#camera mastery

[goshashka-design]

Mastering the Camera

A Humorous Guide to Technical Mastery Welcome to the world of photography, where the camera is more temperamental than a cat on a hot tin roof. But fear not! With a little know-how, you can tame this beast and make it purr like a kitten. Let’s dive into the technical trifecta: aperture, shutter speed, and ISO. Aperture: The Eye of the Camera Think of aperture like the pupil of your eye. It can…

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

What’s your favorite bit of lore? Or favorite holiday/festival in genshin they’re pretty neat

i'm absolutely biased towards lantern rite tbh

as for bit of lore, i'm not really sure. i feel like 'bit of lore' is really weird to define, bc ultimately most lore is all connected into bigger pictures. obviously i'm partial towards liyue lore in general, but as for a specific little bit...

probably still the possibility that zhongli is partial to archery.

[nixnmatch]

platforming, my bELOOOOATHED

[corollaservant]

There’s just something about lanky men. (18+)

You know, the type of man who’s scrawny, awkward and with a small ribcage (not from working out, genetics, you cuss). The one who doesn't put emphasis on his clothing, wearing whichever clean tshirt he can find, a pile of dirty clothes accumulating in his bedroom. The one who has water bottles, take out bags, cigarettes or weed papers and a nasty sink in his apartment. The one who has messy hair, tired eyes and cannot socialize for the life of him. The one who scratches his head, looks down awkwardly as he crosses his legs and sits weirdly on a chair. The type to never initiate a first move, friendship.. let’s not even talk about sex. There’s something about these men, you wouldn't call it a fetish, no, you don’t judge people by body types, that’s weird. It’s just that you notice a pattern here. Cause everytime you find these traits, you kind of guess their personality too. And maybe sometimes..you’re wrong.

They’re the same ones that will bend you in half, once they get the slightest hint you might be into them. The type to inexplicably know how to work their fingers in your little cunt, hell, you’d think they were pros in another life, the mastery in pace, roughness and multitasking is crazy here. These guys have you wet your panties like you can’t. By yourself. Alone. They kiss you while they’re at it too, don’t think they can’t do both. They kiss softly, open mouthed but desperately at the same time, kind of like they don’t want you to be able to breathe anymore. And… you can’t, but they don’t stop until you push their shoulders back, breathing through your nose isn't enough.

They’re the type to stay silent when you suck them off, concentrated and focused on your performance. They might bite their lips and hum softly, you’d think they don’t even like it even when you’re gagging down their whole length (palm included, as they’re large and girthy). Your throat aches and you haven’t even stopped the act and here they are silent and unappreciative, you might think. Well, you’re wrong. They appreciate it more than they let on. Do you know what it took for them to master this composure? Endless nights of jerking off just to the sight of your pretty pussy, cumming and cumming until they could build up some endurance. Mind you, they are talented but lack in the sexual experience department. Porn doesn’t get them off, they think it’s performative and staged, can’t get hard watching some poor woman fake moan and look at the camera, they think it’s embarrassing. No, instead they can easily picture you, with your legs spread and your pretty cunt glistening — anticipating their touch. Be it their skilled, slender fingers, their drooling mouth (yes, they drool inside) or their throbbing cock, they can’t get enough of your widened eyes and parted mouth and you can't stop silently begging just for a touch. And they cum, they aren’t too loud even when alone so imagine how much they try to stifle their moans when with you. You may have started deepthroating them, but their cock jerked the moment you ran your tongue down their shaft once, didn’t you notice it? They take it, you didn’t. They are close to cumming, they bite their tongue and can feel the metallic taste of blood their sinking teeth left, shit, they wouldn’t be able to taste you properly later on; they think and cuss instead of thinking the trouble they'll have swallowing down food. 

They quietly push you off, they really want to cum but these men are selfless. They don’t want to put anyone's pleasure above yours so they throw you on the bed. That’s where you were wrong too. You see them, a skeleton in clothes and think ‘’damn, this guy really is a loser’’..well, if he is, then he certainly is a strong one, these dudes have muscles you can’t even see and the rage that fuels them, makes up for it. They want to lick up a strip from your hole trickling down your left thigh, shit, they're so tempted, they might come on the mattress for all they care but their cock throbs when you ask them to fuck you instead.. if that's what you want, who are they to say no?

Their lanky chest presses against you, you can feel the pressure from their protruding bones on your skin, as they sigh, their sticky slit coming in contact with your also wet (soaked) entrance. They might just sigh but their brain is fighting a hard battle right now, to not cum just by the friction and the mess of fluids. Once you beg repeatedly (‘’please—baby, please!’’) and they can’t take it anymore, they awkwardly push the length past your folds, it slams in you violently as their sternum clashes onto you. You moan, it feels heavenly, a remarkable girth that stuffs you to the brim. They don't bottom out yet, you think fuck it, there's more? Oh sure, there is. They will shyly push more in, inch after inch, these men are NOT talkative but will make sure you are ok for good measure, wouldn't want you fainting or in pain due to their stupid cock. Little do they know, you want more and fast, but that's ok, whatever you order, they deliver. You can't tell, if they do it with skill or instinct but the thrusts are calculated and timed and they bring you close to an intense orgasm, they know it — they are observers, noticing the type and volume of moans that exit your mouth each time, that is why a slender pad of their finger is brought against your clit. They know how to hover and tilt their hips inside you simultaneously as they tease you. ‘’B–baby, oh my god.. please’’ you mewl, you shut your eyes and they’re close too. You just squeeze too damn much, whether you know it or not (they never tell you that they'd sell their soul to feel like this every day). Soon enough you're cumming, screaming loudly, only.. it's real with you, your body can’t lie and so can’t your eyes, glossy and ready to spill teardrops. These men will not be vocal (or at least they'll try not to be) but this is their breaking point, it's too much — you're too much and they finally whimper, not loud but just enough for you to hear as they let a big load inside you. They’re a deprived and awkward mess, that doesn't believe you would even bat them an eye, when you met them. Well, maybe it's their time to re-evaluate you.

—

(wrote this with surprise surprise.. Shiggy in mind but it suits others too)

L, Mello my man, black hair Dabi, Aizawa, Fyodor, Aku, literally anyone from Nana cast, who’s not a child and please! let me add Hobie Brown.

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #27

They’re the strongest?!?!

Imagine dis…

You know … I read too much humans are space orcs fic, prompts, ideas… etc.

But I still like Danny Phantom and DC…

And I remember that one A03 fic…

…

Another alien invasion is another Wednesday for the JL but it seems like they are quite different. Not only they are known as invaders in the Green Lantern Corps but they also have some sort of code among warriors, they give a chance to the species they are invading to fight back. By having their strongest fight against their strongest. It is not through fighting to the death as different planets have different climates and terrains and thus have their version of the Olympic games but instead of rewarding the participants medals, they were rewarded their planet's safety, but Hal commented that the challenges are too staged, too well known to the invading aliens. Since the ones defending have no idea how to approach the challenges, they always end up losing. Green Arrow commented that since they can just send out the Big Blue boy scout, Hal shook his head as they have to be the same species one planet already tried it by asking aid from another planet and not only lost but the invading aliens got 2 planets, plus they’ll bring it up to the galaxy court system and put them in a tight spot. Of course, Aquaman blinked with confusion and asked if there was a court system for the galaxy.

…

So of course, when the said invading aliens landed on the Milky Way and broadcasted their intentions. The JL already have a team to fight them, of course, we have Batman with his cunning mind, Wonder Woman for her chivalry and strength, Flash for his speed, Doctor Fate for his mastery of magic, and Cyborg for technological skills. Just as they were about to tell the invading aliens that they had already picked their strongest, another announcement popped out. Apparently to even out the playing field they have a new technology to help them pick out their strongest for them. As if they were talking to kids and promptly pressed the bottom to automatically select the earth’s strongest.

The heroes at the space station as well those around the world who were debriefed about the situation a week before are already bracing themselves to be picked, while the citizens around the globe are all now watching and anticipating as not only this a new thing as the majority of their alien invasion they immediately went to evacuation.

Who appeared/ chosen immediately made both sides' jaws drop….

Three?

Only three are chosen…

An adult, a teen, and a child?

A man who wore a blue rental suit with glasses, blue eyes and black hair. Which the Metropolis recognizes as one of their own. Clark Kent, a reporter with fame and reputation on par with the famed Lois Lane. The ideal model of someone who came from the countryside and made a name and life in the big city.

An 11-year-old boy with blue eyes and black hair who wore a red hoodie, faded jeans, and red shoes, in which the city Fawcett knew of. Billy Batson was, a former foster kid on the run until he found his forever home with the couple named Victor and Rosa Vasquez who also fostered a couple of kids, which Billy claims as his siblings. A kind kid who kept doing good around him and his community.

Lastly, a teen, again with blue eyes and black hair wore a faded NASA hoodie, and blue jeans with faint eye bags which was a small town in Amity Park where he came from. Danny Fenton, the only son of the two leading scientists of ecto-biologists in ecotology, the one who realized that one of the two purple-back gorillas is a female thus avoiding extinction.

…

Clark Kent by day and Superman by night knew about the invading aliens. He also knew that he could not participate despite being raised on Earth made him unqualified to join. So, imagine his shock when he suddenly found himself with two earth children in the middle of a large arena with futuristic cameras looking at them. He is now in an internal dilemma; how can he save the two kids, while he tries to save Earth altogether?

This train of thought also passed by the young Billy Batson on the said teen, Billy already knew that Superman was already thinking of saving the both of them. Now his priority is to survive and keep his secret ID a secret for a bit longer.

…

Danny on the other hand has a completely different train of thought, he was just about to reach his room. His beautiful room where his bed is, he had just finished a four-hour exam to bring his grades back up to an acceptable level, 9 continuous ghost attacks, another nonsense quarrel between the observers and he is close to committing anarchy just so he can have the same treatment to Pariah Dark, an eternal sleep in a comfortable looking Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.

So imagine his surprise when he is suddenly teleported to what looks like an alien ship, Danny would usually be ecstatic but they have interrupted him, he is so close to his bed. He knew that there would be some sort of an invasion as he remembered the bits and pieces from Tucker’s ramble when they last hung out together.

He doesn’t care if aliens invade Earth, but if you come between him and his bed. He will make sure of what he will do to those who disturb him, he will make his fight with his future self and Pariah Dark like child’s play.

…

The Justice League kept on insisting that they had already chosen their fighters and those who appeared in the middle of their arena were civilians, not warriors. But the invading aliens stayed on their decision and immediately began the games.

The rest of the heroes are now scrambling to not only stop the invading aliens but also save the 2 civilians who were randomly selected.

While the rest of the League is now panicking the rest of the world is now in an outrage. Sending out a civilian man and children by the alien's weird machinery.

The Fenton couples are especially rabid as, if there is anything that tops their ghost obsession, it would be their children’s safety. The family of Batson are on the edge of their seats as they worry for Billy.

…

The games begin with an opening of rules and such, as well as an introduction to the alien’s warriors who are big and full of muscles making the Earth team look so tiny.

The first game starts with a simple hunting game with very minimal clues and tools at their disposal to find what they seek. Clark can crack the code on to where to hunt but it is a dangerous environment, Clark discusses it with his teammates on how to catch it, Clark is already thinking if he should reveal himself as a meta with strength but Danny just glares at the man and grabbed capturing tools form the table and sought out the thing they are designated to hunt.

The other team took a glance at Team Earth and warbled some snickers at how they took looking/hunting too fast without any plans and went back to their planning.

Clark and Billy are worried for their other teammate but after a few minutes, they hear a roar some shuffles, and then silence.

Back on earth, most people are horrified a what could be the teen’s fate but when footsteps were heard they saw the teen again scathed, with a few scratches, and a hulking beast all tied up from its muzzle to its tails.

Clark nervously asked, still maintaining his civilian identity, how on earth Danny had caught such a beast. Danny’s only response was, back from where he came a certain ”friend” really wanted “someone’s” pelt on a wall and learned some things while HE was chasing that “something”.

That starts the Danny effect…

…

A tag sort of game as there is a hunter to hunt them down and their objective is to hide longer than the other team, with both Billy and Danny a part, while Billy lasted a few hours with his wit and skills that he honed during his time when he ran from CPS and the police during his days as a foster child, which is impressive itself as he got two of the other team’s members to be captured first before him. Danny outlasted Billy and the rest of the other team won the game in a landslide and gained some bonus points by not only redirecting the hunter and leading them into a false trail or a dead end but also messing with the said hunter without being spotted by him.

Cooking with live and weird ingredients? Clark initially volunteered to do it as he has a stomach of steel being an alien but cannot cook as he has no idea which ingredient is edible as all alien dishes and ingredients come from Krypton and he has to impress the judges who put them in a disadvantage as the judges are from the same race as the opposing team. Danny just shook his head at Clark quickly put on an apron and set to work.

Clark and Billy immediately turned green at the sight as Danny nonchalantly battled the live ingredients, from the meat section to what seems to be the fruit and vegetable section, It is bloody as it is and quite fascinating as it is disgusting. All their years in the Justice League they have seen some twisted and weird things but seeing their third teammate casually stab what looked like an unholy cross hybrid between an octopus and a shark trying to crawl away from the carnage, cleaned the weird animal from the inside out and fillet it.

Of course, they are in disbelief when the judges practically moan the moment, they taste Danny’s dish. Clark and Billy are pretty sure one of the judges is planning to spare Danny and turn him into their chef if the invasion continues, with the way they look at Danny. The judges reluctantly let Danny’s dish win.

Billy reluctantly asked Danny where he learned to cook like that, Danny’s only response was a grumble of a sound that seemed to sound like at home but that cannot be, right?

Trying to survive an onslaught of hypnotic plants native to the alien’s home world, Danny once again won and even began criticizing the plants for how their music was so horrible that it would not even wake the dead.

Play some sort of FIGHTING VIDEO GAME that is popular in 5 sectors in their part of the galaxy, Danny wins and repeatedly shoots the aliens with pure hatred and anger in his eyes, Clark has to physically drag Danny out of the arena to stop his onslaught of firing to the poor guy who was already on the verge of crying.

And so on with the Earth’s team leading COUGH Danny COUGH and demolishing the invading aliens from their games.

After a while the games are done and Team Earth wins with a massive gap to the invading aliens. They returned the three in the middle of the Metropolis and went away without so much a fuss…

Well, expect that one chef in their midst how begged the leader to take Danny and only him with them but the leader is already fearing for his life as the last few games that humans began to be more feral by the second and he was sure he is also a second away from being the one at the other end of his chopping board.

…

Back on earth everyone cheered on the three and began flashing them their camera lights to get a new scoop, and one brave reporter even tried to interview Danny but when people tried to look for the elusive teen he seemingly disappeared.

Clark knew Danny was, sleeping peacefully in the middle of the bushes a few feet away from them, and kept quiet as he was late to realize that Danny was on the verge of a crash like Red Robin is when he pulled something like this when Conner invited him.

…

PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[crushpunky]

actress!reader supports drew at his premiere

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

based on a couple different asks + the queer premiere in LA <3

Y/n could hear the cheers of fans and see the flashes of cameras as they pulled around the back of the venue. This was Drew’s day, a moment he had been waiting for and working for for years, and she knew she wanted to be there to support and celebrate him without detracting from any of the attention and praise he deserved. She knew there was no way of absolutely avoiding all paparazzi or fans, but she still hoped she had avoided most of the prying eyes as she climbed out the back of the tinted, black car.

Y/n thanked the assistant who opened the door, smoothing down the front of her dress with her free hand, a bouquet of roses and her purse balancing in the other.

“Y/n!” One of the fans littered around the back entrance shouted, pointing their camera at y/n as they waved. Y/n smiled back, giving short greetings to the few fans within sight of the back entrance, before making her way into the venue. 

Once inside, she followed one of the assistants through what felt like a maze of hallways until they finally ended up in the theater. As she entered, her mouth dropped as she looked around at the sea of people filling nearly every seat. Reporters, fans, reviewers, friends, family, all there to get a piece of the action and witness the mastery the cast and crew had put together. An usher motioned y/n to her seat just as the house lights began to dim, the room filling with excited whispers. The director, Luca, came out, speaking briefly before introducing the cast.

“Now, we have our two wonderful leads: Mr Daniel Craig and Mr Drew Starkey.” Luca announced gleefully, turning as the two men filed out. Y/n could feel her heart swell as she watched Drew walk out. Unable to resist, y/n took out her phone to capture the dazzling smile on his face under the spotlights. Once she put her camera down, her gaze focused once more on Drew, his eyes now meeting her own. Both of them laughed, waving at each other before focusing back on the introductions. Soon enough, it was Drew’s turn, a small blush creeping across his cheeks as he spoke.

“Yeah, I’d just like to thank everyone involved in his film, it was truly an honor to get to work with so many talented people. We hope you enjoy.” Drew finished with a grin, Daniel clapping him on the back before the cast and crew headed to their seats. With a wave of applause and hollers, the screen lit up and the film finally began.

As soon as the credits rolled, the theater erupted into thunderous cheers. Attendees rose to their feet, the applause continuing as the spotlights illuminated the cast and crew. Each member had their moment, bowing and waving to the crowd. As Drew stepped forward, y/n could feel her eyes prickle with tears as she cheered as loudly as she could. Pure pride and love filled her as she saw the happiness in Drew’s face; a happiness he deserved more than anyone else on the entire goddamn planet.

Once the applause finally subsided, and the audience began to exit, y/n followed one of Drew’s assistants through yet another maze of corridors before finally turning a corner and seeing a familiar head of tousled brown hair turned, a wide smile spreading across Drew’s face as he quickly crossed the room before wrapping his arms around y/n. He lifted her off her heeled feet, burying his nose into the top of her head once he finally put her back down

“I’m so proud of you.” Y/n whispered into the crook of Drew’s neck.

“I’m so happy you’re here.” Drew said back, pressing a kiss to y/n’s jaw before pulling away, his arms still resting gently on her hips. Y/n grinned back at him, her eyes gazing over the way his simplistic black suit fell over the planes of his body and the light reflected stunningly off his jewelry, glad to finally see him up close and personal. Pulling herself back to reality, y/n offered the bouquet of roses out to Drew.

“Are these for me?” Drew quirked a brow, taking the flowers slowly. Y/n giggled as he dramatically sniffed them.

“You deserve it, Starkey.” Y/n said, squeezing Drew’s hand lightly.

“You spoil me, baby.” Drew whispered, biting his lip as he gazed down at her.

“Love you. Proud of you.” Y/n said. Drew pulled y/n into a kiss, her cheeks warming with his familiar taste.

“Love you.” Drew grinned, a smudge of lipstick adorning his bottom lip. Y/n wiped it away with a smile. Drew snaked his free hand around her waist, pulling her into his side as the back doors opened, their car parked in front of them.

“I have one more surprise for you when we get home.” Y/n whispered, raising her eyebrows playfully at Drew as two of them stepped outside. They could only hope the cameras of the fans littered outback didn’t catch the way Drew’s eyes widened or his cheeks flushed as they climbed into the car, speeding off into the night.

[cerastes]

The thing with Justin Wong is that either by just being who he is or by understanding what makes for entertaining content and going with it, he managed to get the exact formula for his content to be pretty fun by way of how he presents it:

Video titles tend to be statements with either relatable or comedic effect that draw you in instead of obvious clickbait (so, "organic clickbait", or, you know, something that looks interesting), he doesn't mind eating shit on camera or on his thumbnails, his disdain for things tends to be lighthearted and comedic instead of actually charged with any anger, and, end of the day, he IS Justin Wong, legitimately and undeniably one of the best and most historied fighting game players ever, so you either get see an actual, by definition GOAT display his mastery of the craft, OR eat massive amounts of shit. It does take a certain temperance to be on the receiving end of EVO Moment 37 and take it with not just grace, but also humor.

[insidekatmind]

Not just acting~Park Hae-soo

Wearning: +18,smut,age-gap

Request: yes!

The film set was lit by soft lights, a perfect contrast between the elegance of the club and the murky atmosphere that the scene was supposed to evoke. You were sitting in front of the dressing room mirror, while the makeup artist adjusted the last details: sinfully red lips, long and provocative eyelashes. You were wearing a black lace corset that enhanced your curves, transparent tights and vertiginous heels. On top of your head, a hair clip with rabbit ears completed the showgirl look.

It was the crucial scene of the film: you had to dance on him, provoke him, get close until you touched him, while he, the unscrupulous tycoon that Park Hae Soo played with mastery, had to remain impassive, in a game of seduction and power. You were 24 years old, young and hungry for success, while he, at 43, was an experienced actor, used to maintaining control in every situation. Or at least that's what you thought.

When the director called for action, music filled the club. Your body moved with confidence, sinuous, perfect for the role. Your hips swayed as you approached the couch where he sat with a glass of whiskey in his hand. His gaze was fixed on you, and even though you knew he was acting, there was something in his eyes that seemed real.

You sat astride his legs, your hands sliding up his silk jacket. He remained still, but his breathing grew ever so slightly heavier. You felt his tension beneath you, the way his body responded, barely perceptible, but there. Your movements grew bolder: a rotation of your hips, your lips close to his ear as you whispered the scripted line. And then you felt his hand, which should have remained limp, tighten momentarily on your thigh, a gesture imperceptible to the camera, but one you could feel distinctly.

Your heart pounded in your chest. Was it just acting? Or was the line between fiction and reality dissolving in that moment? You looked into his eyes, finding something deeper than a simple role. A hidden desire, perhaps, or just an illusion born from the fire of the scene.

You continued to grind against him, dancing sensually, just like the script said. He remained stoically in character, his piercing gaze fixed on you, his hand still on your thigh. However, his composure was faltering. The rhythm of his breathing was heavier, more erratic, betraying the growing tension within him. Every move you made, every whisper of your voice seemed to tighten a coil inside him, slowly unraveling the control he so carefully maintained. Your body heat against his was like an intoxicating fire, and he had to concentrate all his strength to keep his character from breaking.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Your hips rocked against him, and he could feel the fabric of his pants growing tighter with each movement. His grip on your thigh tightened further, his fingers digging into your flesh. He was struggling to maintain the act, to keep himself from giving in to the overwhelming sensations that coursed through him. But it was getting harder and harder with each second that passed.

Your fingers traced a path down his chest, finding the edge of his shirt. Despite the strict instructions to maintain the scripted gestures, the need to feel his skin grew stronger with each beat of the music. You wanted, no, needed, to test the limits of this role.

His gaze darkened and he leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek, his words low and urgent. "You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured, trying to maintain the authority of his character, but the trembling of his voice betrayed his internal struggle.

His hand slid higher, his fingers tracing patterns along the edge of your corset, the touch almost searing against your bare skin. The fabric of his pants was strained tight now, the evidence of his desire for you unmistakably apparent.

"You shouldn't test me," he warned, his voice gravelly and low, the words torn from his throat.He could feel your skin against his fingers, the soft lace of your corset giving way to his touch. He wanted to push you back, to pin you against the couch and take what he needed, but he resisted, fighting against his own desires.

He looked into your eyes, seeing the desire mirrored there. It was a challenge, a test of his self-control. But he couldn't resist any longer. He moved his hand to the small of your back, pulling you closer, until your chests were pressed together.

His arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the bare skin exposed by the corset, the touch electric. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart thudding against your chest, his breath ragged against your neck.

He leaned in, his lips mere inches from your ear, his voice a husky whisper filled with both command and need. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

You continued to grind against him, as write in the script, and kissed his jaw.

He swallowed back a moan, his fingers digging deep into the flesh of your hips, guiding your movements. The edge of his composure was unraveling, every touch of your lips and the rhythm of your body against his taking him to the brink.

He leaned his head back against the couch, exposing the column of his neck, an invitation and a surrender.

He was losing the battle, the feel of your body against his, the way you moved with such grace and sensuality was driving him wild. His eyes closed again, and he let out a low growl, his grip on your hips tightening as he pulled you even closer.

His hands roamed over your body, exploring the curves and valleys of your form, as if committing them to memory. He was desperate, his touch growing more and more unrestrained with every passing second.

His lips found yours again, claiming your mouth in a fierce, greedy kiss, his tongue demanding entrance and exploring the depths of your mouth with an intensity that bordered on possessive.

Your kisses were like a drug, and he was addicted. He moaned against your lips, his hands moving up to tangle in your hair, holding you close as he devoured you. His body was on fire, every nerve ending ablaze with desire.

He broke the kiss only to trail kisses down your neck, nibbling and sucking on your skin, marking you as his. He wanted everyone to know that you were his, that you belonged to him.

You arched your back, a moan escaping your lips as his mouth traveled down your neck and to your collarbone, his teeth raking over your skin. He was marking you, claiming you in the most primal way possible, and you couldn't deny that it made you weak in the knees.

His hands roamed over your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He was everywhere, surrounding you, consuming you.

The director yelled "Cut!", but it took a moment for both of you to move away from each other.

You pulled away from him, still panting, your body trembling from the intensity of the scene. The room was thick with desire, and you could feel the heat radiating from both of your bodies.

He looked at you, his gaze still darkened with desire, but also with a hint of something else. A flicker of confusion, perhaps, or regret. He couldn't deny that the line between acting and reality had blurred in that moment.

He sat there, still breathing heavily, his eyes locked on yours. He knew what he had done, what he had let himself do. The way you looked at him, the way you felt against him, it was all too real. He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his, the way your body had moved against his.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But it was no use. He knew that he couldn't go back to being just colleagues after this. Something had changed, and it was his own fault.

The crew were busy moving equipment around, discussing the next scene, oblivious to what had just played out.

You and him were left sitting there, both of you trying to collect yourselves.

His mind was in turmoil, the memory of your body pressed against his, the way you had moved, it was etched in his mind. He couldn't ignore the attraction, the spark that had ignited during the scene.

He glanced at you, noticing the way you avoided his gaze. He knew you were thinking about it too, the way your bodies had responded to each other, the intensity of the moment.

He leaned back against the couch, trying to steady his breathing, but it was no use. He could still feel your touch on his skin, your taste on his lips. It was driving him mad.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence between you. "We need to talk," he said, his voice rough and low.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice, low and serious. You had been trying to avoid him, trying to ignore the way your body had responded to him, the way your mind kept replaying the scene over and over.

You looked at him, your own voice barely above a whisper. "What is there to talk about?"

He met your gaze, his eyes locking with yours. He could see the tension in your eyes, the same mix of desire and uncertainty that he was feeling.

"Everything," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The scene, what happened between us, it's not just acting anymore."

He ran a hand through his hair again, frustration etched on his face. "We can't ignore it. We can't just go back to being colleagues."

You couldn't deny the truth in his words. The scene had been intense, the line between acting and reality had blurred in a way you never thought possible. You could still feel the heat of his touch, the way his body had responded to yours.

You sighed, looking away from him, avoiding his gaze. "What do you expect us to do about it?"

He watched you sigh, and his gaze darkened even more. The sight of you trying to avoid him was like a punch to the gut. He wanted to pull you closer, to make you look at him, to make you understand how he felt.

He shifted on the couch, moving closer to you, his eyes never leaving your face. "I want you," he admitted, his voice low and raw.

Your breath caught in your throat, his words hitting you like a ton of bricks. You had been trying to deny it, to ignore the way his gaze made you feel, the way your body responded to him. But hearing him say it, admitting it out loud, it was like a spell had been broken.

You looked at him, your own desire mirrored in your eyes. "I want you too," you admitted, your voice soft but firm.

He felt a surge of satisfaction at your admission, but it was quickly replaced by a wave of desire. Hearing you say it, seeing the way your eyes darkened with desire, it was too much.

He moved closer still, his body now only inches away from yours. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his touch gentle yet possessive.

Your eyes fluttered closed at his touch, the heat of his hand on your cheek sending a shiver down your spine. You leaned into his touch, your body moving instinctively closer to him.

You could feel his breath on your skin, ragged and uneven, the tension between you almost palpable. You wanted him, craved him in a way you had never experienced before.

He groaned as your lips meet his, the contact like a spark that ignites an explosion. His hands roaming over your body, his touch possessive.

You feel him kiss you hard, his body pressing against yours, his need for you obvious. His tongue slips between your lips, exploring your mouth with a hungry intensity that takes your breath away.

The kiss is like a floodgate opening, and he can't hold back any longer. He pins you against the couch, his body covering yours as he kisses you fiercely.

His hands roam over your body, touching and caressing every inch of you, as if trying to map every curve and line. He breaks the kiss only to trail kisses down your neck, nibbling and sucking on your skin, marking you as his.

"You so fucking hot" he mutters against your skin, his voice hoarse with desire.

You gasp as he pins you against the couch, your body arching against his. His touch feels like fire against your skin, and you can feel your body responding to him, heat pooling between your thighs.

You moan as he kisses your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your own desire surging through you.

You manage to speak, your voice ragged with need, "I need you. Now."

He shivers at your words, the need in your voice like a punch to the gut. He pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark with desire.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, his voice rough and ragged.

He lifts you effortlessly, his arms wrapped around your thighs as he lifts you up and carries you towards the dressing room. The door closes behind him with a click, and he sets you down on the table, standing between your legs.

His body is pressed against yours, his hands roaming over your thighs, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his hardness against you, and it's almost too much to bear.

You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, needing to feel him against you, inside you. He leans in to kiss you again, his lips hot and desperate against yours.

"You're driving me insane," he mutters against your mouth, his hands sliding up under your skirt.

You shiver at the intensity of his gaze, his words like a caress against your skin. You reach for him, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him against you.

He lets you pull him closer, his body flush against yours. He captures your lips in another kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he presses you down onto the table.

His hands move up to your hips, holding you in place as he grinds against you, his hardness against your core sending waves of pleasure through you.

He breaks the kiss to trail kisses down your neck again, his lips moving lower, down to your collarbone.

"Fuck me, please" you whispered desperately. His eyes darken at your words, and he lets out a low growl. He lifts your hips up, and in one fluid motion, he pulls your skirt up, exposing you completely.

He leans in to kiss you again, his lips trailing down your chest, stopping at the swell of your breasts. He nips and sucks on the sensitive skin there, marking you even more.

"As you wish," he whispers against your skin.

He moves down your body, his lips leaving a trail of kisses and bites in their wake. He reaches your hip, and he nips at the skin there, before sucking on it hard enough to leave a mark.

He moves lower still, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them wider. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire and anticipation.

"You're so wet for me already," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, your body arching involuntarily towards him. You feel him grinning against your skin, his satisfaction at your reaction obvious.

"You like that, don't you?" he says, his voice low and rough.

You're unable to respond, your mind and body consumed by the sensations he's stirring within you.

He chuckles at your inability to respond, his fingers tracing patterns on your inner thighs.

"You're so responsive," he says, his voice a low rumble. "It's like you were made for me."

He moves closer, his breath hot against your core. He looks up at you again, his eyes full of desire and a hint of possessiveness.

"And you're all mine," he adds, before diving in, his tongue flicking out to taste you.

His words send a shiver through you, and you can't help but moan, the sound escaping your lips involuntarily.

As his tongue touches you, your body bucks beneath him, the sensation overwhelming. You'd never felt anything like it before, the hot, wet velvet of his tongue working magic on your body.

You reach down, your hands tangling in his hair, your fingers gripping it tightly. "Oh god, please," you beg.

He groans at the feel of your hands in his hair, and it only fuels his desire even more.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he continues to feast on you. His tongue explores every inch of you, learning your taste, memorizing the way you respond to him.

"You taste so good," he mutters between licks and kisses. "So sweet, so perfect."

He looks up at you again, his eyes dark and hungry. "You're so close, aren't you?" he asks, his voice a low growl.

Your body is on fire, your nerves singing with pleasure, and you're finding it harder and harder to think coherently.

You nod, unable to form words, your body trembling with the effort to hold on. You're right on the edge, but you can't seem to push yourself over it.

You manage to gasp out a plea, your voice strained, "Please, I need...more."

He smirks at your desperation, his ego inflating at the sound of your plea.

"More, huh?" he says, his voice low and filled with amusement.

He continues to tease you, licking and sucking at your clit, before dipping his tongue inside you. He moves slowly, deliberately, drawing out your pleasure until you're on the verge of breaking.

He looks up at you again, his eyes dark with lust. "Beg for it," he commands. "Beg me to make you come."

You're a mess beneath him, your body writhing with need, and you know you'd do anything to find release.

You look down at him, your eyes dark with desire, and you manage to gasp out a desperate plea, "Please... please make me come. I need it, I need you."

You're practically begging him now, your body arching towards him, and you can feel him grinning against your skin. He knows he has you completely at his mercy.

He groans at your words, the sound almost feral. He loves seeing you like this, so desperate and needy for him.

He moves faster, his tongue and fingers working in perfect sync to bring you to the edge. He feels your body tensing, your thighs trembling around his head.

"Come for me," he growls, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my tongue."

At his words you come screaming his name. He groans loudly as you come, your voice echoing in the small room.

He keeps working you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers prolonging your pleasure. He feels you clenching around him, and it sends another wave of arousal through him.

When you finally come down from your high, he pulls back, his face and neck glistening with your juices. He looks up at you, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"That's my girl," he says, his voice rough and satisfied.

You smiled and knelt down, unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his boxers before kissing his cock. He lets out a guttural moan as you kiss him, his hands gripping your hair tightly.

"God, you're going to be the death of me," he says, his voice strained.

He watches you as you kiss and nuzzle his length, his eyes dark with desire. Hae-soo grip your hair tighter, urging you on.

You feel his hands tighten in your hair, and the sensation sends a thrill through you. You look up at him, meeting his gaze, and you can see the need and desire mirrored in his eyes.

You take him into your mouth, your lips sliding over him, and he moans, his head falling back.

"You're so good at this," he mutters, his voice ragged with pleasure.

He can't help but thrust into your mouth, his control slipping for a moment. He watches you, his eyes closed, lost in the sensations.

"Fuck," he mutters again, his grip on your hair tightening even more. "You're driving me insane."

He looks down at you, his eyes now open, watching you intently as you pleasure him.

His words drive you on, and you feel a sense of satisfaction at how undone he is. You tease him with your mouth, sucking and licking him in all the right spots, making him shiver and moan.

He can't seem to stay still, his hips shifting towards you, wanting more.

"You're going to finish me off," he groans, the words barely a whisper.

He can feel his control slipping further with each movement of your mouth. He tries to hold back, to savor the moment, but it's becoming increasingly difficult.

He can feel the tension building in his body, the heat coiling low in his belly. He tries to hold on, to prolong the moment, but he knows it's a losing battle.

"I'm close," he manages to choke out, his voice strained. "So close."

You feel him shudder beneath you, and you know he's close to the edge. You want to give him more, to make him come undone completely.

You increase your pace, your lips and tongue working harder, wanting to push him over the edge. You can hear his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his body trembling with need.

"Let go," you say, your voice low and ragged. "I want to feel you."

The words push him over the edge, and he comes with a roar, his body arching off the table.

He comes hard, filling your mouth with his release. He grips your hair so tightly that it almost hurts, but you don't care. You continue to suck and lick him through his orgasm, wanting to taste every drop of him.

He pants heavily, trying to catch his breath, his eyes closed as he rides out the waves of pleasure.

He finally comes down from his high, his body trembling and weak. He opens his eyes and looks down at you, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion.

He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you up to kiss him, tasting himself on your lips.

"You're a menace," he says, his voice hoarse. "And I love it."

[headlinxr]

( 瘋狂的 ) HEADLOCK, P. SUNGHOON ، ݃ •

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

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

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

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

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

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

[joelssimp]

STILL | CHAPTER 05

CW: Mention of past trauma, maternal abandonment, Mental health disorder, Age gap mention, we get more than flirting y'all

4.2K words

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05 - You Look Like Shit

It's funny how silly things and trivial moments become a very easy routine when you feel good.

Good...

A feeling that had not been part of my vocabulary for a long time — too long — and sometimes in some quiet moments I would even ask myself if I had ever really had the opportunity to feel that way.

Always busy proving that the statistics were wrong... Statistics that said that young people have a 44% greater chance of being successful when they grow up with their parents being married. Statistics that spoke, and sometimes screamed in my head, that maternal abandonment would indeed have an effect on my life.

So I studied, and fought, I worked, I studied some more and I overcame challenge after challenge.

There was never much time to have friendships that made me feel good like I did in three weeks of staying in Calgary.

Kate, Pedro and Gabriel were responsible for most of my smiles and laughter, on and off set. I also bumped now and then on Sam, the first person I saw in this city, he was always a little shy, but with time a nod became a “hi”, and then sometimes we talked over a coffee when the production was busy preparing things.

The job was extremely tiring as the days went by. When I wasn't taking pictures, I was organizing the photos, or editing them and answering emails from the actors' agents with the approved and rejected ones.

Even then, there was no better feeling when the light hit exactly where I needed it to capture a unique moment on set. Photos of the takes, behind the scenes, the actors, the two directors ahead of everything with such mastery.

Craig and Neil strategically asked Eben (director of cinematography) to gradually involve me more in the production; they would ask me for tips on lighting for one scene or another. I learned a lot from all the experience they had and at the same time I tried to contribute with some knowledge in a way, all while still doing my main job as a photographer.

"Come here and take a look at this scene," Eben pointed to the camera that was filming the kitchen floor with a path of fake blood that had been made for Nico to step on.

I approached the monitor, squinting my eyes to see it better.

“What do you think?” He asked, scratching his beard under the mask he was wearing.

“Hm... I don't know” I pondered, tilting my head to the right “There are two focal points, right?”

“That's right,” Eben agreed. “One in the room and one outside.”

“The light coming from the room is doing the job of being dramatic, but I think the light coming from the window can help with that too” I pointed in different directions “It's too cold, how many K are you using?”

“5,800 I believe.”

“To make it a little more dramatic, I think it's better to lower it. It will give that "late night" feeling” I said, crossing my arms over my camera.

“Anthony” He called his lighting assistant over the radio, and the guy practically came running” Can you leave the outside guide light at around 3,700K?”

“Right away, boss” The young blond guy nodded and went to do as he was told.

As soon as he changed the settings, Eben pointed to his monitor and clapped his hands together.

“That's it, perfect!” He declared excitedly “This will do for the two takes we need. It made the blood much more dramatic.”

“Can I take a picture first?” I raised the camera in my hand and he gave that smile with his eyes.

“Go ahead, Still, do what you do better”

And then I got one of the most chilling photos so far. I asked someone to stand with their foot pretending they were going to step in the blood, I bent down to be able to follow the trail with the lens and clicked. 

The second photo was quick, I clicked the master-mind behind of all the cinematography in his natural habitat. Eben was, in my opinion, one of the best directors in the business. He had a creativity and organization that would make any director jealous. His career was a promising one that only grew with the passing of the years.

My fan of cinema and all the magic that happens behind the scenes side got over the moon with all of it. Every day I did something for the first time, and a life full of new things was something I hadn't had since the pandemic began.

I could easily answer that famous question: “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” And the answer was: Every single fucking day.

Sometimes it was helping out with something in production, or going to buy a coffee in a new place, or even meeting new people from different departments. There was always something new in my routine.

Spending even just a minute with Pedro was the highlight of any day. And it became a routine to arrive at the recording set listening to music in his SUV with some kind of drink (coffee or an energy drink) in hand. The sensations in my body became familiar as I got closer to him. The warmth that spread from my stomach to my body, my slightly sweaty hands, my easy smile cracking at the first sight of his brown eyes...

16 years — I had to remind myself all the time — 16 years separate the date he was born, and the date I was born. While he was in college I was eating dirt on the school playground.

But it's not like everything I was feeling was somehow reciprocal on his part. Was he kind? Sure, but that was Pedro's personality. He made anyone and everyone feel special. He was the kindest person I’ve ever met.

“It's not like he give rides to everyone who works with him” Kate said as she poured an absurd amount of coffee from the kitchen jug into her own bottle for the day.

“Our flat is on the way from his place to the studio” I explained to her again, in order to put an end to the theories that were popping up inside her crazy head “He's being kind.”

“Yeah, but again, it's only with you.”

“You also got a ride the day we worked together” I pointed out the obvious. "And you're getting another one today."

I was packing my backpack for another night of filming – the last with Nico in the cast, and Kate would once again work a shift together, since it was an important day in production.

“Exactly!” Kate exclaimed “You were with me.”

“And what should I do? Not accept his rides?”

“That's not what I mean” She said promptly and called by my real name “I want you to open your eyes to the possibility of…”

“Don't get carried away, Kate” I rolled my eyes, not wanting to hear the nonsense she was speculating “Pedro is a friend, anything beyond that is something out of your imagination.”

It was impossible to think about these possibilities that Mandy and Kate always insinuated, and impossible not to feel afraid of losing some aspect of the friendship I had developed with Pedro.

“Alright, forget I said anything” She raised her hands in surrender and I pointed to the door.

“Come on, he must be waiting downstairs.”

Every day we went to the set together, the jokes were our source of laughter, the songs were always lively, and the topics were of the most varied nature. But that afternoon he was different. He was serious and thoughtful. The radio was off, which left an uncomfortable silence during the short journey.

Every now and then I glanced at his face to analyze him, but I received nothing in return.

I didn't bother him, because with Kate in the back seat I knew he would say that everything was fine and that nothing had happened.

The rush of another night of filming embraced us as soon as Pedro parked his car. He said goodbye shyly, with no "see you later" or "come by the trailer during the break", it was just a grunt as a bye that was completely out of character for him.

I tried not to think too much about the change in mood that was noticeable, and I immersed myself in work. One of the easiest things to do in any situation in my opinion. This was the easiest way to ignore any uncomfortable or embarrassing situation, and thanks to Eben and Craig I was able to distract my mind by immersing myself even more in lighting lessons that almost made my head explode.

Night scenes were always more complicated to replicate a light worthy of being on screen, but I was learning from the best in the business.

As much as I had expectations of what the night would be, nothing could have really prepared me to witness one of the most real and painful performances an actor could deliver.

Death scenes are usually the hardest to get the final take right on the first attempts, but the raw and intense emotion that Nico and Pedro left in that scene made everyone speechless.

The stunt doubles for each of them did the heaviest part of the action that followed the shooting scene. They rolled around a few times in the grass until the production had enough footage to make it convincing, and then we got in position to shoot the scene with the real actors.

The heavy atmosphere preceded what was to come next. Something that I could only stand still and watch, with a heavy heart, as if something was suffocating me.

"And... action," Craig said from behind the monitors, a few steps away from where I was.

Gabriel entered the scene, holding the rifle that he had carried almost everywhere during the filming of the last few days. Pedro was lying on the grass, which was carefully lit by two pairs of spotlights in different directions with a very diffuse light. He was panting heavily and following the script to check the “gash” he had hidden under his shirt, which was now slightly torn and dirty.

“Oh my God,” Gabriel said, looking in the direction of where Nico was.

A large amount of fake blood covered the girl, and it was almost impossible to tell that she hadn’t been shot. Her performance made the hairs on my arms stand up, it seemed so real.

As if he were desperate, Pedro crawled towards her, the cameras followed his quick movements, and the audio team was right behind him to capture the dialogue in the best possible way.

My legs seemed to have taken root in the ground. They weighed tons, and I couldn’t even move to do what I needed to do. But I knew that Kate was a little further ahead, capturing that unique moment, and I was grateful for our idea of ​​working today’s shift together.

"No, no, no-no" Pedro grumbled, reaching Nico. The girl's breathing rose and fell so fast, along with a few cries that escaped her mouth.

Her eyes fixed on her scene-partner, searching for his reactions so she could act. And he did not fail to deliver the desperation that the situation demanded.

"Move your hands, baby," he asked. "You’re okay, you’re okay, move your hand" His broken voice was the only noise in the middle of a giant production.

He leaned over to pick her up, and the girl's scream broke through the night.

"OW!" She cried uncontrollably, gasping for air.

"I know, I know, I know," Pedro said.

The pain he conveyed with his voice seemed to want to crash into my bones. The pain of a father. And at that moment, no matter how amateurish my reaction was, I could not hold back the hot, lonely tear that ran down my cheek. With a figure coming to my mind: My old man. Maybe the only person who believed in me more than I did.

“I know this hurts, but you’re going to be okay. Baby, listen to me, listen to me, okay? I need to get you up, I know it’s going to hurt, but I need to…” He tried again and her hands went to his neck, getting fake blood all over his hair, ears, and every part of his body that her trembling hands touched. “I know, I know, I know, I know, I know…” He kept crying.

I didn’t want to watch the rest of the scene anymore. As If my legs weren’t my own, I turned my body and forced my steps in the opposite direction, hoping that no one would notice the effect that all of that had on me.

Ashamed because I knew it was just an act, it was a lie, Nico wasn’t really hurt, and Pedro hadn’t lost a daughter. But my fucking imagination went beyond that scenario.

My mind ran straight to the fact that I was a child born of maternal abandonment, just like that character. I was also taken care of by my single father, who did everything he could to raise two children, and then another from another relationship.

A father who had to admit a son to a rehab center for people with schizophrenia. A son who tried to fatally hurt my little sister, and who I had to step in between the two of them, screaming my lungs out, so nothing bad really happened back in March 2020.

And this scene still haunts me on my darkest days, even after a year.

I walked in a single direction, and sat on the small staircase that led to the door of his trailer. I pulled the black mask from my face, my breathing ragged from walking too fast, and a few tears still fell without proper permission, running down my cheeks as if they had a life of their own.

It was an almost silent night, the air seemed to be still in the same place, and the only thing I could hear was the people working in a certain distance that left the conversations as if they were a muffled noise, too far away for me to be able to distinguish.

After what seemed like an hour of sitting there, his tired and dirty figure appeared between the trailers. His kind brown eyes met mine with a softness that hadn't been there before. 

Pedro approached without taking his eyes off me, measuring my pathetic situation. And I don't know what comunicate my need to get some physical contact, but he extended one of his hands to me.

Without even thinking properly, I accepted his touch and was pulled from where I was sitting into a tight hug. His height made the most likely place to put my arms other than his neck — so as not to make something too intimate — was his waist, still a little dirty with fake blood, but not enough to get me dirty. 

"Hey," he whispered against my neck, his voice rough with tiredness. 

"Hey," I replied, muffled against his shoulder. I was still surprised by the gesture, but I gladly accepted the contact. 

With all my senses heightened, it was impossible not to feel the shiver running down my spine. The thumb of his left hand caressed my back in circular motions, as if with those simple gestures, he could somehow erase something bad that I was feeling. My heart was pounding in my ears, and it was likely that he could also hear the pounding that shook my chest.

One of the strongest sensations I had felt since my plane landed in this city.

“You look like shit.” His voice softened at the end of the sentence, trying to ease the tension. 

“So do You,” I replied as I pulled away a little. The weight he was carrying was slowly disappearing, and right in that moment I knew that the strange way he was acting was because of work.

“Today’s a tough scene.”

“Jesus, don't get me started.” He gave my arm one last squeeze and walked away to open the door to his trailer. “I’ve been preparing myself since yesterday, and I still don’t think it was enough. I’m exhausted mentally and physically.” 

“You two were amazing” I followed him into the trailer, trying to cheer him up “It was so good that I couldn't watch it all. It felt like I was losing Nico somehow.”

“She made everything easier than it should have been, no doubt about it” He practically threw himself on the couch there “It's a good thing I have a day off tomorrow. It feels like I've reached the end of a marathon.”

I sat on the edge of the couch and rested the camera that was on my shoulder on the table next to it.

The comforting silence quickly settled in, and I could have sworn that at any moment he would fall asleep there, since it was already past midnight.

I watched him long enough for Pedro to open one of his eys and give me a curious look again.

“You were crying” He pointed to my face, dangerously aware of my state “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Your performance brought a tear or two to my eye” I shrugged, not wanting him to dig further “Nothing to worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“You already have enough things to worry about.”

“You're one of them” He straightened his body until he sat down with his face looking directly at me “Go ahead, try me.”

I had to look away for a brief moment. He and all his kindness always caught me off guard. Even with so much to take care of, his career, his workdays, his other friends and his family, he still found room to care about me.

The words came out in a rush. “I don't really know why this crying started now, after so long. It's something stupid, really.” I moved my hands nervously, trying to pull off a small piece of skin that was around my nail. 

“I bet it's not stupid at all.”

“It was something during the scene, the fatherly way you were treating Nico... It reminded me... It reminded me a lot of my father.” I turned my eyes to look at his. “My father was a single father. He raised me without any support for almost my entire life.”

“Your mother, she... “ He didn't seem to know how to ask, afraid of crossing some line.

“She simply decided she didn't want to be a mother of twins, and ran away when I was two years old.” I cleared his doubt. "We were too much for her"

The sincerity and harshness of my words did not go unnoticed.

I could easily tell people that the woman who brought me into this world had died in some tragic way; that would undoubtedly be a more acceptable story. After all, most cases of abandonment were on the father's side, and the mother always cared for and raised her children alone. Cases of single fathers were rarer; it was usually a story where the mother died and the father had to take responsibility.

Being rejected by the very person who gave birth to you was a pain that could not be cured. It was always present in even the smallest details of life. A walk in the park where mothers played with their children, or a lunch at a restaurant where you could see a woman cutting her child's food with such care and love... The high school graduation where entire families gathered for photos, but the only one who was by my side was my brother, because my father had to work to pay the monthly bills... And then I felt again on my first day at college in another city… Another graduation, but this time by myself.

A life of small memories that always felt like something had been taken from me.

There on that set, the performance I saw before my eyes brought back that painful reminder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for my hand with his, to somehow comfort me. "I'm trully sorry

The warm palm pressed against the back of my hand, delicate, but strong enough for my brain to register the moment.

“It’s okay, Pedro. It really is something from the past. Like I said: I don’t know why this memory came to me right now, at work,” I said sincerely and shook my head to try to get aways from those thoughts.

“It’s your job, but that doesn’t mean that this kind of thing won’t affect you,” his voice was soft, calm, bringing me peace. “Some memories don’t ask for permission to surface. And I’m sorry for what happened to you, but it just shows how strong you are.”

With minimal effort, he brought me into the second hug of the night. Something protective and comforting. I nestled into the warmth that his strong arms gave and closed my eyes. 

His chin rested on the top of my head and I could hear every rhythmic beat of his heart. His scent was already registered somewhere in my mind, and this time I found myself almost drowning in it. It was hard to breathe and even harder to control my thoughts.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, without saying anything, our breathing almost in sync. It was as if he was charging his energies through physical contact too. As if he needed that to calm something inside him as well. 

“Come on, I'll drop you off at your apartment. I have an early call time tomorrow.” He cut the silence, but at no point did he make an effort to move. 

“I'm off tomorrow.” I said quietly too, making no effort to leave his arms.

“Ugh, lucky you.” His fingertips ran up and down the side of my arm and I couldn't help but laugh softly. “I have two days off this weekend. My older sister is coming to visit me with my nephews. The kids are on school vacation, and she's almost going crazy."

"I work on Saturday, but I have Sunday off before the marathon that next week’s gonna bring on us."

"Cool, maybe I'll drag you for a hike with them on Sunday," he suggested, and only then I pulled away to look at his face.

He was relaxed, a smile displayed on his lips, and his brown eyes were extremely tired.

"A hike?"

"Yeah, I found a light trail on a mountain, near where you almost drowned." He seemed serious until halfway through the sentence, and then his playful tone appeared.

I punched him weakly on the shoulder and he grumbled softly.

"Where you forced me to get on that fucking boat."

"Yeah, yeah, but I wasn't the one who jumped into the water."

“You're the one who made me fall.”

“Me?” He took a deep breath, his hand going to his heart as if he felt offended by my words “I would never do something like that.”

He made me laugh again with his way of turning any situation into a joke.

That was Nico's last night of filming, and it was a goodbye for Gabriel too, since the next time we would see him would be in November when the production would leave Edmonton for a small town called Canmore. So before leaving, we both ran to hug them both.

Gabriel hugged me tightly, always with that huge smile on his face, even though he was tired.

“You got no permission to have fun without me” He spoke close to my ear.

“Not even if we tried,” I replied.

“Let's keep in touch. I don't want you two to disappear on me” He moved away a little and grabbed Pedro in a hug.

“Someone’s gotta work 'round here” Pedro joked, patting his friend lightly on the back.

“The older brother usually” Gabriel answered promptly.

“We'll see each other soon, we won't even have time to miss you” I said without letting my smile go away.

“Take care of that Cabrón” Gabriel said in my direction, earning a big eye roll from Pedro

“Mira quien esta hablando (Look who’s the one talking)” Pedro replied.

“Don't worry, I'll keep him in line” I answered and raised my camera to the two of them “A see you later photo?”

“Just because you asked nicely” Gabriel joked.

I moved away enough to fit the two of them in the same photo. They both looked tired, but the expression of happiness at a job well done was even greater. Gabriel hugged Pedro from the side and smiled without showing his teeth.

Finally we said goodbye to Nico, who would not be participating in the production again. Craig gathered the people around her and the girl received the famous speech of someone who’s wrapping production.

On the way back to my flat, Kate slept in the backseat, and the night air coming in through the window seemed to cut through a different atmosphere. I caught myself glancing at Pedro more times than I would like to admit, and in between those glances he would quickly give me a smug smile back.

[brucewaynehater101]

Something I have seen in a few fics and is very near to my heart. Tim Drake Has Birds. Not just any birds, but a gaggle of Crows and Ravens and others. That's what everyone says. But what if he had *more*.

Sure it starts with him befriending 4 or 5 ravens/crows but both are smart kinds of birds and very social as well. They seek out others to play with after all. So if Tim was kind to them and fed them and even helped one of them heal after it got a broken wing (the others led Tim to their injured friend while screaming) then they would certainly spread news to other birds that Tim is safe and a friend. Plus, when any of those birds he befriended has kids? They will teach their babies that Tim is Kind and Trustworthy.

Eventually Tim's flock spreads from just being Crows and Ravens to adding pigeons and grackles and Sparrows and even a few blue Jay's and a couple owls! After all, if Tim starts befriending them about the time (or even before) he starts stalking the family by the Time he's Robin he's gunna have So Many Birds. Tim does his best to hide this from the other Bats because he thinks they will try to make him get rid of them like the one time his parents found him petting a Raven in the backyard.

Tim hides his birds from everyone the best he can and has taught some of them helpful tricks in the field that he can only use when alone. Only a handful can do them, but a handful is more than enough. Such commands are Follow That Person, Bring Me That, Poop On That Person, and other such things. Only three of them understand his favorite trick. Take This Match, Strike It, And Drop It On What I Point At. Sometimes he lights goons on fire, sometimes he lights dumpsters on fire. Either way, a perfect distraction for hoards of goons.

Many of them also have tiny harnesses that can't be seen through their feathers that have cameras on them. Sometimes Tim will have a bird follow a Rouge around for a while because really, who would notice of a specific bird is following them?

The three that are best trained and are totally not Tim's favorites, are the three he has in his civilian identity as well. He only debuted his "pets" are he took over as CEO of WE. On his right shoulder rides a *well* above average size Raven named Huggin and on his left is an equally massive Raven named Munnin. Yes, he did name them after Odin's two ravens from mythology. The last one does not come to work with him like Huggin and Munnin, but stays at home and is in fact part of Tim's Home Security. Guinevere the Agressive Swan. She will attack anyone and everyone that isn't Tim and the moment she spots a person who Shouldn't Be There, she is out for *blood*. The only people she tolerates are Brenard, Kon, Cassie, and Bart. Even Damian with his mastery of animals will get attacked by her.

That's such a cute AU! I want to add an that, because Tim is taking care of pigeons, their lifespan increases as well (idk much about other birds so maybe them too). Pigeons were originally domesticated animals. They live 1-2 years in the wild and up to 15 as a pet.

I would also love to see the ravens intimidate the hell out of other people at Tim's work. The birds are just staring intensely at someone Tim doesn't like as they try to get through a meeting. It's an effective tool for the CEO to get what he wants or needs from opponents (ravens are adorable, but huge. I'd be terrified if one just kept staring at me visibly prepared to attack).

[anim-ttrpgs]

hello! i love silk and dagger and i’m getting ready to run a oneshot of it, and i wondered if you had a bit more guidance; what does a typical S&D session look like? going through daily palace maintenance and upkeep, managing complications, until the scenario starts? when should it start? i know i should be keeping close track of hourglasses, but are they more equivalent to hours or days?

thanks so much for the game! very excited to play it and even more excited to see where it goes!

Thank you! I hope this answer isn’t coming too late, I was visiting some friends for my birthday for the past two weeks and only sparsely worked on A.N.I.M. stuff.

Sands and Hourglasses are not really like hours or days, since Drow don’t have a concept of either one of these, they're a deliberately vague measurement of time passing in the game world, even more abstract that Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy’s Ticking Clock. They also don’t really work perfectly yet because the game isn’t finished and we haven’t playtested enough to figure out the exact parameters that should determine when a Sand should pass.

What a session should look like if Silk & Dagger is running correctly (do keep in mind that this is still an alpha so it’s a buggy mess that doesn’t always work as intended yet) is that the first Hourglass starts and there’s chores that need to be done before that Hourglass is up or else the party will start to take penalties. Attempting to complete these chores will often lead to some other stuff going wrong, like the Mistress needing a bath but the pipes aren’t working so now the servants have to fix some kind of plumbing issue too. Some time after a few Sands have passed in that first Hourglass, the actual problem of the “adventure” will show up, whatever it is. The servants and Mistress will have to deal with that while also making sure that all the chores get done and that they don’t embarrass themselves.

During moment-to-moment gameplay, play it like you would basically any “trad” “challenge game” TTRPG. It probably helps to have a map and tokens you can move different servants and Drow to various rooms of the palace with. The “camera” or “spotlight” should bounce between different groups of PCs frequently, as this makes for really funny comedy. An example from one of our own playtest sessions involved the Drow Mistress telling her guest about the exquisite surface food meal her servants are preparing. Cut to the servants in the kitchen panicking because the pantry was crushed in a cave-in and they’re trying to make sandwiches out of dirty bread and raw, mashed pheasant with no way to cook them without a working stove. The manservant from the surface is rehearsing a made-up spiel about how this is the snack of kings on the surface, while the elf servant (who happens to have lightning powers) is rubbing her hands together like a defibrillator and pressing them on the sandwiches to “cook” them the only way she can think to when the food was supposed to be served almost a whole Sand ago.

You want your Drow and servants to make it and for their reputations to survive, so there’s an element of system mastery and challenge to the player to build them well and take advantage of their strengths to see them through this social disaster, but the challenges they face will make success a tall order, and the comedy and satisfaction lies in their floundering and in the clever ways they finesse these situations.

[goddesspharo]

To deliver a line that goes into a trailer, with the right gusto and belief, and even with the absurdity of it, it's a mastery. There's that thing, the camera's pushing in and I'm always like, "Oh wow, this is when you see Bruce Willis do the line, the thing. And now I'm doing the thing. Like, oh God." [x]

[felassan]

BioWare Blogpost: Accessibility

"Journal #10 Accessibility Spotlight A look into Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Gameplay Accessibility Options --- Hey everyone! Today, we want to share many of the Accessibility features in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Regardless of skill level or ability, we want everyone to be able to enjoy the full experience and story of our game. There are several features and settings to customize the game to meet your individual needs; so let’s dig in!"

"First off, let’s discuss combat and the difficulty settings. During Character Creation, players can select from one of five curated difficulty levels or create a completely customized experience: Storyteller - Here for the story. Keeper - A balanced combat experience that emphasizes party composition and equipment choices over reaction times. Adventurer - A balanced experience that places equal emphasis on combat, party composition, and equipment choices. Underdog - Here to be pushed to the limit, requiring strategic planning and tactical decisions. Nightmare - Overwhelming battles that give no quarter. Requires a mastery of combat, equipment, skills, and game mechanics to survive. - Selecting Nightmare cannot be undone without starting a new playthrough. Unbound - Customize all settings. - Settings impact numerous aspects of gameplay. If this is your first time, consider a curated preset instead. Even after selecting a difficulty, there are more combat options available in the Settings Menu if you wish to make further adjustments. For example, you can adjust elements like parry timing, aim assist strength, or even how aggressive enemies are. See below for a full list of combat settings."

"UI and HUD elements are also customizable. Many elements of the HUD can be conditionally hidden or turned off entirely. For example, you can fully hide elements like Rook’s health, the objective tracker, or the Mini Map. There are also options for the text size in the UI."

"There are some accessibility aids for interface elements. For example, subtitles are fully customizable allowing you to modify things like the size, opacity, speaker names, and color. Other settings add audio aids to visual-only elements like incoming attack indicators. For anyone with vision deficiencies, there are full-screen color filters to improve visibility."

"Beyond the UI and HUD, there are a few more options regarding the game’s visual effects. For anyone who deals with motion sickness, there is a Persistent Dot Option and Motion Blur can be fully turned off. The in-game Camera Shake can also be adjusted from 0-100%. Additionally, there’s an FOV slider in the graphical settings."

"As discussed in the PC Features Blog, all inputs are remappable for gameplay in Dragon Age: The Veilguard on both controller and keyboard for all platforms. Input sensitivity and deadzones are also customizable with sliding scales. There are some UI interactions that require an input to be held for a short period of time, but this can be changed to tap instead. All of these options allow you to play the game in whatever way is most comfortable. These settings and more are available in Dragon Age: The Veilguard! See a full list below to check out all of our Accessibility settings and check out our Accessibility Portal. Interviews and coverage of our Preview Event will be released  on September 19th; so watch out for that. Chat soon!             — The Dragon Age Team"

"Audio - 3D Audio - Accessibility SFX - Glint Ping SFX - Mono Audio - Speaker Type - Volume Sliders Controls - Ability Wheel Controller Activation (Hold or Tap) - Disable UI Hold Inputs - Input Remapping - Invert Axis (X & Y available) - Swap Left & Right Sticks - Stick Deadzones - Trigger Deadzones - Vertical & Horizontal Sensitivity - Vibration Intensity GAMEPLAY Combat - Aim Assist  - Aim Snap  - Combat Timing - Enemy Aggression  - Enemy Damage - Enemy Health  - Enemy Resistances  - Enemy Vulnerability  - Prevent Death Exploration - Frequent Auto-Saving - Library (Codex, Glossary, Missives) - Object Glint Distance - Object Glint Visibility - Objective Marker Visibility - Pause at any time - Waypoint Visibility - World & Local Maps available at all times Visual / UI - Camera Shake - Depth of Field - Full-screen Colorblind Filters - Hide-able HUD Elements (Abilities, Damage Numbers, Hints, Mini Map, Objective Tracker, Player Health, Tutorials) - Low Health Screen Effect - Motion Blur - Persist Dot Option - Ranged & Melee Threat Indicators - Subtitle Advanced Options (Background Opacity, Speaker Names, Speaker Name Color, Subtitle Size) - UI Text Size - Vignette"

[source]

[wangxianficrecs]

💙 Caught in 4k by KizuKatana

🔒💙 Caught in 4k

by KizuKatana (@kizukatana)

E, Series, WIP, 184k, Wangxian

Summary: A night-hunt goes wrong, and Wei Wuxian is scapegoated for the death of the Jiang Sect Leader and the destroyed core of the Jiang Sect Heir. As punishment, his core is taken and given to Jiang Cheng, and he is stripped of his cultivation credentials and expelled from the sect. What everyone forgot was that Wei Wuxian was wearing the standard issue body camera that each cultivator wore on training missions and high-risk night-hunts. Struggling to make ends meet, Wei Wuxian finds his way to Caiyi Town with the doctor who performed the surgery, a partial core still secretly in place. His application to work at Cloud Recesses is summarily rejected by the hard-edged Second Jade of Lan after an unfortunate initial encounter. But things change when someone hacks into the Jiang systems and releases the footage of what happened. Kay's comments: The series is still a WIP, but the main story is complete! I am so weak for Kizu's modern AUs with cultivation, they are great. Especially the world building and how the cultivation society might function in a modern AU shines in this story. Definitely not a story for fans of the Jiang family, but a story for everyone who wants to see some retribution for the things Wei Wuxian went through. Here, Jiang Fengmian dies during a night-hunt accident where Jiang Cheng's golden core gets destroyed and Madam Yu makes Wei Wuxian give his golden core to him, unfortunately for her, his body-cam is still filming everything. Wei Wuxian finds himself taken in by Wen Qing and her family and we get the sweetest found family and Dadxian vibes here and then meets Lan Wangji as well, who's highly judgemental at first but soon finds himself drawn to Wei Wuxian as well. This story really got it all, the drama, the horny, the softness, the restitution & humor. Excerpt: Still Wei Wuxian forced himself to at least try one last time. “You could also interview me. Have me talk to your best talisman experts,” Wei Wuxian said, forcing himself to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Interviews are scheduled based on receipt of proper credentials and references.” “I don’t have any, at least not right now. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be a great teacher.” “No references, no interview.” “Come on. Look, ask me anything about talismans. You’re an experienced cultivator, right? So you must know enough to at least interview me to see if I know what I’m talking about.” “Simply ‘knowing about something’ is not sufficient. Our lecturers are renown cultivators, and masters in their fields. No references, no interview.” Wei Wuxian felt frustration well up in him, especially at the reminder that Lan Wangji didn’t see him as a cultivator. No one would, in his current condition. Why would they? He didn’t have a functional core, which was the main scale against which all cultivation efforts were measured. He thought he had done a good job of not getting his hopes up about the teaching position, but the suffocating feeling constricting his chest was calling him out for being a liar. He should have known better. Why did he never learn? Some people had luck on their said, but Wei Wuxian had never been one of them. “Right. Of course. Because it would be impossible for someone who wasn’t born to the fucking clan nobility to ever actually be good at something, and the cost of taking the mastery test makes sure that other people can’t do it!” Lan Wangji’s lips parted slightly, like he might say something, but his expression was as opaque and emotionless as before. Wei Wuxian didn’t need to sit around and listen to him defend the clan system. “Good to know that the Lan are just the same as all the other sects,” Wei Wuxian continued, his lips twisting into a sarcastic smile. “Thanks for making that clear.”

pov alternating, modern setting, modern with magic, yu ziyuan being an asshole, dysfunctional jiang family, jiang family bashing, canon divergence, golden core reveal, burial mounds ensemble as family, golden core transfer, golden core transfer fix-it, top lan wangji/bottom wei wuxian, dual cultivation, strangers to lovers, misunderstandings, meet ugly, families of choice, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Do you think we could have the yandere twst dorm leaders with a reader(preferably fem) who’s like a witch from The Owl House?

Like, she can cast magic with her hands without worrying about blot, has pointy ears, and a Palisman staff she uses to fly around. Also her magic is pretty unique compared to the kinds in Twisted Wonderland, specifically Bard and Abomination magic.

Owl House Reader | Yandere Twisted Wonderland 

You have the powers to manipulate elements with your paper runes. Traveling on your staff, you’ve bewitched those in Twisted Wonderland. Unfortunately for them you since your magic is so drastically different, they’ll have to think of other ways to subdue you:

Riddle Rosehearts

“If you continue to resist me, with your abominations! I’ll have no choice but to take off their heads!” 

His special ability may or may not work on you

In the scenario that it does not 

He doesn’t mind using his own mastery of magic to take you on

He’s a prodigy after all 

if you won’t take his love now

You’ll take it after he defeats you 

Idia Shroud

“W-w-w-witch?! By any chance do you have a delivery service?”

He’s not only interested in knowing how you’re magic works 

But in trying to keep you on lock down

The problem with you is that there is no legend about how detain you

So he’ll have to information gather

Cameras, recorders galore

He’s watching and listening in so that soon he’ll know everything

Kalim Al Asim

“Wow you can do so well!”

He knows your talented 

And he wants nothing more than watching you as you use your magic

Surely everyone must think the same right 

But if you come to him about anyone who’s giving you trouble

Jamil can handle it he knows what to do

So you can keep smiling along with him