to blur, you stared at the sky and thought:

Dawg, why me??

You woke up to the faint chirping of birds and the kind of silence that only rich people seem to afford. Something felt... off. The sheets were too soft, like they’d been spun from angel whispers and a mid-tier deity’s hair. Your pillow was the perfect combination of fluffy and firm, a far cry from the lumpy second-hand abomination you’d bought on sale three years ago.

Your eyes cracked open, squinting against the sunlight filtering through an elaborate, gold-encrusted chandelier. A chandelier. In a bedroom. You lived in a shoebox apartment; your idea of luxury was a lamp that wasn’t from a clearance bin.

You turned your head slightly, and your soul froze mid-exit.

There was someone next to you.

Your brain screeched to a halt, flashing every warning signal it had. Stranger. Bed. You. No.

The only living thing that should’ve been in your apartment was the stray cat you’d nicknamed Gremlin, and he sure as hell didn’t have human proportions or a steady breathing rhythm.

Slowly—painstakingly—you tilted your head to look at your unwanted companion.

It was a man. A very attractive man, sleeping peacefully on his side, glasses perched askew on the nightstand. His hair was a soft mess, his breathing even, and his entire aura screamed gentle husband vibes.

Then recognition sucker-punched you in the gut.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You blinked. Looked again. Replayed every horrible memory of that atrocious novel you had read, and then read again because you hated yourself.

It was Trey Clover.

Male lead. Gentleman. Human embodiment of a warm cup of tea. The guy who was in love with his villainess spouse (you remembered her being dramatic but competent) before the world went full dumpster fire.

Your breathing hitched. You stared down at your hands, and they stared back—perfectly manicured, dainty, soft hands that had never touched a single dirty dish or over-scrubbed countertop.

The reality hit you like a segway knight at full speed.

You’d been isekai’d.

You fought the urge to scream into the pillow. Was this some karmic punishment for returning that book? Was your snarky review in the Reddit thread too harsh? Because this? This was an unholy level of irony.

Trey stirred beside you, his brow furrowing slightly as his hand lazily reached for his glasses. He slid them on, blinking sleepily as his gaze landed on you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, groggy, and just a little raspy—the kind of voice you’d pay extra to have someone read you bedtime stories with. “You’re staring.”

For a moment, your brain blue-screened. Trey Clover—novel character and now your husband, apparently—was looking at you with concern, and all you could think was: At least he’s hot.

“…Nothing,” you croaked, swallowing down the rising tide of panic. “Just… processing.”

“Processing what?” he asked, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes, his entire demeanor radiating "adoring husband" energy.

You clenched the sheets in your fists, trying to will yourself to wake up from this insane fever dream. Unfortunately, the chandelier wasn’t disappearing, Trey wasn’t fading into mist, and your perfectly moisturized skin wasn’t breaking into your usual crusty dryness.

This was real.

And somehow, you were the villainess in a novel you’d once described as "a literary abomination designed to kill brain cells."

The sound of a soft knock at the bedroom door made you jump, nearly upsetting the tower of books you’d been flipping through in your attempt to figure out where in the dumpster fire of this timeline you were.

“Come in?” you called hesitantly, trying to shove the incriminating evidence of your non-villainess-like behavior—a half-written list titled HOW TO NOT DIE TRAGICALLY—under a pillow.

Trey stepped in, balancing a tray of food like he was auditioning for Husband of the Year. His hair was slightly mussed, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up just enough to show forearms that could inspire sonnets. The man was a walking Pinterest board, and it was unfair.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said with a small smile, setting the tray on the table. “You’ve been skipping meals, and that’s not like you.”

You laughed nervously, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Oh, um, yeah. Upset stomach. You know how it is.”

Trey raised an eyebrow, his smile unwavering but his eyes far too knowing. “Sure. And I’ll be here while you eat, just to make sure you’re feeling better.”

Oh, no.

You stared at the tray like it had betrayed you. Soup, bread, and some suspiciously perfect desserts that looked like they had been made by the hands of an angel. You couldn’t say no without sounding even sketchier.

“Right,” you muttered, picking up the spoon with the grace of someone about to face a firing squad. As you sipped, Trey watched silently, his chin resting on one hand, his soft gaze pinned on you. The air felt so heavy you could’ve cut it with a butter knife.

“Are you going to go through with it?” he asked suddenly.

You froze mid-bite, the words hitting you like a frying pan to the face. “Go through with… what?”

“The divorce,” he said simply.

You choked on your soup. The spoon clattered back into the bowl as you grabbed a napkin, trying to avoid literally dying of shock. Divorce? Divorce?! That wasn’t in the plan! You knew what happened after the divorce—the villainess died, and you weren’t about to let fate steamroll you into an early grave, again.

“What? No! Of course not!” you sputtered, waving your hands in frantic denial. “Why would I want a divorce? You’re, uh, great! Fantastic! A literal dream husband!”

Trey blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion before his expression softened into something warmer, almost relieved. “You… want to work things out?”

“Yes!” you blurted, nodding with enough enthusiasm to give yourself whiplash. “Absolutely! Let’s work this out. Together. Like a team.”

His lips curved into a rare, genuine smile that nearly melted you on the spot. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that left your brain doing cartwheels. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that. I’ll be back for dinner, so rest up until then.”

He left the room, and the moment the door clicked shut, you flopped back onto the bed like a deflated balloon. The pillow muffled your scream of embarrassment as you kicked your feet, equal parts flustered and mortified. What was that? Why did he have to be so sweet? How were you supposed to survive this level of tenderness without combusting?

The door creaked open again.

You froze mid-giggle, legs tangled in the sheets like a caught fish. Trey stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised and looking like he was about two seconds away from bursting into laughter. “Forgot my pen,” he said casually, strolling over to grab the item from the bedside table.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Oh. Uh. Right.”

He paused on his way out, leaning down to kiss your cheek with infuriating gentleness. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And just like that, he was gone again, leaving you red-faced, flustered, and questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

It had been such a nice meal. The kind where the food was good, the company better, and the wine just strong enough to make you feel warm and floaty but not stupid. Trey was smiling faintly at you over his plate, his rare but deeply satisfying I’m enjoying myself face in full effect, and you dared to think, Hey, maybe I can survive this isekai nonsense after all.

And then the restaurant door swung open, and your fragile peace shattered like a dropped wine glass.

The prince had arrived.

Trey’s face immediately darkened like a thunderstorm on the horizon, and you felt yourself lose a year of your life just from sheer dread. The prince was a walking disaster in human form, and you’d been hoping to avoid him like the plague. But the universe clearly hated you because here he was, sashaying through the restaurant like he owned the place.

“Oh no,” you whispered, gripping your fork like it could somehow protect you.

Trey’s jaw tightened as the prince spotted you both, his grin wide enough to make you wish the floor would open up and swallow you.

“Darlings!” the prince cried, crossing the room with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever off its leash. “Fancy seeing you here!”

You didn’t even get a chance to object before he grabbed a chair from a nearby table, spun it around dramatically, and wedged himself between you and Trey, plopping down like he’d been invited. Spoiler alert: he hadn’t.

“Your Highness,” Trey said through clenched teeth, managing to sound both polite and like he was ready to stab someone with a salad fork.

“Oh, come now, Trey,” the prince laughed, waving off the formality. “No need to be so stiff. After all, we’re practically family!”

You didn’t get the chance to ask how that made sense before he grabbed your hand—and Trey’s—planting a wet, sloppy kiss on each. The sound it made was unholy, like a boot pulling free from a swamp. You and Trey simultaneously stiffened, the same thought clearly running through your minds: Don’t cringe, don’t cringe, don’t cringe…

“I simply had to come over when I saw you two!” the prince gushed, oblivious to your visible discomfort. “The saintess—bless her kind, radiant heart—has been dying to see you both!”

You glanced at Trey, who was visibly restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“She’s throwing a ball this weekend,” the prince continued, clasping his hands together like he was sharing the world’s most exciting news. “And you must come. Truly, it’d be… well, treasonous not to, considering we’re both inviting you!”

Ah, there it was. The veiled threat disguised as politeness. You hated that this guy was smart enough to wield his royal status as a weapon, even if he made everything sound like it came with a complimentary gift basket.

You forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace. “We’d be honored, Your Highness.”

Trey shot you a subtle look, one that very clearly said Traitor, but you knew he agreed. Anything to avoid another round of Wet Hand Kisses.

“Wonderful!” the prince declared, clapping his hands together. “I knew you two would understand. You always were the reasonable ones.”

He finally stood up, ruffling Trey’s hair in a way that made his eye twitch before striding off like he hadn’t just hijacked your peaceful dinner.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, you slumped back in your chair, utterly drained. “I feel like I need to bathe in holy water.”

Trey pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve poisoned his dessert last time.”

You stared at him. “You what?”

“Nothing,” he said, picking up his fork like nothing had happened. “Let’s finish eating.”

You could still feel the ghost of the prince’s wet kiss on your hand, and you shuddered. “Do you think we can fake our deaths before Saturday?”

Trey actually looked like he was considering it.

The ball was, against all odds, actually enjoyable. The lights glittered like fairy dust, the music was just the right level of lively, and the wine was strong enough to turn your earlier dread into a warm, floaty haze. Trey was by your side, charming in his tailored suit, and for once, the prince and saintess were blissfully absent.

"Maybe they got lost," you whispered to Trey, leaning in conspiratorially. "Or better yet, maybe they found a better party and decided to leave us alone."

Trey smirked, sipping his wine. "If only we were that lucky."

Your hopes were dashed, naturally, when the prince appeared out of nowhere like some unholy summon. One second you were lifting a glass to your lips, and the next, your arm was being yanked so hard you almost spilled your drink.

“Come now, my dear!” the prince declared, grinning in a way that felt more like a threat than an invitation. “Dance with me!”

Before you could even process what was happening, you were being twirled onto the dance floor. Across the room, you caught a glimpse of Trey being snatched by the saintess, who looked like she had all the coordination of a baby deer on ice.

The prince pulled you in too close, his breath an unholy concoction of garlic and what might’ve been sour milk. You tried to politely lean back, but he just leaned closer, grinning obliviously.

“You’re stiff, my dear,” he said, his voice low and entirely too sultry for someone who smelled like a kitchen accident. “Loosen up!”

Meanwhile, Trey was enduring his own nightmare. The saintess stepped on his foot with her stiletto for the fourth time, and you could swear you saw him wince in actual pain. She was chattering nonstop about something—maybe puppies, maybe world peace—you couldn’t hear over the sound of her heels clobbering the floor.

When the ordeal finally ended, you staggered back to Trey, feeling like you’d aged ten years. He looked equally frazzled, rubbing his shoulder like it had been yanked out of its socket.

“I’d say that was horrible,” he said under his breath, “but I think ‘horrible’ is too kind.”

Before you could respond, the saintess suddenly tripped. She wasn’t even near you—she was all the way across the room—but she hit the ground with a dramatic thud, and her dress promptly ripped down the side.

You blinked. “Wait, what just—”

“I knew it!” she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at you from the floor. “You sabotaged me!”

The prince, for once, looked baffled. He glanced between her and you like he was trying to solve a complicated riddle. “But… she wasn’t even near you?”

“SABOTAGE!” the saintess shrieked again, her voice cracking.

The original villainess would’ve taken the high road, maybe pretended to be insulted or outraged. You, however, were just drunk enough to find the entire thing hilarious.

You laughed. Loudly.

And to your absolute delight, the crowd followed suit. Quiet snickers turned into outright guffaws as everyone around you dissolved into laughter.

The saintess gawked, looking like a wet cat as she scrambled to her feet. “You’re all… MONSTERS!” she shrieked, before fleeing the room with a level of dramatics that would make even a soap opera jealous.

The prince hesitated, torn between chasing after her or staying to glower at you and Trey. Finally, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like “I hate my life,” he ran after her, disappearing into the night.

“Well,” Trey said, offering his hand with a faint smirk, “that was… something. Care to salvage the evening with a proper dance?”

You took his hand, letting him spin you onto the floor. The music softened, the crowd fading into the background as Trey pulled you close.

“You look stunning tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as you danced.

The compliment hit you like a sucker punch, leaving you so dazed that, in your flustered state, you impulsively dipped him instead of the other way around.

Trey laughed, eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, cheeks burning as you held the pose.

But to your surprise, he didn’t protest. He let you dip him, even laughing as you pulled him back up. And when the dance ended, he kissed your cheek, sending your heart into a full-on meltdown.

“That,” he said, his voice filled with amusement, “was the most fun I’ve had at a ball in years.”

The tea party was a picturesque affair, all pastel tablecloths, delicate porcelain cups, and the kind of floral arrangements that screamed wealth and good taste. You were seated with Riddle, Cater, and Che’nya at a table tucked under a wisteria-laden gazebo, trying your best to survive the endless parade of gossip and sweets.

The conversation drifted naturally, like it always did, until someone—probably Cater—brought up the topic of Trey.

“Y’know,” Cater began, swirling his tea with exaggerated nonchalance, “Trey’s been looking at you like you personally hung the moon and stars lately. It’s kinda adorable.”

Che’nya leaned over, grinning like the Cheshire Cat he was. “So deep in love, it’s practically a romantic trench. What’s your secret, huh? Love potion? A really good pie?”

You chuckled, brushing off the comment, but then you glanced across the garden—and froze.

There he was, Trey Clover, the ridiculously perfect husband material that fate had handed you in this bizarre isekai life. He was standing a little ways off, chatting with a few nobles, but his gaze was unmistakably fixed on you.

When your eyes met, he smiled. Not just any smile—a warm, genuine, I-would-die-for-you-and-bake-you-cookies-afterwards kind of smile. It hit you like a runaway carriage.

Your chest tightened, your stomach flipped, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to pause.

Oh no.

You were in so deep.

Like, Titanic-hitting-the-iceberg-and-sinking-to-the-ocean-floor deep.

“Uh oh,” Cater sang, leaning closer with a smirk that could only mean trouble. “I know that look. Someone just had their Hallmark movie epiphany.”

You snapped out of it, cheeks burning. “What look? I don’t have a look!”

“Oh, you totally do,” Che’nya chimed in, his grin somehow wider. “It’s all dreamy and starry-eyed, like you’re in a fairy tale. Which, I guess you kinda are?”

Riddle, ever the straight man in these situations, regarded you with a mix of pity and exasperation. “Please tell me you’re not about to let these two meddle in your relationship.”

But before you could defend yourself, Cater was already leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Cay-Cay’s got you covered! Wanna confess? I can totally set the mood—candles, roses, soft music…”

“I—what?” you stammered, still too dazed by your revelation to form a coherent response.

“That’s a yes!” Che’nya declared, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s brainstorm. Hot air balloon confession? Dramatic rain scene? Ooh, what about—”

“Absolutely not,” Riddle interrupted, his tone sharp as ever. He turned to you, expression weary. “I’ll make sure they don’t do anything absurd, but honestly, why not just tell Trey yourself? He’s your husband.”

You groaned, sinking into your chair as Cater and Che’nya continued to scheme with increasingly outlandish ideas. Meanwhile, Riddle looked at you like you’d just wired your entire fortune to a scammer and promised to fix it for you later.

Across the garden, Trey caught your gaze again, his brows furrowing slightly in concern at your flustered state. He started to make his way over, and your heart leapt into your throat.

Oh no.

Whatever happened next, you were absolutely not ready.

Riddle had been firm, as always. “A pie,” he said with the kind of authority you’d expect from someone sentencing a man to death. “It’s simple, heartfelt, and Trey would appreciate the effort. Not that I have time to indulge in frivolities like this, but… you’re lucky I know the basics.”

Turns out, Riddle did not know the basics. And neither did you.

What followed could only be described as a culinary catastrophe.

The kitchen looked like it had been struck by a flour tornado, with you and Riddle at its chaotic epicenter. Your attempt at pie dough was a war crime in the making—half stuck to the counter, half to your hands, and none of it remotely edible.

“Why is it stretching?” Riddle hissed, his face as red as his hair, holding one end of the dough while you gripped the other. The elastic monstrosity between you refused to snap, stretching longer and longer like some unholy noodle.

“I don’t know!” you shrieked back, your voice an octave higher than usual. “I followed the instructions! Mostly! Kind of!”

“‘Kind of’ isn’t good enough! Put some force into it!”

Riddle tugged one end of the dough like he was in a tug-of-war with a particularly stubborn ghost. You yanked back, and the dough elongated even further, wobbling ominously in the air.

That’s when Trey walked in.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the absolute chaos: the flour-streaked counter, the rolling pin embedded in what used to be a bag of sugar, and you and Riddle holding opposite ends of the world’s saddest dough.

“What… exactly is happening here?” Trey asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You froze, still clutching the dough. Riddle looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“We’re baking,” you managed to squeak out.

Trey blinked, then burst into laughter, the sound warm and rich like honey. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

His laughter didn’t help your embarrassment, but the way he stepped forward, gently taking the dough from you and Riddle like a benevolent baking god, did. “Alright, let’s see if we can salvage this. Flour, water… and patience. You two watch and learn.”

You stood back, flustered and hopelessly smitten as Trey worked his magic. In minutes, he turned your disaster into a perfectly respectable pie crust. He even smiled at you both as if to say nice try, kids, and it made you feel oddly warm inside.

Still too mortified to admit the pie was meant for him, you let him finish it while Riddle quietly excused himself, muttering about overdue paperwork.

You did feel for Riddle, poor guy was stuck babysitting the Prince after all. Maybe the dough was sad because of his stress.

Later, Cater and Che’nya were far too pleased with themselves when they found you.

“So,” Cater said, grinning, “how’s Operation Swoon going?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumbled, remembering the dough debacle.

Che’nya’s grin widened. “Lucky for you, we’ve got Plan B: flowers! Romantic, classic, and impossible to mess up.”

You weren’t sure about that last part, but their enthusiasm was infectious. You ended up at a florist with Cater coaching you through every step, from picking out the blooms to tying a ribbon. By the time you were done, the bouquet looked gorgeous.

When you handed the flowers to Trey later, he looked… stunned. His eyes widened, his cheeks turned faintly pink, and his smile was so soft and genuine that you nearly dropped dead on the spot.

“For me?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

You nodded, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. Just, uh, wanted to thank you. For everything. You know.”

Trey cradled the bouquet like it was something precious. “Thank you. Really. This means a lot.”

And when he smiled at you again, you realized that maybe, just maybe, Cater and Che’nya’s meddling wasn’t so bad after all.

You were practically vibrating with excitement as you entered the restaurant, rare flower in hand. You’d spent far too much money on it, but it was worth it. Trey deserved nothing less. The merchant had waxed poetic about how the flower symbolized eternal devotion, and you figured it was the perfect way to set the stage for your long-overdue confession.

Trey was already seated at the table, his calm demeanor somehow both comforting and devastatingly attractive. When he saw you approach, his eyes softened, and that sweet smile of his—the one that made your knees weak—spread across his face.

You handed him the flower, and his expression lit up as though you’d just handed him the moon.

“For me?” he asked, his voice full of surprise and warmth.

“Of course,” you said, a little shy but mostly proud of yourself. “I thought it suited you.”

His fingers brushed yours as he took the flower, and before you knew it, you were holding hands across the table. The atmosphere felt perfect—soft candlelight, his warm gaze locked on yours, and your heart pounding like it had just discovered cardio.

This was it. The moment to confess that you loved him.

You opened your mouth, ready to pour your heart out—

And then she appeared.

The saintess, an uninvited hurricane in the form of a woman, swept into the room with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. You barely had time to process her arrival before she snatched the flower from Trey’s hand like a seagull stealing a french fry.

“Oh, Trey, you shouldn’t have!” she gushed, clutching the flower to her chest like a deranged soap opera villain. “How thoughtful of you to get this for me!”

Trey’s face froze in what could only be described as polite murder. His jaw tightened, his grip on the table visibly white-knuckled.

You, however, were already halfway to a breakdown. “Excuse me?” you sputtered.

The saintess ignored you entirely.

Enter the prince, the human equivalent of a golden retriever who’d been hit on the head one too many times. He trailed behind her, clearly regretting his existence. For once, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and awkwardly tried to mediate.

“Ah, maybe I should—uh—just give this back,” he mumbled, reaching for the flower.

The saintess responded by shoving him.

The prince, unprepared for even the gentlest resistance, stumbled directly into Trey’s arms.

Trey, now holding a grown man like a bridal bouquet, froze. His eyes darted to you, silently screaming what do I do with this?

Before he could decide, the prince looked up at him, smiled coyly, and winked.

You might’ve laughed if the saintess hadn’t chosen that exact moment to drape herself across you.

“Oh, my dear friend,” she simpered, batting her lashes, “surely you understand Trey’s affection for me. You’ll support us, won’t you?”

You were too stunned to respond, stuck holding the saintess like an overly affectionate sloth. Across the table, Trey looked like he was begging whatever gods existed for an escape route.

Finally, something in Trey snapped. Gently—yet firmly—he set the prince in his seat like a toddler being put in timeout. Then, without a word, he reached across, grabbed the saintess by the arm, and unceremoniously deposited her in her own chair.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Trey said, his voice smooth but his expression pure I’m done with this nonsense. He grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the restaurant, not even sparing a glance back.

Oh, and he definitely took the flower back.

In the carriage, Trey was silent, his expression unreadable. You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just… tired.”

“Of what?”

“Of not having moments with you for myself,” he said, his voice soft but full of frustration. “Every time I try to enjoy being with you, someone interrupts. I just… I want you. Just you.”

Your heart practically melted on the spot. Overwhelmed by his honesty, you leaned forward and kissed him—a gentle, tentative gesture that said everything you’d been too nervous to put into words.

Trey froze for a moment, then pulled you closer, kissing you again, this time deeper and with so much emotion that you thought your brain might short-circuit. His hands cradled your face, and the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his smile so radiant it made your heart skip. “I guess this means you’re mine?”

You nodded, breathless.

“And I’m yours,” he murmured, sealing the confession with another kiss that left you thoroughly, blissfully dazed.

It was supposed to be a simple stroll through the common garden—just you and Trey enjoying a rare moment of peace. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and you were basking in the warmth of Trey's smile when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

The prince.

And worse, the pebble.

You recognized it instantly—the cursed rock from the original novel, the one destined to send the prince spiraling into a tragic, fatal end. It glittered ominously on the path, as if taunting fate.

The prince, blissfully unaware, strutted forward like he owned the place. He stepped right onto the pebble, his foot slipping out from under him with comical precision.

In that split second, you knew what you had to do. Annoying as he was, no one deserved to die because of a glorified piece of gravel.

You lunged forward, grabbing the prince by the arm and yanking him upright just before disaster struck.

He looked at you, wide-eyed, for all of two seconds before breaking into a toothy grin. “Ah, so this is love,” he declared, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Fear not, my dear! Your feelings for me are obvious, and I, in my infinite generosity, shall grant you the honor of becoming my bride!”

Trey, who had been watching this unfold with his usual calm, suddenly stiffened. His hand slipped into yours, his grip firm but not unkind as he gently pulled you closer.

“Your Highness,” Trey began, his voice polite but laced with steel, “I think you may have misunderstood something.”

“Oh?” The prince arched a brow, clearly oblivious to the warning signs.

“She's already married,” Trey said, his tone so calm and measured it was borderline terrifying. “To me.”

The prince’s eyes lit up with excitement, not deterred in the slightest. “A rivalry for their love, then? Excellent! Let the best man win!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Riddle—ever the voice of reason (or exhaustion)—strode into the fray like a man who had been dealing with this nonsense for far too long.

“Your Highness,” Riddle snapped, looking entirely done with life. “What in the sevens are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the prince by the collar and dragged him away like a scolding parent hauling a toddler out of the candy aisle.

“You can’t just propose to married people!” Riddle hissed as they disappeared down the path.

Left in their wake, you spotted Cater and Che’nya lounging under a tree, shamelessly munching on popcorn. Cater caught your eye and waved, looking far too entertained by the whole ordeal.

“Did you see Trey’s face?” Che’nya whispered loudly. “I’d give it a solid nine out of ten on the jealousy scale.”

“Totally,” Cater agreed. “Hey, Alfred!” he called to the butler nearby. “Get me a glass of wine; this show’s getting good!”

Before you could decide whether to laugh or cringe, Trey’s hand gently tilted your chin, drawing your attention back to him.

“Focus on me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours.

And oh, jealous Trey was adorable. His usual calm demeanor was tinged with a possessiveness that made your heart skip several beats.

Caught up in the moment, you leaned forward and kissed him, a quick but sweet gesture that left him blinking in surprise before a soft smile spread across his face.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Cater almost spill his wine in excitement, while Che’nya clapped like a seal.

“Now that’s spicy!” Che’nya crowed.

“I need another glass,” Cater sighed dramatically, as if the sheer romance was too much for his delicate heart.

But you didn’t care. Trey’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and for once, the rest of the world faded away.

The war room was dead silent, the kind of silence so heavy you could hear the shuffle of maps and the scratch of quills on parchment. Every important figure of the empire was present—Trey and you, the Emperor and Empress, military generals whose scowls could crack stone, the Pope looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else, and, shockingly, even the Prince, for once not actively trying to ruin someone’s day.

Strategies were discussed in grim tones. Supply lines, terrain advantages, possible reinforcement numbers—you and Trey were fully immersed in weighing the support your duchy could offer. For once, even the Prince managed to look engaged, though he was suspiciously chewing on the end of his quill like a kid stuck in detention.

Then, like an uninvited storm, the doors slammed open.

“Hellooooooo!”

Every head in the room turned as the Saintess waltzed in, an hour late, as if this were a garden party and not a high-stakes war council. She was dressed in what could only be described as a fever dream of bad taste: a dress so garish and bedazzled it could probably be seen from orbit, complete with absurd feathered accessories sticking out at odd angles like a startled peacock.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she sang, twirling unnecessarily as if this was a runway. “I couldn’t decide which dress to wear. Do you think this one looks good?”

The silence was palpable, charged with a collective secondhand embarrassment that could power an entire city.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering if you could claim an "upset stomach" for the fifth time this month. Then, unable to stop yourself, you deadpanned, “Yes. It’d make a great enemy flag.”

Trey choked on a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough. The Pope crossed himself, possibly praying for patience. One of the military generals muttered something under his breath, hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. The Prince just buried his face in his hands.

The Saintess, predictably, burst into tears. “You’re so mean! I’m just trying to brighten up this dreary meeting!”

The Emperor looked deeply, soul-crushingly confused, glancing at the generals as if to ask, Does this happen often? Meanwhile, the Empress, seated beside him, was gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

Trey sighed and leaned closer to you. “I’ll handle it,” he murmured, giving you a quick nod before standing.

He approached her like one might approach a wild animal, hands raised in surrender. “Saintess, perhaps we could discuss this outside—”

But no sooner had he stepped within arm’s reach did she trip. On purpose.

In what could only be described as an Olympian-level act of self-preservation, Trey sidestepped so swiftly she ended up flailing through the air like a failed acrobat.

She landed directly on top of the Emperor.

The entire room froze.

The Emperor looked down at the Saintess sprawled across his lap with the bewilderment of someone who just found a raccoon in their bed. The generals were wide-eyed, clearly waiting for his reaction before deciding if they needed to draw their swords. The Pope had started sweating through his robes, clutching his staff like it was his last lifeline.

And then, like an avenging goddess, the Empress rose from her seat.

Without a single word, she grabbed the Saintess by her feathered hairpiece and hauled her up like a disobedient child. The Saintess shrieked, limbs flailing, but the Empress dragged her toward the door with a grim determination.

“OUT.”

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Trey cleared his throat, brushing off his sleeves as if nothing had happened. “Well,” he said, returning to his seat beside you. “That was… eventful.”

“Eventful?” you hissed, elbowing him. “She just dive-bombed the Emperor!”

Trey shrugged, lips twitching. “And yet here we are, still alive. I’d call that a win.”

Across the table, the Emperor straightened his robes, trying to reclaim what little dignity he had left. “Shall we… continue?” he asked, though his tone suggested he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and a nap.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress a laugh as the meeting resumed. Somehow, against all odds, you managed to get back to planning strategy. But you knew this story was one for the history books. Or at least for drunken retellings later.

The negotiation room was a grand affair, with gilded walls, an impossibly long table, and an air of tension so thick you could slice it with a butter knife.

The opposing kingdom’s crown princess sat across from your delegation, radiating intelligence and poise. Her every word was measured, her presence commanding, and she somehow managed to make a simple quill look like a weapon of mass destruction.

Meanwhile, your prince was... spinning in his chair.

“Wheeeee!”

You felt your soul leave your body.

“Your Highness,” Riddle hissed, his voice laced with the kind of fury only a man on the verge of a migraine could muster. “Compose yourself!”

The prince paused mid-spin, blinking like he’d just remembered where he was. “Right, right. Negotiations. Totally got this.” He picked up a quill and twirled it between his fingers like a toddler pretending to be an adult.

You buried your face in your hands, quietly mourning the future of your kingdom.

Across the table, their saint was the picture of grace, clasping their hands as though ready to bestow divine blessings upon the room. They exuded an aura of peace and righteousness that made you think, Ah, yes, this is what a saint should look like.

And then there was your saintess.

She was currently leaning against the wall, dramatically fanning herself with a peacock-feathered fan that you were pretty sure wasn’t hers. She’d arrived late, claiming she’d been “blessed by the spirits of fashion,” and was wearing a gown so covered in rhinestones that it could probably be seen from space.

You caught Trey’s eye from across the table. He looked entirely too amused, like he was moments away from bursting into laughter. You glared at him, silently begging him to take this seriously.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward as if to say, I’m trying.

Thankfully, the Empress had come along for damage control. She sat at the head of the table, calm and unflappable, effortlessly steering the conversation back on track whenever your prince derailed it with comments like, “So, how do you guys feel about dragons?”

When the opposing kingdom’s crown princess suggested an ambassador exchange as part of the peace treaty, the Empress visibly perked up.

“That’s an excellent idea,” she said smoothly. “In fact, we have the perfect candidate.”

You felt a sliver of hope. Maybe she’d suggest Riddle—he was intelligent, responsible, and would undoubtedly represent your kingdom well. Or Trey, whose calm demeanor and charm could win over anyone. Or—dare you dream—maybe even you, since you were clearly the only one in this circus who had a shred of common sense. And the two of you could move away from this hellhole.

“We’ll send the saintess,” the Empress announced, her voice dripping with what could only be described as malicious glee.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

The crown princess on the other side of the table looked mildly alarmed. “Um,” she began, clearly searching for a polite way to decline.

“She’ll be an excellent cultural ambassador,” the Empress continued, her smile widening. “She’s... unforgettable.”

Riddle’s eye twitched, but he said nothing. Trey looked down at the table, probably to hide his grin.

The saintess, oblivious to the underlying implications, squealed in delight. “Oh my gosh, finally! I’ve always wanted to travel!”

The opposing kingdom reluctantly agreed—probably under the assumption that taking her would somehow count as reparations.

When you all finally returned home, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter, as though a glittery, rhinestone-encrusted weight had been lifted off your collective shoulders.

Trey leaned over in the carriage, his voice low and amused. “Well, I’d call that a success.”

“Success?” you laughed. “We basically tricked another kingdom into taking her off our hands.”

Trey’s smile was soft as he reached for your hand. “And we averted a war in the process.”

You sighed, but your heart skipped a beat when his thumb brushed against your knuckles. Maybe you could live with this version of “success.”

Without the saintess egging him on, the prince had downgraded from menace to society to mildly annoying NPC. He still popped up every now and then, offering unsolicited advice on topics he clearly didn’t understand, but Riddle—bless his overworked soul—had finally had enough. As royal advisor, he slapped the prince with permanent probation, effectively keeping him confined to paperwork and far, far away from you and Trey.

Life, for once, was peaceful.

So peaceful, in fact, that you and Trey found yourselves back at that restaurant—the same one that had become the backdrop for two very traumatic encounters. It felt like tempting fate, but Trey, ever the optimist, assured you that lightning wouldn’t strike thrice.

And for once, he was right.

The food was good, the atmosphere was cozy, and not a single insufferable royal barged in to ruin the evening. You both laughed, reminisced, and indulged in desserts that Trey—being the baking connoisseur he was—had plenty of opinions about.

By the time you left the restaurant, the streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The air was crisp but not cold, and everything felt oddly serene, like the universe was apologizing for all the nonsense it had previously thrown your way.

As you walked side by side, Trey suddenly stopped.

You turned to face him, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he knelt down on one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Trey—”

“Before you say anything,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion, “I just want you to know that despite how things started between us... I’ve never regretted a single moment with you.” He looked up at you, his green eyes warm and sincere. “You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be, and if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life making you just as happy.”

He opened the box, revealing a ring—simple, elegant, and undeniably perfect. “So... will you marry me? Again?”

You stared at him, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t even begin to untangle. And then you laughed—because how else were you supposed to process the sheer ridiculousness of everything that had led to this moment?

“Yes,” you said, your voice trembling with joy. “Of course, yes.”

He stood, sliding the ring onto your finger with a smile that could have melted glaciers.

And then he kissed you—soft, slow, and so full of love that it felt like the world around you ceased to exist.

Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard a cat knock over a trash can, but nothing could ruin this moment.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #trey clover x reader #trey x reader #twst trey #twst trey x reader #trey clover #trash novel chronicles

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duckprintspress · 9 months ago

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On the Care and Maintenance of Writers

September is “Be Kind to Editors and Writers” Month. Earlier this month, we celebrated with a roundtable discussion with our editors, and now we’re back to share a roundtable chat we had with our authors!

The participants in this conversation are Sebastian Marie, Robin S. Blackwood, jumblejen, Max Jason Peterson, Lucy K.R., polls, boneturtle, Shannon, and Nina Waters.

1. What is your favorite self-care as a writer?

Sebastian Marie: My favorite self-care is going back and either a) reading through comments on something I really liked writing or b) rereading something I really liked writing.

Robin S. Blackwood: For me it’s revisiting inspirations. The books, films, music, that made me want to write, in the genres I write in…my inspirations vary from story to story but there’s some pretty strong ones present in all of them as I like to think I write out of love for the genre. And I do find I need “input” of stories or even music to “output” creative things of my own.

jumblejen: When things aren’t going well, I remind myself that while life is short, it’s also long. The inspiration will come ’round again. The words will flow. The story will go on. Recognizing that fallow periods are just as important as the productive ones has lowered my anxiety when I have a hard time writing. Especially in times of great stress and challenges, remembering this helps keep me from panicking.

Lucy K.R.: This is such a good reminder! I think often about how we as humans USED to be more in tune with the seasonality of production, as we were beholden to harvest times and seasonal ingredients, and I wonder if sometimes losing track of that has made it hard for us to recognize when our own internal soil needs to rest through a winter.

2. What kindnesses have others done for you to support your writing that you’ve appreciated?

polls: When I’m close to the deadline, I sit in front of the page for hours with little time for breaks, so something I appreciate a lot is when someone brings me snacks and coffee, or even breakfast after a long night of writing.

Nina Waters: Just…letting me write. Leaving me alone to do what I need to do. Also, comments are always extremely appreciated.

3. What’s an advice you’d like to give to people who want to support their writer friends?

polls: Volunteer as their rubber ducky! In programming, the concept of rubber duck debugging refers to talking out one’s problem to a rubber duck. For a writer, the best rubber ducky is a friend who will listen to them rant about their story. You don’t need to do much, in many cases the writer will clamber out of the plot hole by themself, although a strategically placed (yet honest) “yeah it makes sense!” can’t hurt

Nina Waters: This might be strange, but like, my advice is don’t offer to read their stuff unless you’re actually interested. I’ve had so many people go “oh, that sounds so cool! Where can I check it out?” and the like, and it’s hard not to notice when they then just…don’t check it out. I’d honestly far prefer that people just be honest. We writers know that not every story is for every reader, so support your writer friends with your honesty.

4. What’s a common misconception about being a writer that you’d like to correct?

boneturtle: One misconception about being a writer I’d like to correct is the idea that you have to be inherently talented to be a writer. This is just not true. People come to it with different backgrounds and skill levels, but ultimately writing is a craft that you can learn and improve with practice, not an inborn talent. What separates writers from non-writers is that writers write. That’s it. If you have a story you want to tell, and you’re willing to see it through from start to finish, then you’re a writer, too.

Shannon: I’m sure there’s someone out there who still thinks that writers are rich. The folks on the bestseller list are generally not bringing in millions unless they’re the very rare exceptions

Robin S. Blackwood: I think the biggest misconception is the idea that suffering is a key aspect of being a writer/will make you a better writer. From outside the community this idea can be very blatant, that you can only be a good writer if you’re miserable (especially if you write about bad things happening, some think you need to have lived through it), but from inside the community it, in my experience, tends to be take a different form – that you shouldn’t expect to ever have fun writing, if you have fun writing you’re not taking it seriously enough, if you like your own work you’re probably just not good enough to spot the flaws – the idea that if someone wrote a thing and thinks it’s good it’s probably awful and they’re childish and silly, because a real writer would hate every word of their own writing and be miserable about it all. Like, obviously writing isn’t easy and can be slow and difficult, and obviously editing your work and improving your work does involve noticing things that need improvement, you probably won’t develop as a writer if you think all your first drafts are flawless masterpieces, but at the end of the day….if you’re miserable throughout the process and hate the result maybe you should take a break or something, because it’s not meant to be like that?

boneturtle: I do want to say that on the flip side the writer you describe is still out there, because that’s me. I don’t think I’m more or less real because I hate everything I write, I just think of it as a handicap I have to work around to produce my work. Whether it’s meant to be that way or not isn’t really something for me to dwell on because that’s just how it is.

Robin S. Blackwood: That’s fair and I’m sorry you have that difficulty – as you say though it’s a thing some people struggle with, but it’s not like…something people should try and make themselves feel to be a real writer – I hope I didn’t come across as saying that writers who don’t like their work are bad writers, I know some great writers who don’t have a lot of confidence in their work and had no intention of saying any individual’s feelings about their work are wrong, it’s more when it becomes a widespread expectation in a community that this is the only right attitude to have I’ve found it can cause some issues

boneturtle: Absolutely, I agree with you 100%. Thinking that you’re more valid because you suffer is a pernicious stereotype in art. I just wanted to make sure that the perspective from the other side was also noted; there’s no shame in feeling that way. It’s just a thing that happens, unrelated to your merit.

#duck prints press #roundtable #round table #be kind to authors and editors month #be kind to editors and authors month #on writing

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moriwood · 2 months ago

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Director's Cut — l.hs

top!lee heeseung x btm!male reader smut with some plot 3.9k words

You are a film editor who frequently collaborates with director Heeseung on his rom-coms and dramas. When his latest project turns out to be an erotic thriller, you find yourself in the editing room struggling to make sex scenes feel real. Heeseung then boldly offers a solution: a hands-on demonstration of authentic sex.

includes: u suck heeseung, he fucks u, then he sucks u; he tells u what to do cuz he’s a director n u’re a struggling editor; then some filmmaking discussion for plot

“Stop it,” you say without looking at Sunghoon, scrolling aimlessly through the timeline on the monitor.

“Stop what?” he replies, tone mocking as he feigns ignorance.

“Staring. Grinning. Wiggling your eyebrows,” you mutter, keeping your voice low as you reach for your water bottle. “It’s just a sex scene.”

There’s too much skin on the screen. Too many shots of heaving and moaning men touching each other. Both your eyes and ears have been overstimulated for the past few hours, editing another film of Heeseung. This one stars Park Jongseong as Jay and Sim Jaeyun as Jake in an erotic thriller; their lifelong friendship strains when they start a casual sexual relationship with an underclassman, leading to escalating jealousy and possessive behavior.

You’ve worked on nearly every film he’s made, but this is the first time both of you are dealing with material that is so… graphic. Rom-coms and melodramas? Done, multiple times. Some arthouse film bordering on softcore porn? For the first time, now.

“I can’t help it. My little baby’s finding out how babies are made, I’m so proud,” Sunghoon whines, sipping noisily on his iced coffee. He leans against your desk, tilting his head. “You’re working on a movie like this with Heeseung. Alone. In this editing room. For hours, maybe days, we don’t know.” He drags out the last word with an exaggerated tone that makes you roll your eyes.

Your butt has practically molded to the cushion of your swivel chair at this point, a few more hours and you’d become one with it. “It’s just work, Sunghoon. Like every other project I’ve had with him. Purely professional. Clean business. Focused on the money,” you tell him, shooting him a warning look.

Sunghoon barks out a laugh, nearly spitting out his drink. “Lies! Professional? Sure. Clean? Hardly. Focused? On the money? Or the way his shirt is always unbuttoned so you can take a peek underneath?” He wiggles his eyebrows again. “You always work in this room that barely fits two and start talking about lighting ratios like it’s fucking foreplay.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Sunghoon cuts you off, wagging a finger in your face.

“Nuh uh. You don’t get to deny your completely obvious crush on the man. Everyone knows at this point. Maybe even Heeseung himself!”

“He doesn’t!” you retort, face heating up. You couldn’t even deny your tiny, harmless, and definitely not obvious crush on Heeseung anymore.

“We have evidence,” he says, donning a sinister grin.

“What evidence?” you sigh, further melting into your seat.

“Well,” Sunghoon begins, ticking off his fingers, “there’s the interviews. He always mentions you, the editor, as the reason why his films end up so well-received. Editors never get shoutouts like that!”

“I’m pretty sure he just appreciates everyone he works with,” you argue.

“Also! He reshot an entire scene because of your feedback a month after filming had ended—which, by the way, directors rarely do. He had to make the production manager book the location again! And the actors who had to reschedule. What a logistical nightmare.”

“Most likely I wasn’t the only one with such kind of feedback!”

“Okay then. He always—always—makes sure you’re comfortable during review sessions. You’re the only editor I know who has the director wrapped around his finger instead of the other way around.”

“He’s just being professional,” you reason, though your voice lacks conviction. It’s just a professional working environment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sunghoon lets out a dramatic sigh, slumping back in the chair beside you. “Hopeless. Truly. I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off one day.”

“It’s already shriveling up from the amount of fake sex I’ve seen today,” you groan, pausing on a frame of an actor’s crotch covered in plaster. “Everyone’s turned to a Ken doll.”

“It’s okay,” Sunghoon places a hand on your shoulder, fake concern plastered on his face. “I am here to tell you that this film will be a critical and commercial success.”

“This,” you point at the monitor, “film?” you exasperate.

He smirks. “No, this upcoming porno between the director and his editor! Two horny men, stuck in a tiny room, practically watching porn together. The porn writers are salivating over your scenario.”

“Can you not?” you hiss, glancing at the door like Heeseung might walk in any second and hear this ridiculous conversation. “It’s an… experimental film,” you rationalize.

“An experimental film with a ton of sex scenes, blah blah. Or maybe sex sells and Heeseung wants a slice of the pie.”

“I’m the one that needs a slice of that pie, Sunghoon.”

“Are we still talking about money or are you talking about Heeseung’s ass—”

“If you’re not gonna help, just leave,” you groan, massaging the temple of your head.

“You’re working on something so adult—so filthy! How is Heeseung even gonna talk about it? ‘Oh, could you please make it look like they’re really having an orgasm? Oh, you don’t get it? Wait, let me show you how to get one.’ He’s using this project as an excuse to get all sexy with you!”

You snort. “Nothing about what you just said sounds sexy at all.”

“But you imagine it, don’t you?” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “I swear, if I catch the two of you recreating those sex scenes like you’re method acting…”

Before you can shove Sunghoon out of the room yourself, the door opens, and the temperature in the room immediately shifts. You swiftly turn your chair around, and you see Heeseung walk in with a stride, a presence so commanding you and Sunghoon suddenly sit up stiffly. He’s holding a stack of papers, probably copies of script revisions, and his usually calm and collected demeanor is being betrayed by his tousled hair and slightly unbuttoned dress shirt. Your gut says Heeseung is bothered by the subject matter of this film too.

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung hesitantly greets, gaze flicking between you and Sunghoon. He seems surprised to see you not alone in the room. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all, Heeseung,” Sunghoon replies brightly. “I was just leaving. Tried helping him a bit.”

“Oh, thank you,” Heeseung replies. “Quite a difficult film to work with this time.”

“You should be thanking this guy right here real hard,” Sunghoon laughs, throwing you a knowing look. He slips past Heeseung and clicks the door shut behind him, leaving you alone with Heeseung. The already tiny room suddenly feels way more suffocating.

“Hello. Doing okay?”

“Hello,” you politely nod, gesturing to the now-vacant chair beside you. You turn back to the computer. “I just finished the rough cut. But to be completely honest, my cut’s very dull.”

“Let me see,” Heeseung hums, a deep voice sending vibrations through your spine. Rather than sitting beside you, he stands behind you, a hand gently placed on the back of your chair. He leans over slightly, just enough for you to catch the scent of his woody perfume, and maybe to also take a peek at the top of his shirt, but you force yourself to keep staring at the screen. Sunghoon will never be proven right.

You drag your mouse across to one of the difficult scenes, hitting play. It’s a relatively silent scene, bar the moaning of Jake and Jay which reverberated in the speakers in the room. The scene is dimly lit, movements of the actors slow and deliberate. There is an occasional rustle of clothing, and the creak of floorboards. It’s supposed to be a build-up to a sex scene, but something felt off—it didn’t feel authentic. The original footage was so raw and beautiful on its own, yet after some snipping and adjusting some sliders, you made it look… restrained. Scripted.

“I think I ruined the sex scenes,” you explain.

“It’s alright,” Heeseung says, voice low. “But it’s too rushed. Hold Jay’s expression for a few more seconds before cutting to Jake’s reaction.”

You nod, making the adjustment on the timeline. It’s just a few seconds, but the rhythm flows more naturally.

“Better,” Heeseung mutters, a hum of satisfaction accompanying him. Better, but not yet the best, you thought.

You glance at him, surprised to find him already looking at you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, and you can’t tell if he’s studying the scene or something else entirely.

“What else should I do?” you ask, your voice coming out surprisingly quieter and meeker than usual, matching Heeseung’s subdued demeanor.

A smile begins to play on his lips. “Hmm.” His tone is thoughtful, with an edge of teasing. “You usually take the lead when we’re in the cutting room, but you seem lost today.” He lets the words hang in the air. “Is it because you've never experienced scenes like this before?”

Your hands freeze over the keyboard. “It’s normal to be unfamiliar with the content you’re working with,” you defend. “I don’t need to be kinky myself to edit a kinky sex scene.”

“Relax, I’m just kidding,” Heeseung chuckles warmly, finally sitting down beside you.

“The tension doesn’t feel real,” you admit, taking a deep breath, fidgeting in a poor attempt to dissipate the tension around the small space. “It did before I messed with the footage.”

“‘Real,’ you say,” Heeseung mutters, leaning back. “Should I show you what authentic sex feels like?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “Excuse me, what!?”

He tilts his head, smirking. “I could show you. Right here, right now.”

Your brain short-circuits for. Mouth opening like a fish, you attempt to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled, “Huh?”

Heeseung leans closer, whispering, “You’ve been staring at this screen for how long, trying to fake something you haven’t experienced. I’m offering to help.” He pauses. “For the film, of course.”

Your face burns, and you glance at the door, heart pounding. “Are you hearing yourself?”

He shrugs, unfazed, and nods toward the monitor. “Play the sex scenes. Let’s go step by step.”

Before you can muster a coherent response, the door swings open. Sunghoon peeks, oblivious to his joke on the verge of becoming a reality. “Hey, you two want food? Might be here ‘til the morning,” he grins.

Heeseung smiles. “Actually, yeah. Remember that coffee shop where we shot Buzzer Beater Heartbeat?”

“That’s over an hour away.” Sunghoon blinks. “Do they even do delivery?”

“You could just drive?” Heeseung replies, tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to be here for a while anyway, right?” He glances at you, gaze so heavy your stomach flips.

“Uh… yeah,” you manage. “Go now, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon narrows his eyes, glancing between you two as if he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Okay… I’ll be back.” Then he silently turns and leaves, the door’s thud echoing in the silence.

Heeseung stands up and reaches past you to the monitor, arm brushing your shoulder as he drags the timeline back. Jay’s low groan fills the space—and he adjusts the volume, just enough to be heard outside. “There,” he murmurs. “Sound design covered.”

You turn your head, and he’s closer than you expected. Your pulse quickens, but Heeseung doesn’t hurry. His hand settles on the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, and he studies your face. “You’ve never really done this before?” he asks, gentle, almost placating.

You shake your head, mumbling, “No. Tell me what to do.”

“That’s okay,” he says, thumb brushing small circles against your skin. “Just follow my lead, yeah? No pressure.”

You nod as he leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s barely there—testing the frame, a screen test for chemistry. He slowly deepens the kiss, allowing you to adjust as your hands settle on the soft fabric of his shirt.

When you part, Heeseung murmurs, “You’re trembling. You wanna stop?”

“No,” you mutter. “What’s next?”

He chuckles as he steps back and sits back down, legs spread wide. “Unbutton my shirt.”

You reach for his buttons, fumbling at first, but he doesn’t rush you, his hot gaze focused on you. His shirt falls open, finally revealing the skin that has haunted your dreams since you started working with him. “Come sit and touch me,” he whispers, “‘wherever feels right.”

You hesitate, glancing at the setting—monitor, keyboard, chairs, equipment. This room doesn’t feel like the greatest place to have sex in. “Won’t we break something?” you ask.

“We won’t,” he replies, not concerned in the slightest, then he raises the arm rests of his chair. “Plenty of room.” He pats his thighs.

A new actor following his director, you follow his calm instruction, letting your fingers trace the lines of his collarbone, then down to his stomach. He hums, encouraging, leaning in to kiss you again.

“You can guess what’s next, right?” he says, as he holds your hand to the waistband of his pants.

You nod, kneeling as you take off his pants and boxers. His erect cock catches you off-guard, a more daunting presence from your position.

“Get comfy, touch it,” he smiles, reassuring. You wrap your fingers around him, warm and firm. You stroke it up and down, an action that you’re already familiar with, albeit only to yourself and not to someone else.

“Like that?” you ask, eyes flicking to his face for approval.

“Exactly like that,” he groans. “Now, if you’re ready, use your mouth. Just the tip first, don’t force yourself.”

You hesitantly settle your lips on the tip of his dick, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. He exhales softly, hand steadying on your shoulder. “Breathe through your nose.” You take him in a little, and he hums approvingly, gripping tighter. “So good.”

The praise eases your nerves and you begin to explore, tongue experimenting his length. From the veins to the tip, you try to find a rhythm, but then your teeth graze him. You freeze as he flinches, but he recovers with a smile. “Mistakes are natural… Makes it real.”

The scene on the monitor has changed—Jake and Jay tussling around a kitchen counter, Jake’s slow submission to his best friend’s aggression, and their confused arousal. Jay takes control, the more experienced between the two, the buttons on Jake’s shirt flying away as he tears it open. The rip of a wrapper, the pop of a bottle cap; suddenly, Jake’s about to be fucked by his best friend, who is also his rival in pursuing the same guy.

Heeseung sighs as he gently pulls you back, thumb brushing some spit on your lips as he looks down at you. “You still okay? Let’s switch it up.”

You nod, swallowing hard as Heeseung reaches for his pants on the floor, pulling out a small packet of lube and a condom—the same brand that Jay used onscreen. “Gotta thank the props team for this,” he laughs. “Arms against the desk. Need to prep or it’ll hurt,” he explains, the cadence of his voice almost clinical.

His hands slide to your waist, tugging your pants down. The cool air makes you shiver but his touch grounds you. “Eyes on the screen, notice how they move.”

He preps you carefully, fingers slick with lube. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, one hand resting on your hip as he works through it. It’s not that painful nor is it that pleasurable, but you had no benchmark to base on. The parallel between Heeseung and the scene isn’t subtle: his and Jay’s patience in prepping, you and Jake awkwardly pinned against surfaces.

When he’s satisfied, he rolls the condom on, positioning himself behind you. “Ready?” he asks, lips nipping your earlobe.

“Please,” you reply, gripping the edge of the desk. He presses forward, restrained and controlled. The stretch is intense but he lets you adjust, and he whispers, “Look at the screen, okay? Tell me what you see.”

And you do, every inch, every movement, mirrored by the actors on the screen. “Jay’s grip on Jake’s waist,” you murmur. “The restraint fading as Jay loses himself to the pleasure.” It's just like Heeseung holding you tighter as he starts to find a steady rhythm. “Fuck,” you whine. “Can’t see. Can’t—think.”

Heeseung’s teasing laughter reverberates through your body. “You know what makes it real?” he grunts, “I didn’t give them notes. Told them to interpret the script as they wanted. These aren’t the characters Jay and Jake anymore—it’s Park Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun trying so hard to hold back.” His voice grows breathless, heavier.

His hand slides to your neck, pressing you gently against the desk. “So let’s go off-script too,” he laughs.

He pulls out and turns you around to face him. Heeseung smirks at the mess he’s made, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Still okay?” he asks.

You nod, catching your breath, eyes going in and out of focus. On the side, Jay and Jake are already tangled in their climax, while you and Heeseung are still teetering on the edge.

He sits back in his chair. “Sit. Face me and straddle me,” he sighs, stroking his still-hard cock.

You straddle him carefully, his hands quick to steady your hips as you lower yourself onto him. The new angle makes you gasp, the pleasure sharper but the pain renewed.

“Hold on to me,” he says, “I’ll do the work.” You loop your arms around his neck as he begins to rock beneath you. You nestle your head in the crook of his neck but he whines, “I wanna kiss you again.”

You meet his eyes and the intimacy of the situation sinks in—an unguarded close-up shot. The warmth of his minty breath, the slight hitches, his lips parting as he continues grinding.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs again, a plea. You lean forward, your lips meeting as if you were savoring the sweet opportunity. The scene called for it; otherwise, none of this would be happening. He pulls you closer, your chests beating right next to each other.

The pleasure coils tighter, but it’s not enough to push you over the edge yet. For Heeseung, it was more than enough. His hips stutter, groaning against your lips as he cums, body tensing beneath you. “Shit, sorry,” he softly laughs.

You let out a low groan as he pulls out, disposing of the condom with a quick toss.

He lifts you off his lap, setting you on the edge of the desk. He sweeps his arm across the surface, sending his papers and your wireless equipment to the floor with a loud clatter. On any other day, you’d be scrambling to check if your expensive keyboard broke but Heeseung right now is an experience beyond price.

“Sit comfortably and spread your legs for me,” he commands as he moves his chair.

His fingers brush lightly along the inner side of your thighs, teasing it as he murmurs, “I had a scene like this in early drafts—Jay going down on Jake. Producers made me cut it off the script, said it was too explicit for the market.” His lips curve into a wry smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wanna film an uncut version with me?”

His hand wraps around the base of your twitching cock, then he presses a kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to taste you. The sensation is immediate, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan. He hums as he takes you in, swirling around the head, the slit, while his eyes are just locked with yours. He strokes the base in time with his mouth, his other hand pressing your thigh open.

“How do you fucking do this?” you mutter in pleasure, fingers tangling in Heeseung’s hair as you push him further down. He only hums, picking up his pace, tongue working faster. And you moan louder, tilt your head back further, the wet heat making your toes curl.

“I’m—close, please,” you gasp, hips bucking and thighs involuntarily locking Heeseung in place. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t fight back, sucks and strokes faster. Your body arches off the desk, cumming hard in his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, swallowing every wave and lapping at you until you’re trembling and fully spent.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when he pulls back. He pauses the playing cut on your computer, the room falling into silence. “Now you know what to do with the edit?”

Still sprawled across the desk with your head spinning, you barely register his phone buzzing from the floor. “Sunghoon,” he says, picking it up. “Yeah?” You sit up, realizing the disarray of the room. “Your wallet? Hang on.” You scan the floor, pointing to a white leather wallet under Heeseung’s discarded condom. “Oops,” he grins. “Yeah, you left it here.”

“Does it have to be that coffee shop?” he repeats. “No, no. Actually, I think we’re wrapping up for today. Yeah, just buy whatever with what you have.”

He hangs up and shrugs, already buttoning his shirt. “Better move fast ‘cause he’s coming back,” he says, tossing you your pants.

You stare at him, wide-eyed. “You’re making him come back now?”

You scramble to dress as Heeseung watches you, donning an infuriating smirk like he’s already envisioning another scene with you. “Sunghoon will know what happened immediately, and he will never shut up about it. Everyone’s gonna be talking about it,” you say.

“I don’t mind,” he replies. “Just so others know our best films come from working together.” He picks up Sunghoon’s wallet and tosses it onto the desk. “You good? No pain?”

“Tolerable. All good. My personal activities kinda prepared me for this,” you confess.

Heeseung laughs, “So what did you take from this experience?”

You slightly wince at the pain as you pick up your miraculously unbroken keyboard and mouse. “Sex scenes are better if there are real organs involved?” you joke.

“No, but seriously. Did it at least clear up your mind?”

“What’s good already,” you start, pointing at the screen, “is the raw emotion in Park Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun. That’s why you had so many close-ups—droplets of sweat, goosebumps, shit like that.”

Heeseung hums, gathering the papers on the floor. “Their chemistry carried the scenes.”

“I overcut it, rushing to the payoff instead of letting the anticipation build,” you sigh, sitting down and scrolling to a different scene. It’s a static shot, the camera unmoving, no dialogue, just Jake and Jay lying in bed after having sex. The original footage was almost a minute long, but you cut it to around a quarter of its length. Looking at it now, your edit diminished the contemplation and guilt between the two friends.

“It’s technically solid, like you always do, but it’s not…” Heeseung pauses, thinking. “Visceral.”

“It’s sex and it’s usually gratuitous, but if we treat it with the same intricacy as the scenes before and after, it makes it hit harder,” you note.

“You’re really good at this, you know,” he smiles.

Your cheeks warm, but you shrug it off. “You give me good material to work with.”

“It’s enough that you caught something wrong with the edit before I even came here.”

You groan. “Can’t believe we’re back to serious work talk when you just fucked me to heaven and back.”

“We’re just professionals, I say,” Heeseung laughs. “We’ve got a film to finish—and maybe a few more scenes to figure out. Maybe a coffee shop or my place, next time?”

You meet Heeseung’s curious gaze with intrigue. “Only if you keep it to script revisions and some good food. I think we’ve got enough notes on the sex scenes.”

“No promises,” he grins. “My next film’s about the exploits of a film editor.”

author’s note: y'all would not believe that my inspiration is no doubt (okay very obvious and very normal) and a fucking podcast of filmmakers (it’s in filipino sorry) 😭 gist of it is the editor and his director were editing a sex scene together. the director said (roughly) that for a sex scene to be effective, the audience has to feel the release; then, that determines the length of the sex scene. it's censored but i think the director also physically demonstrated the "release"? like not actual sex, just made vaguely sexual gestures oasjfadaiofs guess when i got the idea for this fic based on the upload dates oafgjaoig 🥹

— moriwood.

#enhypen x male reader #kpop x male reader #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #smut #kpop smut #lee heeseung x male reader #heeseung x male reader #mori fics

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aurinavenir · 10 months ago

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Happy September, editors and fellow writers!

Let’s enjoy the one month when everyone should treat us with a little extra kindness!

#writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #writers on tumblr #writer #writing life #creative writing #on writing

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kianamaiart · 5 months ago

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Hey hey! You’ve probably been asked this a lot but what made you want to start creating I Don’t Want To Be A Magical Girl?

Also I drew Akia in my style!

Hope you’re having a great day btw ! :0)

First of all this is so rad!!! I loooove how you drew her

And what made me want to make I Don't Want to be a Magical Girl... It was a lot of things! (im assuming you mean the pilot in general)

The idea started off as a stupid doodle/character design practice. It wasn't gonna be anything more than that. I just felt like drawing a cute character with a gun really hahaha.

It's not a particularly original premise and I didn't plan to do anything more with her (as I do with most of my ocs/designs). But I actually did really like this one and couldn't help but think of little ideas and scenarios with her. Things started ramping up in my brain more when I realized I could attach a personal story and personal experiences to it to make it feel less cliche. That's when I started designing the other characters and coming up with bios and stuff

And then that was gonna be it again. I'd maybe do a comic here and there but there was a combination of things that happened that led to me jumping in and making a pilot.

First of all, I had a two month hiatus coming up so I had so much time. I also decided to step down from my directors position to be a board artist again in the coming season. So I really wanted to get some storyboarding practice in and what better way to do that than with this character I ended up really liking? I also don't have a portfolio and I'd been wanting to make something that's very me rather than my work from an existing show.

I'd offhandedly mentioned to my editor at disney that I wanted to do a board for these characters and she told me she'd help me make an animatic if it ever came to that. I couldn't pass up that opportunity! Now, since it was gonna be an animatic and I didn't want it to just be my scratch, I reached out to a bunch of VA friends to see if they'd be interested and they were!

Then other than having that support, just seeing my friends work on their own personal projects has been really inspiring and made me want to also do my own thing! Me and my friend group had just made a whole video game for our friend as a bday present which was so creatively fulfilling and made me realize like "oh my god we're artists we can literally just make stuff".

In the past I'd been so afraid to share my original work and for similar fears I've never wanted to showrun despite having the opportunity to pitch. While it's flattering to be wanted there was this pressure that felt like "oh you HAVE to make something, you're wasting your talent otherwise." (lol this is ironically the thesis of idwtbamg). And as a qpoc, i'd felt this extra layer of pressure to have to make something perfect on all fronts because if i fail in any capacity, i'm failing my community. it'd just be another another reason for people to say "ah queer media and work centering poc just can't succeed." then on the other end, i can only do and write what i know and feared that other people in my community wouldn't resonate with it or would feel like it's inaccurate to their own experiences.

but that's an exhausting way to feel and i've finally decided for myself that i'm just gonna tell stories that are authentic to me and it will reach whoever it needs to reach~ this realization was kind of the final step i needed to push myself to go all in. and now we're here!

#ask mai anything #idwtbamg fanart

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oh-no-its-bird · 3 days ago

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Shikamaru accidentally becomes the second coming of Jiraiya via anonymously publishing BL novels with Sakura and Ino as his managers and editors

HEAR ME OUT. HEAR ME OUT.

Ok so, Shikamaru's grandfather passes away (aka my oc Shikasada, for those in the know) and among his things is a very old diary dating back to Konoha's founding. Shikamaru opens it to fund uhh. Many things. Many things he could have gone without knowing. Mostly revolving around his grandpa's apparent years long slow burn affair w some Hatake boy.

Shikamaru, sort of horrified but in too deep to back out now, resolves to at least finish the diary-- and despite himself, besides some of the more painful to read sections, there really is a lot of really interesting information in the diary.

Which brings Shikamaru to being unable to set down the diary, and bringing it to the academy with him in the morning.

(Quick note, lets set this like two or three months before graduation, so Shikamaru is like, ~13 I think)

SO, SHIKAMARU IS IN CLASS AND READING HIS GRANDFATHERS DIARY IN THE BACK OF THE CLASS (his first mistake, tbh) And he doesnt notice as Ino and Sakura appear behind him and Ino starts reading over his shoulder. And Ino, proud fujo, after a minute of reading goes really loudly,

"is that YAOI???"

And now Shikamaru essentially has two options. Both of them a uniquely kind of terrible. Does he,

a) admit this is his grandfathers very gay, very sappy, very depressing, kind of steamy diary about how he cheated on his fiance with a Hatake boy and even briefly debated running away from his wedding to be with him instead (but ultimately didnt)

or, b) let his classmates think hes a fan of doomed yaoi romance novels.

He decides that option b at least doesnt invoke a possible scandle for his clan (which his mom would kill him for) and says its a book.

Sakura immediately points out the fact that its hand written.

On pure reflex, Shikamaru blurts, "I wrote it."

(Instant regret.)

So anyways Ino and Sakura (mostly Ino) bully Shikamaru into letting them read 'his' book. And they come back to him with it going "omg, this is amazing! It's just as good-- maybe even better than most of the things on the market right now!!!"

And Shikamaru is like, "great can I have it back please."

And they're like "Shikamaru, you cant just let this kind of masterpiece rot in your closet!!!! This is incredible!!!! Heart wrenching!!! Hair raising!!! Super dramatic and filled with tension and drama and history and 𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 !"

And Shikamaru, again, is like, "Great. Can I have it back please."

"Shikamaru, you don't understand. You have a gift."

"Can I please have it back now."

So. One thing leads to another and after much peer pressure (and maybe some light threats of blackmail because Ino and Sakura have totally realized that Shikamaru didn't actually write the diary, and it instead belonged to his grandfather. (Mostly because Ino had actually met the man before, and obviously recognized his name)) Shikamaru has now gained:

a) two very eager 13 year old publishing managers / editors

b) the contact information of Sakura's cousin, who coincidentally works at one of the biggest publishing houses in Fire counry.

c) somehow, some way, the obligation to edit and publish his grandfathers diary as a bl romance novel.

Shikamaru hates his fucking life.

SO. THEY PUBLISH IT AFTER SOME EDITING AND CHANGING OF CLAN NAMES AND ITS A WILD SUCCESS. SHIKAMARU IS KIND OF MAD AT HOW MUCH OF A WILD SUCCES IT IS.

(Though, laying in his bed of money that now rivals his father's personal funds as the Nara clan head, he can't bring himself to be... as mad as he might have otherwise been.)

(Sakura and Ino, also with their giant piles of money, are also very satisfied.)

But the satisfaction doesnt last for long bc soon the girls are scheming to get Shikamaru to write something new for them to publish.

"But I didn't write the diary to begin with!" Shikamaru argues.

"What does it matter?" Ino insists. "You still edited it, and it was your grandfather who wrote it! Some of the talent has to be there!"

(depressingly enough for Shikamaru, some of the talent does seem to be there.)

And thus begins Shikamaru's life of becoming a famous romance author with his (blackmailers) managers Ino and Sakura <3

(In the pure lands, Shikamaru's grandfather is screaming into a pillow as his Hatake boy in question laughs his ass off and insists this is exactly what he deserves after keeping them a secret for so long. Really, Shika, you should be proud for having such a resourceful grandson.)

So anyways, this brings me to the fact that Sakura's first ever encounter with her new sensei, Kakashi, would have gone WILDLY different on her end. Because she saw the original diary. She, unlike the general public, didn't get the edited version of the story with changed clan names.

So when her teacher walks into the room and introduces himself, her very first thought is omg like the yaoi.

And her first act is to start giggling maniacally in the corner of the room like a little freak. In Sakura we stan

Kakashi meanwhile has no fucking clue what kind of drugs that little girl is on, but finds that he probably doesn't want to know.

WHICH ALSO BRINGS ME TO THE FACT THAT LIKE. Theres something profoundly funny about known icha-icha lover Kakashi reading this novel and becoming a huge fan-- absolutey 100% unaware that it's about HIS direct cousin, only two generations back.

Shikamaru put way more effort into disguising the Nara clan's involvement in the book-- both because he cares more about the Nara and because he kinda uhh... was under the impression that the Hatake were all dead, like, for real. In the book, the Nara's clan name is changed, the character names are changed, their sacred animal is changed to a rabbit and their traditions are all altered-- but the Hatake clan just becomes the Hasake clan and is largely left alone bc Shikamaru is 13 and can't really be bothered to go the extra mile.

(Editing so much is such a bother, Ino. You just dont get it)

So like, Shikamaru has no idea who Kakashi is, he only learns he exists when Sakura fucking bodyslams into him and Ino screaming about how HER NEW TEACHER IS RELATED TO THAT GUY YOUR GRANDPA HAD NASTY GAY SEX WITH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"THE ONE LIKE IN THE DIARY ONE???" Ino screams

"IS THERE ANOTHER GUY WHO HAD NASTY GAY SEX WITH SHIKAMARU'S GRANDPA WHO I'M SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT??!?!?" Sakura screams back

Shikamaru just screams into his pillow. The girls both ignore him.

Meanwhile, Kakashi knows SHIT about his clan and recognizes nothing in the novel. Which is a special kind of tragic because as he reads it, he's being given more information than he's ever been given about his clan. And even specific stories and in depth recorded conversations about his grandmother-- and even occasional mentions of his own father as a baby, and he just... has no idea.

Man is literally reading about his ancestors, getting stories of his family only a single generation before him, going: "Wow something about this clan just speaks to me. Probably the dogs."

Literally getting his fathers childhood stories. Not a single clue.

Hes going on a mission going "Hmm, what would Haruka Hasake from hit bl series XXX do" like that isnt secretly his fucking GRANDMA

Meanwhile, all three of the kids are acting SO shady around him. Ino and Shikamaru specifically are so fucking suspicious bc they are largely successful in avoiding him like the plague-- so when they do interact, it's an Event(tm) for them, while Sakura is forced to learn to be normal near him via exposure.

Tho not even the sage himself can save Sakura from the day Kakashi pulls out THE book during training instead of his usual icha-icha. Sakura fucks up her aim on a body flicker and flies straight into a tree, giving herself a concussion. Rip!!

Anyways yeah. Let Shikamaru discover his grandfathers old, scandal filled diary and be blackmailed by Ino and Sakura into publishing it-- setting him on his journey of becoming the next big thing in naruto romance publishing. It'd be funny as hell.

Special thanks to @imsosleepyofyourbull and @halsaph for talking to me about this on discord, this is so fucking stupid and I had so much fun with it

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dostoyevsky-official · 5 months ago

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not only did the NYT propagate anti-trans stories feeding today's EO ban and refuse to acknowledge elon's nazi salute, they went vichy-media mode by banning paul krugman from the op-eds:

Last month I retired from my position as an opinion writer at the New York Times—a job I had done for 25 years. Despite the encomiums issued by the Times, it was not a happy departure. [...] I believe that the story of why I left says something important about the current state of legacy journalism.

[...] During my first 24 years at the Times, from 2000 to 2024, I faced very few editorial constraints on how and what I wrote. For most of that period my draft would go straight to a copy editor, who would sometimes suggest that I make some changes — for example, softening an assertion that arguably went beyond provable facts, or redrafting a passage the editor didn’t quite understand, and which readers probably wouldn’t either. But the editing was very light; over the years several copy editors jokingly complained that I wasn’t giving them anything to do, because I came in at length, with clean writing and with back-up for all factual assertions.

This light-touch editing prevailed even when I took positions that made Times leadership very nervous. My early and repeated criticisms of Bush’s push to invade Iraq led to several tense meetings with management. In those meetings, I was urged to tone it down. Yet the columns themselves were published as I wrote them. And in the end, I believe the Times — which eventually apologized for its role in promoting the war — was glad that I had taken an anti-invasion stand. I believe that it was my finest hour.

So I was dismayed to find out this past year, when the current Times editors and I began to discuss our differences, that current management and top editors appear to have been completely unaware of this important bit of the paper’s history and my role in it.

[...] In 2024, the editing of my regular columns went from light touch to extremely intrusive. I went from one level of editing to three, with an immediate editor and his superior both weighing in on the column, and sometimes doing substantial rewrites before it went to copy. These rewrites almost invariably involved toning down, introducing unnecessary qualifiers, and, as I saw it, false equivalence. I would rewrite the rewrites to restore the essence of my original argument. But as I told Charles Kaiser, I began to feel that I was putting more effort—especially emotional energy—into fixing editorial damage than I was into writing the original articles. And the end result of the back and forth often felt flat and colorless.

One more thing: I faced attempts from others to dictate what I could (and could not) write about, usually in the form, “You’ve already written about that,” as if it never takes more than one column to effectively cover a subject. If that had been the rule during my earlier tenure, I never would have been able to press the case for Obamacare, or against Social Security privatization, and—most alarmingly—against the Iraq invasion. Moreover, all Times opinion writers were banned from engaging in any kind of media criticism. Hardly the kind of rule that would allow an opinion writer to state, “we are being lied into war.”

I felt that my byline was being used to create a storyline that was no longer mine. So I left.

That’s my story. What are the broader implications?

[...] What I felt during my final year at the Times was a push toward blandness, toward avoiding saying anything too directly in a way that might get some people (particularly on the right) riled up. I guess my question is, if those are the ground rules, why even bother having an opinion section?

[...] On a somewhat different issue, it became clear to me that the management I was dealing with didn’t understand the difference between having an opinion and having an informed, factually sourced opinion. When the newsletter was canceled, I tried to point out that I was almost the only regular opinion writer doing policy. Their response was to point to other writers who often expressed views about policy, economic and otherwise. I tried in vain to explain that there’s a difference between having opinions about economics and knowing how to read C.B.O. analyses and recent research papers. It all fell on deaf ears.

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melodyreads · 5 months ago

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Roommates

hamzah x reader

summary: Moving in with Hamzah was supposed to be temporary, a kind gesture from a good friend… but the ease of unspoken understanding turned a short stay into a home. How long can you keep up this mundane routine until someone cracks?

(fluff to angst, reader gets jealous, confusing realationship, happy ending)

a/n: let me know if you guys have any prompts, I would love some inspo <3

��——

"Do you want any coffee Hamzah?"

It was 7:42 to be exact. Y/n was in the kitchen wearing a baggy sweater and brandy shorts. Her mismatched socks were the staple to the outfit as she held one of Hamzah's mugs, offering to fill it.

Hamzah laid his head back on the couch dramatically, "Yes, and don't be shy with the amount." Y/n rolled her eyes at this before following through with his instructions. He was sitting in grey sweatpants and a grey hoodie as he edited a video he needed to get done before Martin came over later that day. Y/n walked over to him with his requested mug full of coffee outstretched as she sat on the couch next to him. He caught her peering over his shoulder.

"Yall must save a lot of money not paying for editors."

Hamzah scoffed, "I wish, this is literally a video requesting more editors."

Y/n hummed in response as she sipped her own coffee. She enjoyed these moments in the morning before the both of them went off with their own days. Ever since Y/n had moved in, both of them had easily adapted to one another's presence. She feared it might have been awkward at first being that the situation was not ideal to begin with.

The friends that Y/n had originally left the States with got homesick almost immediately before packing their bags not even a month into their residency.

"Why didn't you go with them?" Hamzah questioned at dinner the night they left.

Y/n sighed out a long breath she had been holding ever since she arrived. "I wasn't to go back... my internship doesn't end until the summer and, I don't know," She muttered as she started picking at her plate "I feel as though I have unfinished business here." She looked up from her plate to meet Hamzah's dark eyes. She cleared her throat, "I'm not too sure what that is though." Hamzah hummed softly as he leaned back in his chair, "Well... I know we haven't known each other long, but if you need somewhere to stay, I have an open room available. You can rent it out for as long as you need."

Y/n didn't know what to say. Well, actually she did, because she moved in the next day with no hesitation whatsoever.

The had just reached 7:50 as she and Hamzah still sat on the couch quietly. As Y/n was reading through a book she just bought and Hamzah was still on his computer, she started to become acutely aware of her knee touching the top of Hamzah's leg. As she sat there rereading the same paragraph for the sixth time, unable to focus, Hamzah finally broke the silence.

"What should we get for dinner tonight?"

---

Y/n heard the door handle shake as the familiar sound of keys rattled.

"Hamzah must be home" Y/n thought to herself.

Y/n had been bed rotting all afternoon, it was Saturday and she had the day off from work. She was planning to ask Hamzah what his plans were for the afternoon, and whether they should stay in or go out tonight.

Hamzah walked in... but as she turned her head to greet him, she was meet with another face as well.

A girl.

Y/n sat up slightly, her back still resting against the headboard as she took in the unfamiliar presence beside Hamzah. The girl was pretty—long dark hair, bright eyes, and a warm smile that seemed perfectly in place as she stepped inside, toeing off her shoes like she’d been here before.

"Hey, Y/n," Hamzah greeted casually, setting his keys on the entryway table. "This is Layla."

Layla.

Y/n blinked, her grip tightening slightly on the blanket draped over her legs.

"Hi," Layla chirped, offering a friendly wave.

"Hey," Y/n replied, keeping her voice neutral as she gave a small nod.

She looked at Hamzah, expecting an explanation, but he was already walking into the kitchen like nothing was out of the ordinary. Layla followed behind, leaving Y/n to process the shift in atmosphere alone.

She hadn’t known Hamzah was seeing anyone.

Not that it should matter.

But the unspoken comfort of their routines, their quiet mornings and shared dinners—it all suddenly felt less… permanent. Less theirs.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she pushed the blanket off her lap and stood, making her way toward the kitchen.

Y/n cleared her throat.

"So... how do you two know each other?" she asked, keeping her tone light as she leaned against the counter.

Hamzah, busy pouring himself a glass of water, barely looked up. "We met through a mutual friend. Layla just moved here recently."

"Yeah, I’m still getting settled," Layla added, smiling. "Hamzah’s been showing me around."

Y/n couldn't help but notice how close she was standing next to him and how she leaned into him as she continued to speak.

"God could she be any less obvious"

Y/n nodded slowly, feeling something settle—something she couldn't quite name.

"Oh, cool. Well, welcome."

Layla beamed, and Hamzah finally glanced at Y/n, his expression unreadable.

"Anyway," he said, setting his glass down. "What were you up to today?"

Y/n shrugged. "Nothing much. I was gonna ask if you wanted to do something later, but—" she gestured between him and Layla, "looks like you’ve got plans."

Hamzah hesitated, as if he were about to say something, but Layla spoke first.

"We were just grabbing coffee, actually. Nothing big."

"Right."

Hamzah shifted his weight. "We can still do something later if you want."

Y/n smiled, small and easy. "Nah, it’s cool. Enjoy your coffee."

And with that, she turned on her heel, walking back toward her room before she could let herself overthink why she suddenly felt like an outsider in her own home.

—-

These visits become much more frequent in the following month.

Y/n tried not to think much of it.

"They're just friends." She reminded herself a little too often. But something about the way he would laugh at her jokes like she was the funniest person ever. Or even look at her with a captivating expression when he listened to a story she was telling.

I didn't sit right with you.

When Y/n walked out of her room to see Layla pouring herself a cup of water in Hamzah's mug she swore she started to see red.

"Hey y/n," She looked down at the mug she was using, "Hamzah was begging me to get him some water, he's such a baby." she chuckled.

Before Y/n could even get a word out, Layla disappeared back to the room she came from. Hamzah's office.

The worst of it came on a random Thursday night.

Y/n had been exhausted from work, the kind of exhaustion that made her want to curl up on the couch with a movie, maybe convince Hamzah to order takeout and stay in.

But when she walked in, Layla was already there, sitting comfortably on the couch next to Hamzah, her legs tucked under her as she scrolled through something on his phone.

Y/n froze in the doorway.

Hamzah glanced up and grinned. "Oh, you’re home."

Home.

She didn’t feel like it.

Layla looked up, smiling too. "We were just picking a movie. You wanna join?"

Y/n swallowed. She felt ridiculous—like a child being edged out of their own friend group.

But maybe that’s exactly what was happening.

"No," she said after a beat. "I’m just gonna head to my room."

Hamzah frowned. "You sure?"

Y/n forced a smile. "Yeah. You guys enjoy."

And then she walked away before she could let him see the crack forming in her composure.

Before she could let herself admit that it wasn’t just frustration she was feeling.

It was jealousy.

It was something deeper, something she hadn’t dared to name before.

And now, she was too afraid to.

Y/n stared at the half-packed suitcase on her bed, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts she hadn’t yet made sense of.

Y/n shoved another sweater into her suitcase with more force than necessary, her chest tightening with every sharp movement. The apartment, once her safe space, now felt suffocating. Every corner of it held memories—shared laughs over burnt pancakes, lazy Sunday mornings with coffee, the quiet comfort of existing alongside Hamzah without needing to say much at all.

But lately, it felt like she was the only one holding onto those things.

Maybe it was the way Layla seemed to slip so effortlessly into his world.

Or maybe it was how Y/n suddenly felt like she was watching from the outside, no longer a part of whatever they had built.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair before zipping up the suitcase. She hadn’t fully decided where she was going yet—maybe a friend’s place, maybe a short-term rental—but she knew she couldn’t stay here anymore.

She had just grabbed her phone when the knock came.

"Y/n?"

Hamzah’s voice was cautious, like he already knew.

She exhaled before opening the door.

His eyes immediately flickered to the suitcase. His brows furrowed. "What’s this?"

She crossed her arms. "I think it’s time I moved out."

His expression flickered—confusion first, then something else. Something closer to panic.

"What?" he scoffed. "You’re joking."

Y/n shook her head, suddenly finding it hard to hold his gaze. "It’s just... things feel different now, Hamzah. I don’t want to overstay my welcome."

"Overstay your—" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Y/n, this isn’t just some arrangement. You live here."

"Yeah, and maybe I shouldn’t anymore," she said softly.

A tense silence settled between them. Hamzah was looking at her like he was searching for the right thing to say.

"Is this about Layla?" he finally asked.

Y/n hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "It’s about a lot of things."

Hamzah ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "You’re really doing this?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I think it’s for the best."

"Don’t do that," he said suddenly causing Y/n to look up at him.

His face was laced with anger and confusion. His fists balled at his side as he started to breath heavily.

He shook his head. "Don’t act like this doesn’t matter."

"To who, Hamzah?" she challenged, dropping her arms in frustration. "Because from where I’m standing, I don’t matter anymore. Layla’s here all the time, and suddenly, I’m just—what? Some extra person taking up space in your home? In your life?"

Hamzah paused as if that statement struck a chord with him.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him. "That’s not true, and you know it."

"Do I?" Y/n’s voice cracked despite herself. "Because I feel like I’ve been watching you replace me right in front of my face."

The words hung between them,

heavy,

suffocating.

Hamzah exhaled sharply, stepping closer. "You really think I could replace you?"

Y/n clenched her jaw, looking away. "Doesn’t feel like I have a place here anymore."

Something in Hamzah’s expression shifted, his anger giving way to something raw, something desperate.

Hamzah took another step forward, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

"I need you here." He said suddenly, as his dark eyes searched yours for some sort of decoding of his confession.

Despite feeling her breath caught in her throat, she forced herself to stand her ground. "Then why does it feel like I’ve been pushed aside?"

Hamzah shook his head. "You don’t get it, do you?" His voice was strained like he was barely holding himself together. "I wasn’t replacing you. I was trying to-" He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair before looking back at her, eyes burning with something she couldn’t name.

"Trying to what?" she challenged, hating the way her voice wavered.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Trying to ignore it. Trying to pretend like I don’t look for you first when I walk through the door. That I don’t feel off when you’re not here. That I don’t-" His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides.

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart pounding. It was her turn to take a step towards him. "That you don’t what, Hamzah?"

And then suddenly, she didn’t have to ask.

Because Hamzah was right there, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. His hands came up to cradle her face, rough and warm and desperate

His lips crashed against hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was laced with frustration and longing and everything unspoken between them, unraveled all at once.

Y/n gasped into the kiss, her fingers gripping the front of his hoodie, holding onto him like he might slip away. Like she might slip away if she let herself think too much.

Hamzah’s hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t. The heat of it, the weight of it, settled deep in Y/n’s chest, breaking down every wall she had built to keep herself from feeling this.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, hands still clinging onto each other.

"Stay," Hamzah whispered, his voice raw, like a confession.

Y/n’s heart stuttered in her chest.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t want to leave.

a/n: I hope yall liked this one!!!!! I had been sitting on this idea for a while now, anywayssss pls lmk what u think

muah luv u all <3

#hamzahthefantastic #hamzah x reader #hamzah x y/n #hamzah fic #hamzah imagines #hamzah angst

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